time flies when you're uninspired

With only 4 and a half hours left in the first day of November and no sign of my muse, it's pretty clear I'll have to resort to a theme to make it through NaBloPoMo. Since I never took Oprah's advice to keep a gratitude journal, I'm thinking the internet is as good a place as any. And November's all about the thanks giving, eh? Sure, sounds good to me. It's almost like I put some thought into it, isn't it?

So today I am grateful for my chiropractor. I know I've said it before, so I'm wondering if this doesn't count? But really, she does fine things for my torqued torso and today in particular she got my neck to release on the one side where it never lets go.

And of course I am grateful for my husband. Without his income and insurance I would never have found my chiropractic haven. The poor guy worked a double shift last night and is currently sneaking in two hours of sleep before he's due back. I hate watching him do overtimes, but we have been living off fumes for the past few months, so I'm extra grateful he's digging in and spending extra time at the loony bin.

For that matter, I am grateful that I did not talk myself into buying an HD Tivo today. It was closer than it should've been. I was weak after spending two solid hours of my morning trying to get my current Tivo and my new cable box to make friends. Only after calling a tech (twice - first time I got disconnected after ten minutes on hold) did I discover that I've got a bit of a Sophie's choice on my hands - either Tivo can watch Showtime or we can watch it live, but we can't have both unless we have HD. To add pressure, as an old school Tivo subscriber, I could transfer my lifetime subscription to this new imaginary HD Tivo for a mere $200 (suspiciously, this is the same amount my original lifetime subscription actually cost...) but the offer ends on November 8th. Bastards.

Anyway, since I'm also grateful OC is still okay. He was "condition suspect" for a few days there but he really seems to look fine. I was a wee bit worried that Halloween lockdown would have unintended intestinal consequences but so far no sign. He was even being exceptionally cute today. He chased me all the way down to my car as I was trying to leave for the chiropractor. I thought it was love but when I got home I saw his food bowl was empty. Yep, he was giving me love for food. He knows the drill.

And now I am grateful I have finished one of my thirty posts. I don't know why I'm so tired (hmm? watching movies till 3 and waking up kitty style at 6 am?) but I've really got to head to bed.

it's my blogiversary

Today marks my blog's first birthday - my blogiversary? my blorthday? Google tells me that in this year of blogging madness I have posted a mere 109 times. According to my computer's calculator, that's an average of about twice a week. (You know, god forbid I do math on paper or in my head anymore. As Barbie says, "Math is hard." Although apparently she only said, "Math class is tough," and, to be fair, that could be due to a bad teacher...) Anyway, when you factor in the reason I started blogging (NaBloPoMo) and the streak of 30 consecutive posts that followed, my average is even less impressive. Since this is in a sense a new year, I suppose I should make a resolution to improve this statistic. As I've already signed back up for NaBloPoMo, I guess I can at least promise you November. And this won't be easy folks, as I am on the road for at least 8 of these 30 days (first to see the eldest nieces, then to see the youngest).

To make matters worse, my life is agonizingly ordinary in the absence of seal rescues. Not only is winter the slow season, but I've also scaled back on my scheduled days. At first I was on hiatus to study for the LSAT, but during that break I realized Erik was right. He pointed out that I had found a way to make something fun into something more like a job... So now I'm only on as much as the next person (instead of twice that often) and so far I don't regret it. There is some reason to believe we may see another slew of northern fur seal pups this year, though, in which case I will seethe with jealousy whenever I miss seeing one. But I can always add myself later...

While it's tough on the blogging, I'm actually really grateful my life is boring these days. In particular, this means that OC is in good health. Since making drastic dietary changes, he's beaten his average stretch (3 weeks between enemas) and he seems super happy. Except tonight, of course, as he's been quite upset at being locked up for Halloween. Luckily I got to sneak out at the height of his protests. I left to see Saw IV, leaving Erik here to deal with the kitties. (BTW, I wasn't expecting much of Saw IV, but I must say it was my favorite so far. I may even go see it again or at least rent it when it makes its way to Netflix...) Anyway, I was delighted to return to sleeping kitties and a well lit house. I even made it home before Erik left for work so I could be absolutely certain that no one wearing a pig mask was lurking in my closet. I'm so not freaked out, in fact, I think I may watch Hostel 2 before bed. Seems fitting for the holiday, and Erik hates to watch scary movies with me so I have to squeeze them in while he's at work.

Well, better post now or it will be November already. Yikes.

worth waiting for

I agree. Twelve days without posting is simply not acceptable. I did plan to post on my birthday, but it turns out Wendy and her mom did it for me. (And oh so well they did it... I am still tickled pink...) I've even seen a sea lion or two in the meanwhile (only rescued one, and really I was more of a bystander, but still...) unfortunately I haven't yet uploaded the pictures. In fact, I have started any number of posts but since there was only one thought in my head (I want my score), nothing seemed worthy of being published.

But now, now my dear internet friends, I can relax. Indeed, scores are in, a few days early as predicted. And let's just say I opened the bubbly, not the oversized cheap wine (which I bought at Costco more for the blue bottle than for its contents...) for I have seen my score and I am happy.

What does happy mean? Happy means my brother has to give me this cute ipod holding thing called a Howdy (I get the Howd-oui) which I have been bugging him about ever since he told me he was buying it for himself. He finally agreed he'd give it to me if I beat my average practice test score. Otherwise he challenged me to steal it (from two states away, I had no fear I would succeed). Isn't he sweet? Mostly, though, he told me to get a job and buy one, cuz as my mom is fond of saying, people my age have jobs...

Anyway, happy also means I've scored high enough I may get fee waivers when I finally do apply (next fall for school in 2009). Happy also means I may get offered money to go to a lesser school but happy means I may very well have the opportunity to explore my intellectual vanity (at my own expense) perhaps even in the ivy league. So happiness means I may be living in snow? Happiness is a very confusing thing.

I'm hoping happy means I'll get into Boalt (which is now, apparently UC Berkeley School of Law) and the internet seems to think I have about a 60% - 70% chance just based on my numbers... Of course, the internet also thinks I am of average height, and I'm sorry to tell you internet, but 5'4" is short...

Most of all, happy means I really have to get off my ass and start exercising, cuz there's no way in hell I'm taking all this extra me to law school. In the process of studying for and stressing over the exam while burying (okay, burning) my dead cat and fretting over my orange one (who is doing great, by the way, 3 weeks out - he's beat his average, too, and he so totally passed his butt inspection this morning), I have now become the biggest me I've ever been. Seriously. I am scary big. I'm so scary big that at certain times of the day I can't even get my wedding ring off. Not that I have to get it off, mind you, but it's disturbing that I can't. It's one thing to break down and buy new fat jeans, but it's simply not acceptable to have to resize your rings to keep up with your gluttony... And I love that ring. And so I know I will lose weight. Cuz I just can't leave my shiny little rainbow maker alone in a drawer...

So what does happy look like on paper? Well, at the risk of being mocked like you tube girl by people who are active on a certain forum I sometimes visit, happy looks like a 176 (out of 180) - the 99.6th percentile. And believe me, I am happy, but happier would be if I hadn't missed that one question in the puzzles section (I never miss any in the puzzles section) and if I hadn't been tricked by that darned unicorn / centaur parallel question (stupid parallel questions - I had time left over, I really should've triple checked my choice). Of course, I quite deservedly missed the other 3 questions and thus I would've never tasted perfection, but, hey, even Mary Poppins is only "practically perfect." That's good enough for me.

Anyway, happy also looks like I'd better get moving and start cleaning my house cuz Erik and I have invited people over for a bbq this afternoon. Sure, the sun is not yet up but it will be soon and I have not done anything around here for about 2 months...

So apologies again for the long wait, but believe me when I say I was unbearable. And I'll make it up to you in November, for NaBloPoMo when you'll get so sick of me you'll stay away for 12 days.

Oh, and in case you are wondering, I almost couldn't handle Drew Carey hosting The Price is Right, but Madisyn, my little niecelet, encouraged me (vicariously, through a quote in a text message) to give him another chance. He's still on probation and, of course, he'll never be Bob, but I do appreciate that even though he clearly does not know how to play the games, he is willing to openly mock the contestants when they do something dumb.

And, as a public service announcement, you can enjoy pomegranate margaritas for breakfast as long as you drink them with a hearty omelet and have time to sleep the entire day away later. Much better than Apple Jacks and white wine and far kinder than Froot Loops and prefab margaritas... This is how I passed the day Thursday when I knew the scores would not be in, but I really could think of nothing else.

37 things I love about my husband

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday, boyfriend.

like watching paint dry

I was on call for all of 23 minutes before the phone rang with a rescue. I can't really complain. I haven't been on the beach in more than a month. I was a bit surprised, though, to be called out of bed, as this is only the fourth animal in as many weeks, and the first one after hours in a long while. It's the off season, after all. To think that just four short hours ago I was snuggled up with OC (who is just now returning to normal, though he appears to have a sore throat from all the intubations...) and now I am sitting at the seal site watching fluids slowly drip into a sea lion who is enjoying her chemically induced snooze. Anyway, there was no ignoring the call. The poor thing was seizing on the drive on beach an hour from my home. I couldn't roust anyone who lived closer, so she had to wait for me to get there. Luckily, our electric gate has finally been installed so I was able to swing by the site to get drugs. Previously it was way too creepy to go there alone after dark and wrestle with the heavy gate. Also I am grateful that the State Parks guy waited (on over time) with her, so she didn't become a speed bump and so that I would have help boxing her up.

So I don't have pictures yet, cuz it's dark and I didn't grab my camera anyway. I don't have a name yet, cuz the folks that issue the names are all sleeping. I decided not to even wake the vet tech to get orders for meds. I know the drill. I've stopped the seizures (and I was dead on with my weight estimate) and now I'm giving fluids. Really really slow fluids. If I had called for orders I'm nearly positive they would have spared me the fluids. Rescues after dark are generally followed with a dump and run. But I have a feeling if she is not dead by morning she will be way too up to subQ so I am doing it now.

In the meanwhile, I am feeling really guilty I haven't finished Yvette's birthday blog. It's been a week since I took the LSAT, a week since OC's been in the hospital, and have I done a darned thing? Mostly no. I am so glad she is too busy to read my blog, or she would notice how neglected a friend she really is. And now, with Erik's birthday only two days away, he's got to be my focus. At least sitting here watching the fluids drip is giving me a chance to update my blog, eh?

Anyway, it's still pretty creepy here alone at night. The fluids are almost done so I think I'm going to run. I locked OC in, so I'm hoping he'll be willing to resume the snuggling where we left off. More likely, he'll be annoyed from being trapped with Monkey for the last four hours and he'll want to go outside. I realize I'm the adult - not only that, I'm the biped with opposable thumbs - so I could still keep him trapped inside even if he's dying to go out, but really, I don't have the heart. Even though the dietary changes seem to be working, I'm not totally optimistic it will be sustainable so in the meanwhile I am trying to cater to his every whim. He's a cat, so his whims are pretty simple - in, out, eat, sleep. It's the least I can do.

Two weeks and two days until LSAT scores are posted. Did I mention that I hate waiting?

waiting for to know

So yesterday I finally took the LSAT. Now begins the hard part - waiting for the score. I hate waiting. It's the helplessness, I think, the fact that things are totally out of my control, that drives me bonkers. At least I know my scores will arrive eventually (Oct. 22nd at the latest), unlike those poor souls waiting for Godot. I remember my dad took me to see that play when I was in high school. During intermission I let it slip that Godot never shows and Dad insisted that we leave. My dad apparently hates waiting too... So all I can do is try to forget that I'm waiting. Fat chance, I know, but it's the only one I've got.

OC is doing his part to distract me. As I sat in a classroom bubbling in ovals, he sat in the vet's office bubbling inside. He's been there now 4 times in the last 2 weeks. Perhaps this is why the vet took pity on me and charged me nothing at all for his services? Unfortunately, OC couldn't stay in recovery as late on a Saturday as he normally might, so he came home drippier than usual. I spent Saturday night following him around with paper towels and cleaning products. Today I resisted the urge to rent a carpet cleaner but spent hours scrubbing floors and surfaces... And Erik's ottoman? Well, let's just say we're glad tomorrow's trash day. And of course OC needed bathing (twice so far, we're hoping we're done). I posted this picture to remind myself that sometimes he's happy. Here he's hanging out in a very cat friendly place - on a roof off our deck, behind a fence, under a bush where hummingbirds rest - and probly not thinking of his asshole. One good thing about his recent troubles? He's finally been sleeping inside at night. He'd stopped doing that after Monkey arrived. Oh, and the other thing I'm grateful for? He had the good sense to stay off of the bed and the couches while in his drippy state. In fact, the loss of the ottoman is totally my fault as I put him on it post shower so he could warm up by the heater...

Anyway, Erik's been distracting me, too. After I got home from picking OC up, I took Erik to the urgent care facility. He's apparently been having trouble breathing for days but didn't want to trouble me with it before my test. He's always had some trouble breathing - he has a theory that when he eats rice it can get in his lungs - but he's also an avid surfer, so I figured his issues were just more World According to Erik stuff (like how he insisted the other day that all fruit is salty, except bananas, of course... I swear, I laughed so hard that I couldn't breathe...). Turns out maybe he's got asthma or something that manifests like asthma. He's on steroids and has a sample inhaler. He goes back in a couple days to see if he needs a permanent one. At least it wasn't a collapsed lung or some sort of growth. We were hoping for something more like walking pneumonia, though.

Speaking of collapsed lungs, apparently my sister-in-law Brenda suffered one after having had surgery last week. I know, you'd think I'd keep you up to date with family members having surgery and all. I believe I would have if I wasn't so steeped in LSAT preparations. I was so dedicated to (as in obsessed with) my studies that I even skipped a birthday blog (Friday was my dear sweet Yvette's birthday and her post sits in draft mode. I believe I will have to post that belatedly or rot in hell like the bad friend I am...). Anyway, Brenda had an atrophied kidney removed. It was a pretty major surgery (took 5 hours and lots of specialists) but the growth that had supplanted her kidney is reportedly benign so that's good. And my dad says having a lung collapse after being on a chest tube isn't all that uncommon. No less scary, I'm sure, but at least not wholly unexpected. In the meanwhile her husband (my brother, Billy) and their youngest (Madisyn) suffered from pretty painful ear infections (Billy's ears even bled).

And, while we're in full disclosure mode, my Aunt Carol (my mom's only sister) had surgery recently too. She had a bit of the breast cancer (which I know is like saying you're a little bit pregnant). It was stage one, which is good, and I think her lymph nodes were fine, which is great. I believe we are still waiting to hear if she follows up with radiation and chemo or just radiation. So now I've officially got breast cancer on both sides of the family tree. Makes that recent study linking breast cancer and drinking all the more disturbing...

Anyway, on a happier note, Monkey has been distracting me just by being cute. He was so bummed being left out of all the activities yesterday that he's been extra clingy ever since. He's developing all sorts of bad habits which are cute now but will be annoying when he is bigger, such as begging for food and attacking feet. He's still difficult to photograph (nearly every shot is just a blur) but I was able to get this picture which shows his cute little mutant toes. I've taken to calling him my little pterodactyl. Anyway, he's all excited that Uncle OC is now doomed to eat only canned food for life. (I know, for most cats that's a good thing, but OC loves his crunchies...) So far I'm still just offering the Fancy Feast but I'm supposed to get him on to a low residue diet (which makes way more sense than the high fiber plan I've been resisting all year). Anyway, OC will only eat the new super fancy Fancy Feast, which I personally think they should call Fancier Feast. Unfortunately, in our house we've been calling it Farty Feast, for if Monkey gets a bit of it (as he's so determined to do), we get a whiff of it - big time.

And I finally had a seal shift today, but we had no action. It's been quiet for two weeks, which makes sense since it is the off season. Even so, I had to send a girl on a transport, as we had some whale carving equipment in our possession (from the last Blue Whale that washed up in Santa Barbara) that they may be needing soon in the Bay Area. (Something is floating off shore and headed for land.) Anyway, I believe I only missed one sea lion that I would've normally worked with by taking all of September off. So I threw caution to the wind and signed up for very few shifts in October also. I just don't feel I got much of a break in September what with all the cat mourning and all. And I'm pretty sure there is more cat mourning on the horizon, depending on what the surgeon says and how this low residue plan works out. Though I'm hoping maybe OC can make it through birthday season, I recognize that I've already strung him along just to preserve my LSAT score (man, I really am going to hell, aren't I?) and I am more ready than ever just to be grateful that I gave him an extra couple of years of life.

Oh, and just so we don't end on the bleak note of euthanasia in the air, I've got a different sort of bad news. Turns out the cat I want to adopt in Mission Viejo is suffering from unexplained diarrhea and is therefore not really adoptable at this time. Though I'd still love to get my hands on that fine blend of Bombay and Siamese, I appreciate that digestive issues can be frustrating for all involved. Believe me, I know. And I'm sort of glad I don't have to make OC adjust to yet another cat in his household during what are most likely his last days... I'm hoping that maybe Bali will be better once OC is no more, but if not I'm considering looking for another polydactyl pterodactyl. Apparently they are sort of addicting.

Huh. Still ending on euthanasia. Guess that's cuz it's weighing heavily on my mind.

they're baaaack...

Finally took OC to consult with a surgeon yesterday. He had to fast the night before which meant nobody slept for long. But I was excited as it was the first time he's slept inside since Monkey arrived. (Granted, it wasn't his choice, but still...)

He came home from the surgeon with some serious "manscaping" (you know, shaving of the private parts) and a confirmation of my suspicions. His bilateral perineal hernias have returned. The one on the left is apparently worst. And even though surgeons love a challenge and appreciate a paycheck, the doctor isn't urging me to go the surgical route. In fact, he stressed that there's no guarantee it would work and the muscle he would need to close the hernias was used during his last surgery, so it may be tore up and worn out. He also might want to do it as two surgeries (one hernia at a time)... He is researching the possibilities, but in the meanwhile, my surgeon, like my regular vet, urges management through diet. I have yet to follow their advice to add fiber to his diet (he's a picky eater and I fear dehydration) but I guess I'm ready to now. Sounds like it's all I have left.

So I'm sad. But I'm pulling out my inner Polly Anna and pretending that we will find the magic diet or pay for the risky surgery - at least for the next 8 days. I have found that my practice LSAT scores suffer dramatically when I am weepy for my cats. It appears I have finally bounced back from the dip post Labor Day and even got my first perfect score Thursday morning. (Friday I was back down to my average, which wasn't bad for dealing with trapped cat complaints and working on no sleep.) I can't believe the real test is a week from today. I bought myself new pencils, a new pencil sharpener, and even a new shirt or two so I can be as psyched out as possible on game day. Speaking of, I guess I should get back to studying.

Oh, and my computer is having hibernation issues and also making scary clicking noises (slow this morning, fast last night, super loud just now... freaky enough to get the kitten off my lap...) I very much fear this could be the end for my trusty iMac. I wanted to wait and buy a new computer just before school, but hell, that's two years off... Since this machine is only about 4, my new machine could be obsolete by then. Still, I wonder if I should get a laptop and hope it lives to see the inside of a lecture hall or indulge and get a shiny new iMac? And I wonder if I will get the opportunity to copy everything I love onto disk before my computer's death? Perhaps I will take my iMac in for a surgical consult. What's another couple hundred bucks at this point?

Decisions, decisions... Debt, debt... Not mine to think of this morning. All I need to do is find the assumptions, justify the conclusion, identify the flaw, strengthen the argument, weaken the argument, select the topic at issue, and figure out what must be true... And, I guess, I ought to turn off my computer, hopefully not for the last time ever...

monkey business

I guess you could call me impatient. Maybe even greedy. Or a little crazy? While I still very much want to adopt Bali, who waits for me in Mission Viejo, yesterday I drove out to Visalia and picked myself up a Monkey cat. Monkey is (though you can't really tell in this picture) polydactyl, which automatically makes him super cool. I am a big fan of benign deformity. This is something I apparently share with Ernest Hemingway and my Uncle Norm (both keepers of polydactyl felines). In addition to being a freak of nature, Monkey is also a kitten (5 months old) so he's irresistibly sweet. He has already displayed supervisorial tendencies (meaning he's trying his hardest to get stepped on and wants to see inside of everything). But best of all, he has willingly submitted to the dreaded Under the Covers Snuggle that Fabe would sometimes do, but even Blackers would shun. He's a regular snuggle savant. In fact, he seems to appreciate that Erik and I sleep on opposite schedules so there's almost always someone in the bed to cuddle. Another thing you can't see in the picture (besides the fact that he's difficult to photograph cuz he seldom sits still)? Monkey is prone to pass gas. Not his finest feature, I assure you, but I'm hoping it's just cuz he's been sneaking bites of the grown up food.

At first I didn't think I'd get Monkey, as I failed to lie on the application about the indoor only part. But it turns out they hadn't even looked at my app and if they had, they wouldn't care. The wonderful woman who was raising him had at least 20 other foster cats, 13 foster dogs, and even 3 foster humans (teenaged boys). She was so ready to lighten her load she was even willing to let me leave with two for the price of one. (I resisted.) Besides, even she doesn't object to outside kitties on principle. She just can't let her animals out cuz her neighbors own cat eating pit bulls.

Anyway, I've decided the indoor only part isn't necessarily a lie, at least not for a good long bit. While I will continue to let OC roam, I have ordered a locking cat door so that he can get in but Monkey (and hopefully Bali) can't get out. I'm thinking if Blackers' little pecan of a brain told him to run in front of a car, what will Monkey do with a partial pecan? OC, on the other hand, is an established outdoorsman and has little other joy in life besides hunting (which, regrettably, he just finished - I found him consuming an already headless hummingbird in the backyard...) and apparently eating grass (some of which is currently hanging out of his butt... I'm hoping this is a good sign - that things are "moving down there," as my mom might say - not a bad sign - as his August enema was distinctly dominated by grass...). OC's condition reminds me of this hilarious illustration I came across while bloghopping. I remember seeing Fabe in exactly the same predicament once...

Though he didn't realize it at first, Monkey is Erik's cat. Erik was rooting for him over Bali. Perhaps that's why when I asked if I could have both, Erik said yes? Anyway, both is always the right answer in my book (that's right up there with my "Food is Love" theory...) but I'm not sure what OC will think of the gang of black hoodlums I'm slowly filtering into his home. Monkey is not, however, so exclusively Erik's that I will allow Erik to change his name to Mittens. Seriously, Mittens? Monkey, which is his given name, is so superior. It lends itself to the Mon-chi-chi song ("Mon-key-key Mon-key-key, oh so soft and snuggly...") and it makes us think of our favorite character from Dexter's Laboratory so we are constantly complaining in a German accent that he "will never be anything more than a mere Monkey..." We've also decided that OC is too old to be Monkey's brother so we're calling him Monkey's uncle. Get it? OC is a Monkey's uncle...

Now Bali, on the other hand, may get a new name along with his new home. If he really is a mix of Blackers and Fabe, I'm thinking I may call him Monster to match his personality. There is already evidence that this may be the case - one of his three photos on Petfinder shows him biting another cat he has clenched in a head lock... I wish I didn't love him so, for I see that Monkey and OC will eventually get along fine but there's no telling what a third cat will do to the mix. (I've prepared for the worst and picked up a gallon of Nature's Miracle...) I also wish his foster mom would be more forthcoming with her approval of my application. I know she is busy but I am anxious. Though it is good to let Monkey get settled in...

Besides, based upon his grassy ass accessory, I may be busy the next few days dealing with OC. I took him to the vet on Friday due to his "condition suspect" status. They administered the standard humiliation only to discover that the bulge which normally indicates impactedness was actually made from swollenness. So now OC is on steroids to reduce the inflammation. I'm not sure what this means for poor OC. Is this a new torture he'll mix in with the old? Is it causal? Coincidental? Likely to recur or totally random? I do know I feel great appreciation towards my vet who has been giving me some major deals - sort of a volume discount, I guess, or a frequent flyer program... And I also feel major affection towards OC, as he is such a trooper.

Perhaps, though, this added uncertainty is part of why I feel the need to get two cats to replace one? Do I secretly see the writing on the wall? I sure hope not. I figure I am just doing what I did when Fabe died - replacing one cat with two. And three cats does not a crazy cat lady make. Three is the new two, I've decided. And the blackies are both young so they can enjoy each other while OC mellows about and licks his butt... Or so I am telling myself.

And in case you were wondering, all this black snuggliness serves as a wonderful distraction, but I am keenly aware of the fact that tonight is the two week sadiversary of Blackers' death. I only take solace in knowing that he would definitely want me to adopt at least one more cat as the last thing he would want is to see OC happy... Oh, and he does look super sleek in his fancy marble urn. I framed this super cool shot of him from his living and breathing days to sit beside it on my desk so I don't have to think of him as a pile of ashes or a sprawling blood stain. Now he is forever peering down on me from atop the fridge - a spot that even with his new top cat status OC has not assumed as his own.

time makes all wounds scabby and gross

In case you hadn't noticed, I've been in a bit of a hibernation lately. Though it might not be a hibernation, as technically bears sleep when they hibernate and I, for the first time in my life, have been having trouble sleeping. Apparently losing a cat unexpectedly is a far different kind of grief than losing a cat to cancer. It's the kind of grief that keeps you up at night. Thanks to the makers of Bacardi and Dimetapp (and no thanks to my prescription plan that refused me access to sleeping pills), I made it through the roughest patch. Also, I know bears don't actually eat when they hibernate so I guess I had everything backwards. My body now feels like a toxic waste dump - full of take out, dehydrated from tears, sore from inactivity - but maybe that's just what I needed to finally get motivated to get back on the path to my skinny jeans?

Anyway, if FedEx is on time, tomorrow I will be able to put what remains of my cat in this stylish black marble urn. I think he would like it. Like him, it's black and exotic and heavy for its size. And it's got nice corners for rubbing your face on. Suze Orman would not approve, of course. Like the pie safe, I definitely cannot afford it, but it cost less than many of OC's recent vet bills...

Speaking of, my Orange Cat is adjusting to his role as Only Cat. He's home a lot more, laying out in the open instead of cowering in hidey holes. Though he thoroughly appreciates not getting beat up anymore, he apparently had no idea how much of the snuggle tax his brother paid on his behalf. He's now enrolled in a full time remedial snuggle class. He particularly did not enjoy the "Love Sandwich" lesson. He prefers to sleep with his head hung over the edge of the bed, not in between two massive humans who could roll over and squish him. And though he's always been generous with his belly in the past, it is not a limitless resource. He left in a huff after a recent belly lesson.

Though my beloved Erik scrubbed the massive blood stain, I can still see it from my seat on the couch. We considered trying bleach or hydrogen peroxide, but now I'm perversely attached to the stain. I found myself getting defensive when some people parked on it. Silly, huh? And the other night a miniature schnauzer stopped to investigate. Somehow, though I hate Trixie dogs (remind me to tell you about the night Trixie tried to kill me...), I found it touching that someone in the animal world was acknowledging Blackie's demise.

Anyway, Erik and I are seriously considering bringing another black cat into the home. It seems a little soon, but when you think of all the cats suffering in shelters (especially our shelter - the local paper finally did a story on the atrocities there...) it seems a shame not to spare at least one soul (even if he might someday get runned over). Selfishly, I've also looked outside the county and found a half Bombay (Blackers) and half Siamese (Fabian) in foster care in Mission Viejo. I doubt they'll adopt to me (those organizations are all about the indoor only households), but he looks like the perfect mix of snuggly and evil. I could lie, of course, and tell them he'd be indoor only, but I'm a really horrible liar (and I want to be a lawyer why?). I could also just keep him indoors, of course, but it would be difficult as OC needs to go out to get his exercise (allegedly it keeps his poop flowing, though today his condition is suspect...) and Erik likes to open the house up for oxygen. I do see where all you indoor only kitty mamas are coming from. I'm just not sure I'm ready to join your ranks.

Right now I am off to my chiropractor. I love love love my chiropractor. She's not like your chiropractor, I assure you. She's extra especially magical as she does something called the Graston Technique which is very akin to tenderizing meat... She's done wonders erasing years of waitressing, bad posture, and stress from my back and today I definitely have some fresh stress for her to erase...

oc now stands for only kitty

So I usually like to let birthday blogs linger - I work hard on them, after all, and people like them - but this year a very bad thing happened on Wendy's birthday. Apparently late Sunday evening my beloved cat, Blackers the Attackers, ran under a car that was just coming around the corner in front of our house. Erik discovered a blood stain by the mail box in the morning but no body. He didn't tell me about it right away (I was taking a practice LSAT) but I got suspicious when I heard him calling the cat.

I abandoned my test (I had sucked on puzzles anyway) and joined him in the search. Erik tried to tell me the blood could be human. He had seen some people gathered around a truck the night before. Crowds of any sort are unusual in our neighborhood and they'd had a bad vibe, he said. Perhaps they had had an altercation? Maybe I watch a little too much CSI, but it looked to me like the stain was quite consistent with that of a cat rolling around a tire. I felt nauseous.

Though we hoped against hope that the stain wasn't left by our darling Pequeno-Blackie-Akhmed-Little Fabe, we realized he's quite the homebody and he hadn't been in for his dinner or late night brother fight. We walked around a few blocks calling him and I even started a load of laundry (he loved to supervise the washing of clothes). We also left the back door open (another irresistible lure) but we had no success.

When we got home I started calling the veterinary ERs, the Sheriff, the local police, and our immediate neighbors. No luck, obviously. Within an hour, the phone rang and I saw that it was one of my two seal rescuing neighbors who live a block away. I'm not on the seal schedule this month, so my heart immediately sunk. When she asked if I had a black cat, I knew...

So the kid who was driving was really freaked out. Blackers came out of nowhere and he had no time to stop or swerve. He got out of his car, called his parents, and waited there for them. My cat died instantly - the impact destroyed his beautiful face. Meanwhile, a couple who was walking their dog came along and knew that my friend owned a black cat just a block away. They decided to take the body to her. She spent the evening worried until her own cat came home. Then, knowing where the accident occurred, she realized the dead cat was probly mine.

We'd known from the stain that the accident was most likely fatal. Since it was trash day, I had Erik checking everyone's cans thinking someone might have tossed him out. I can say that I am overwhelmingly grateful no one treated him that way. I appreciate that he was well cared for post mortem by my neighbors. I was tortured at the thought that I might never know what happened to him and I am glad that torture was only one hour long. Still, this really sucks.

I spent all day crying. Not crying, really, more like wailing. I was definitely doing what Oprah calls the "Ugly Cry." All of my usual comforts - alcohol, food, and sleep - have betrayed me. I can't maintain a buzz, nothing tastes good, and I can't fall asleep. My grief is physical - my heart hurts, my breathing's constricted, my muscles are tense. I've actually never been this fat and this sad at the same time; I truly feel like a heart attack is a possibility...

I wonder how long it will take OC to realize he is an only cat. We decided not to show him the body as we didn't want to freak him out. He's still pretty jumpy, so it seems he thinks there's a possibility his brother could show up at any moment... I was just glad OC came home at all. It's been exactly one year since he disappeared after the crazy lady abducted him. I was afraid she'd pull some sort of repeat performance. I really hope OC spends more time at home now that he's allowed to. I don't have it in my heart to force him to be an indoor kitty but I'm starting to see where those indoor kitty families are coming from.

In the morning we'll have Blackers cremated. I may not keep my kitties indoors when they are alive, but I'm not willing to bury them once they are gone. If I can hoard art supplies and Happy Meal toys, I sure as hell can hoard my dead cats.

Once I can see beyond my own grief, I'm sure I'll write Blackers a proper posting, celebrating all the ways in which he was a fabulous cat. Though I only had him for 2 years and 5 1/2 months, I've got plenty of wonderful memories. He really helped me heal after losing Fabian. Now that Blackie's gone, the loss feels doubled. I am so not prepared to go through all of this again.

36 things I love about Wendy

Wendy is officially my oldest friend. And by that I mean the friend I've had the longest, of course, not the most geriatric... I wish I could say I knew her when she was the soccer playing cutie to the left. Alas, we were eight then, and not yet transplanted to Tiffany Elementary School. She may wish we'd known each other then, too, so I wouldn't have been tempted to include the photo below - her fourth grade picture - from the year we actually met. Not that Wendy's fourth grade picture is bad. It's fourth grade after all, and it was the era of Magnum P.I., so Hawaiian prints were definitely in. If I recall, I was wearing Izod in my school photo. Graciously, they only shoot your torso, so no one can see my dreaded Tuff Skins, the bane of my elementary school existence.

Wendy was, and still is, so much cooler than me in every single way. Not only has she never, to my knowledge, sported Tuff Skins, I'm practically certain she never peed her pants waiting for the lunch bell to ring. (Sadly, perhaps you already surmised, my fourth grade self cannot claim the same...) She seemed so at home, so comfortable with herself. I would've never guessed she was as new to the school as I was. And it was obvious already that she was nicer than me. She would have never pelted Naomi Largo in the face with a big red ball for putting the moves on her square dancing partner...

Wendy's best friend at the time was Daisy and, man, I just thought they had the coolest names. All my life, it seems, I've always known another Jenny... In college, for example, I was one of four Jennys: I was Jen Down the Hall, as opposed to Jen my Friend, Jen my Roommate, and Jen Across the Hall... Never have I met another Wendy or Daisy. To the left you can see them at 6th grade graduation. I wasn't there. I had left a week earlier for the annual Thomas Family pilgrimage to Pennsylvania, the homeland. I think plane fares must be cheaper before the school year ends, cuz it wasn't the only last of day of school I missed. It's the just the only one I still bug my parents about. I too could have been pictured wearing a belted dress with puffy sleeves. But there's no way my parents would have gotten me a corsage. See what I mean about Wendy being super cool?

Twenty six years later, I remain impressed by how comfortable Wendy is in her own skin. She's still a snappy dresser and a nice girl. And I'm pretty sure she still hasn't peed her pants in public. I've come to admire more than just her name, her plucky spirit, her fashion sense, and her bladder. Wendy has become in many ways my moral yardstick. I often pause and wonder, "What would Wendy do?"

I love the photo to the right as this is my Wendy. Just seeing that familiar disapproving look, I can hear the sound of my name in her voice. It comes out sharply at first, but is softened with just a hint of southern drawl. Beneath her protest of whatever heinous thing I have done or suggested, I hear amusement. Of course, I could be wrong. In truth, she may very well be genuinely appalled. Either way, Wendy lets me be me and for whatever mysterious reason, she finds it in her heart to call me friend.

I only hope this posting will do her justice. No way to know without getting on with it. So, I give you 36 reasons I love Wendy:

1. She tells a great story. One of my favorites is the recent tale of her unlost cat, Lou Pucci. She told me all about how skittish he was when he first came in to her life. Then she detailed one marvelous evening when he came up to join her in her bed. She laid there quietly, back to him, not wanting to ruin the moment, jumping for joy inside. Before she knew it, the spell was broken. Lou had left on his own accord. The magic had vanished. In its place, there was cat pee. Lou Pucci had peed on her.
   
2. That's not all. Once, when she was minding her own business, a passing Canadian goose let loose all over her, her husband, and the newspaper they were reading. I recall I could hardly control myself as she described the sound of the guano pelting the paper. I imagined that from such heights it had picked up significant velocity. This goose, apparently, was also very well fed. Wendy and Zubin were covered in feces. Zubin was far from pleased. Wendy was shocked, but she could already see the humor in their situation. That's Wendy for you. She doesn't let a little pee or pooh get her down.
   
3. Though she's accepting of the accidents of others, Wendy hopes never to fart in front of her boyfriend. Until she mentioned it, I had never realized that I myself have never heard her pass gas. Perhaps one of the secrets of Wendy's success is that she is exceedingly polite? Or does her power lie with her control over her digestive tract? Anyway, she does accept that inevitably Rob will witness an unexpected intestinal outburst. In fact, she has asked me to send her an email that she can forward to him with instructions on just how he should react. What I find most charming is not her fear of farting, or her planning and preparation for her eventual doom. What I find most hilarious is that I am clearly not to be trusted with direct access to Rob's email address. Wendy's no dummy. Anyway, Rob, in case you are reading this, you are to envelope Wendy in your arms and hold her until her face is no longer red. You will not laugh or comment on any qualities of the broken wind - auditory or olfactory. In fact, you will never speak of the incident again.

4. She is a good kitty mama. Even though Lou peed on her, she still loves him. And though he shows love with his teeth, she also adores his roomie, bad ass Barkley. Of course, they both live in the shadow of the memory of Cody, who you can see in the photo above. Cody was Wendy's Fabian, the remarkable feline companion of her young adulthood. They were blessed to have each other.
5. She has a colorful vocabulary, for a kindergarten teacher. She calls lame guys donkeys and sometimes refers to herself as a turd... In fact, I am the one who claims she won't fart in front of her boyfriend. In her words, she'd rather "poot in private."
   
6. She loves to read. The photo to the right shows that at the tender age of two she took a break from opening Christmas presents to savor the pleasure of a new book. I love that when I predicted I might some day develop an addiction for prescription medications, she suggested I get addicted to reading instead.
7. She encouraged me to start this blog and turned me on to blogs in general. I wonder if she regrets this after reading reasons one through three?
   
8. She has no debt. Seriously, I cannot imagine having no debt. Her mother credits Zubin as the driving force behind this remarkable fiscal feat. Whatever the source, Wendy continues to live within her means and for this I applaud her.
   
9. She's open to corruption. I once hosted a study session and served jell-o shots as refreshments. I love that she ended up going home in my feather dress.
10. She wasn't allowed to come to my 10th birthday party. Perhaps her mother knew I'd someday be the bad influence? It's too bad, really, cuz it was the only surprise party I've ever had and we went to an ice cream parlor.
    
11. She appreciates Erick Mafong. He's another former Tiffany Tiger who is sweet, if not the slightest bit eccentric. We both hold him in high regard, though he may not know it. (By the way, he was allowed to come to my party. In fact, he came early and nearly ruined the surprise...)
    
12. She likes her feet. She submitted this photo of them to Jones Soda. They never made it on to a bottle, but I voted for them a few times.
    
13. She discourages me from selling myself short. Through her, I have learned it is not okay to buy love with food (though I still believe that food is love...) and that people who are "friends with benefits" should both benefit...
    
14. She appreciates a well written letter and forgives when they are not forthcoming. She so enjoyed the letters we exchanged in college that she thought we might someday publish them. Sadly, I have reviewed the unsent letters in my possession and I can assure you no one would pay to read them. Still, she thought enough of my correspondence skills to set me up with a mysterious pen pal, Todd. In the interest of fairness, I ended up neglecting him as well.
    
15. She even loves letters when she's not the recipient. She organized a letter writing campaign for her mother's 50th birthday.
16. She had Zubin. As you can imagine, Zubin was a pretty extraordinary person to capture Wendy's heart. Like many young couples, Wendy and Zubin had a casual wedding - the bride wore Converse. Unlike most young couples, their wedding took place in a hospital shortly before Zubin had surgery to remove the benign tumor growing on his brain. (As if any brain tumor can truly be considered benign? Not malignant, sure, but benign seems a stretch...) What always impressed me was how normal they were despite the challenges of quadraplegia. Wendy and Zubin were adorable, funny, and genuine. They didn't dwell on disappointment and they didn't take themselves too seriously. Theirs was a romance for all ages. In the words of her mom, "they learned how to care for each other in ways not many of us will ever master."
17. When the time came, she let him go with dignity and grace, on his terms, without a fuss.
    
18. Wendy is practical, even about paralysis. When she wanted to end a fight, she left the room. Despite his objection, she'd offer Zubin's underwear to Cody, whose greatest pleasure was snuggling them.
19. She's doesn't sweat the small stuff. For example, she hasn't yet disowned me for the stupid things I say like how I thought it was cool her parents were getting a divorce cuz then she'd get more financial aid in college. And she didn't flinch when I asked Zubin if losing his ability to move improved his sense of hearing when I was amazed he could make out the words to a Red Hot Chili Peppers song that was garbled to me.
20. She did, however, once threaten to punch me. We were both on deadline and though I've lost the specifics, I remember I was being a bit of a pest. But Wendy's not really violent, so I wasn't afraid. Still, she could totally take me if she wanted to. And I don't say that about most people...
    
21. She is smart, though Calculus was not her favorite subject. I remember once our teacher actually scolded her for asking a "stupid question." Ouch.
    
22. We also got a "D" on our final project for English, senior year. Our teacher, Barf Bag (as in Carrier of Ralph...), told us the "D" stood for "Disappointing." We didn't care. In fact, I'm pleased we could be as disappointing to him as he'd been to us. As I recall, we were forced into his class by a scheduling problem - we couldn't have Mrs. Flores and still take Calculus and Journalism... Anyway, I love that Wendy embraced her inner rebel and skated with me on this lame assignment.
23. I once caught her dancing with her mom in their living room to Dan Seals' song, "Bop with Ya Baby." I loved getting a peek into their private life. It was refreshing to see that not every mother-daughter relationship was coated in adolescent angst. They remain close and I consider myself fortunate to count them both among my friends.
24. Wendy does not like email forwards. If you are going to add something to her inbox, it better be original.
    
25. She can drive stick. I can too, now, but she's been driving stick since high school. She can also back into parking spaces, something I still avoid.
26. She's learning to drink scotch.
27. She embraces her inner dork. For example, she never hid her affection for Huey Lewis. I was so bummed when I saw him in the SF airport and failed to get his autograph for her. I stopped myself as I knew if I'd approached him I would've blathered something about how cool Wendy was for loving him even though he was so dorky. Only later did I realize I could've just gone up and told him my name was Wendy and I was his biggest fan...
28. Our younger brothers were friends. We agree that it is better that we do not know the details of the adventures they had together.
29. She was our Prom Queen and she had her own unofficial fan club - a collection of cute sophomore boys who are now her lifelong friends. Not surprising, now that you know so many wonderful things about her, eh?
30. She collects Pink Panthers. This picture features the very first of her menagerie. You may recall from her mom's blog that she was once consoled by a Pink Panther cup purchased for her by her aunt after she'd been spanked for harassing her brother. She's also fond of crows, which is how she came across this most excellent piece, done by a mutual friend of ours (whose fan club Wendy and I are most definitely in...).
31. She's not shy and she owns her truth. She swears I tell this story wrong, but as I remember it, she was once the focus of an adolescent boy's lame attempt at blackmail. She refused to be held hostage by his threat to reveal the details of their innocent rendezvous. Instead, Wendy announced them herself while standing on a bench and commanding the attention of her field hockey team. As I recall, it went something like this, "He tried to put his hands down my pants and I let him..."
32. While she agrees that girls have effectively ruined pirates for boys, she does not agree that vikings are next. I don't know, though. Vikings have all the same appeal - cute costumes, funny accents, an excuse to drink and carry weapons... And I've even seen them featured on the Backyardigans. You heard it here first. It's only a matter of time.

33. She is a great friend. She makes me wish I lived in the Northwest so I could attend social gatherings with her such as Sausagefest and CD parties. And I'm secretly jealous of Debbie, her high school best friend pictured above. Those two keep in touch like nobody's business. I'm more a laissez-faire best friend myself. I'm convinced my life is more interesting when the stories I've collected over a couple years are condensed into a single marathon phone call or a couple of verbose emails.
    
34. She doesn't feel old. Sometimes I do.
    
35. Perhaps this is because she is athletic. Besides field hockey and soccer, as a kid she also ran track and played basketball. As an adult, she walks to work and is a member of a climbing gym. (Just don't call her "svelte." That didn't go over well when she heard it was used to describe her by a friend's parent. I know how she felt. I heard a friend's dad once called me a "grub." I'd take "svelte" over "grub" any day...)
    
36. She let me keep the papier mache cat I made for her. It's technically unfinished anyway as she didn't think glow in the dark eyes were a great idea and now I can't decide... Besides, she claims to love the purple scarf I knitted for her years later in exchange.

So happy birthday, Miss Wendy. Here's to another 26 years of friendship. May you always be my oldest friend.

P.S. An extra special thank you goes out to Merry ME, Wendy's awesome mom, who hooked me up with the groovy pictures. There are so many more you didn't get to see (my true present to you, Wendy) but which I thoroughly enjoyed...

P.P.S. And since she asked, here's the shot of me and Wendy at our high school graduation. See how my eyes are closed? Just one more piece of evidence that Wendy is at all times cooler than I am:

mom would be proud

So the other day I accidentally spread yogurt on my bagel instead of cream cheese. I immediately thought of my mother, who once mistook her conditioner for shampoo - for a whole week. I felt even more like my mother when I realized I had been suspicious of the especially runny cream cheese but didn't toss it out. My mom is all about keeping food past its prime. A quick survey of her kitchen will yield any number of culinary nightmares - moldy cheese, browning avocados, wilted lettuce, wrinkled tomatoes, sprouted potatoes... My mom is so into old food, in fact, that when I blamed some older eggs for a recent stomach illness, my mom defended the eggs. She explained that the eggs in her own fridge were significantly older and that my brother once ate an egg that was even a little green and he was still fine. This just made me want to vomit more. My dad's explanation, that the eggs would've made me sick sooner if they were the source of my malaise, was much more palatable and scientifically sound.