Operation Pink Herring

That's 35 episodes of L&O. I counted.

We did the second dose of roundworm medicine on Wednesday night (Christmas is over, time for torture!) and it went better than the first time, if only slightly.   Although the vet assured me that this medicine doesn't taste bad, Max and Henry begged to differ, spitting all over the place and running off after I shot it in their mouths.  Maybe they just don't like being force-fed yellow goop, or maybe it really does taste awful.  We'll never know.  I am confident that enough got down their little throats to be effective, and that's all that matters.  Max grudgingly accepted the treats that I placed in front of his post-medicine hiding spot and Henry spent the night sleeping on my bladder, so I think they both forgive me.

We had a new strategy to try with Madison this time: quick and dirty.  The plan was for Joel to throw a blanket over Mads, hoist him onto the counter, I'd pry open his mouth and squirt the medicine in, and then we'd both run for cover.  I wanted the entire operation to last no more than fifteen seconds, therefore keeping the element of surprise on our side.

It worked, mostly.  Blankets were thrown, medicine was squirted, but much of it was spit back out by one angry and surprised fluffy-cat. I grabbed the back-up syringe, and most of that seemed to actually go down his throat.   I think that in the end he consumed at least a full dose of the medicine, with about the same amount being spit all over the floor, the blanket, and Madison's face.  Mission: Accomplished.   And on top of that, Madison had no problem with my thoroughly scrubbing his face with a washcloth afterward to remove all the spit out goop before it crusted into his fur.   Taking flavorless medicine = HELLZ NO, but having his face wiped again and again with a wet washcloth until he resembled a drowned rat = NO PROBLEMO.   Go figure.  At least this means that he won't have to step into my Little Barbershop of Horrors again.  Mission: Double Accomplished.  Phew. 

Now we just need to wait a week and re-test to  make sure that everyone is truly worm-free.   Cross all your fingers and toes, please. 

Speaking of worms and other disgusting things, is anyone else still watching Man vs. Wild?  I used to love, love, LUUUURVE this show.  I subscribed to Bear's blog, I eagerly awaited each new episode, and I felt inspired after watching Mr. Grylls brave new and treacherous climates.   But then that whole scandal happened, and my heart was sort of broken.  I mean, I know it's TV and TV isn't real, and there was undoubtedly some serious editing going on to put together the polished hour-long journeys, but planting tame horses and pretending they're wild mustangs?   Having rafts pre-assembled by experts and then pretending that Bear constructed them with his bare hands?   "Chancing upon" poisonous snakes that had been trapped and released directly in Bear's path?  That is too much.  I felt deceived, cheated on, and hurt.   That's right, Bear Grylls.  You hurt me. Personally.  And I'm not sure I can forgive you.

The new format of the show that they've adopted in response to this scandal is just, what's the word I'm looking for here?  BORING.  Bear jaunts from task to task with no coherent segue in between.  With the old format he had a purpose: to either find a way out of the wilderness or to simply survive for a set amount of time if getting out was truly impossible.  Now, there's no point.  When he's done showing us how to climb out of a crevasse (which he jumped into on purpose), he just goes off puma hunting with a native (and then suddenly gives up the moment they're "really close").  After he show us how to kill a poisonous snake (which they are now careful to note has been placed there specifically for the show), we go straight to cutting open a camel carcass.   There's no flow, and it's painfully obvious that any continuity seen in the previous seasons was totally fabricated through creative editing and staged situations.

Instead of being an impressive show about surviving under dire circumstances, it seems that Man vs. Wild has morphed into Fear Factor starring Bear Grylls.  The "special episode" that Joel and I watched last night, titled "Bear Eats" confirmed the transition for me: an entire hour dedicated to Bear eating sheep eyeballs and drinking the water from elephant poop is hardly something I'm interested in.  I didn't mind those parts of the show when eating unpleasant things was simply a means to survival, but more and more it seems to be the focus of the show.  And if we're admitting that this is all planned, staged, and supported by an entire film crew, then why is it necessary for the star to actually eat live snakes on camera?  If that's what the show is going to revolve around from now on, then I'm simply not interested.

Unfortunately, with the writer's strike still in fully swing, THERE IS NOTHING ELSE TO WATCH.  Can't we all just reach a settlement so I can go back to enjoying the shows that didn't pretend to be real?  Moonlight, how I miss you.  A poorly scripted, terribly acted show with plot holes the size of the Grand Canyon would be so much better than watching Bear Grylls eat another beetle.   

But at least we have this to look forward to: A Law and Order marathon on TNT beginning at noon on New Year's Eve and ending at 10pm New Years Day.  Maybe there is a Santa Claus after all.   

 

Christmas highlights

I'd like to thank Jesus for being born on a Tuesday this year, and also thank Michael for deciding to spend the next few months in Utah, prompting our family's early Christmas celebration.  Thanks to these two fine men, I had a lovely four-day weekend to relax and do a whole lot of nothing.

Actually, that's not true at all.  We did lots of stuff.  In somewhat chronological order, we:

• Enjoyed real, hearty breakfasts every day: pancakes, Trader Joe's sausages, bacon, eggs, cinnamon toast... mmmm.
• Exercised (two yoga classes and one good run for me, Krav Maga classes for Joel)
• Bought enough food to last us through a nuclear winter (It's been awhile since our last trip to Sam's Club.  We made up for it by buying enough meat and cereal to last us through to next Christmas)
• Bought even more food (because you just can't buy produce at Sam's.  So we had to go to the grocery store, too.  Naturally.)
• Picked out tentative paint colors for the bedroom (New Year's project: paint the bedroom.  Hopefully.  Now that the samples are up on the wall, neither of us are sure we like them.  I'm about at the point to just use them anyway, who cares if the ceiling color slightly resembles the color of poop, I JUST WANT TO BE DONE WITH THE PAINTING.)
• Cleaned the first floor thoroughly: I'm talking washed the floors, dusted, the whole shebang.  I even sewed up the seam that was coming undone on one of the throw pillowcases (thanks, Ikea, for the excellent craftsmanship!).  Why do I feel the need to take pictures of the house after I've cleaned really well?   I always want to preserve the memories of cleanliness and order for posterity. 
• Saw I Am Legend and National Treasure: Book of Secrets.  My Christmas gift to Joel: I agreed to do a "double feature".   We packed snacks and watched them back to back.  Without paying for the second one.  I usually resist doing this, not because I feel bad about ripping off the movie theater, but because I don't like to waste a whole weekend day in the movies.  But since this was a special 4-day weekend and there were actually two movies that I wanted to see playing, I consented.  It was fun.   I give both  movies a solid B+.
• Looked through recipe books and prepared a veritable Christmas Feast For Two (actually, it was more like a Feast for eleven or twelve.  We'll be eating delicious leftovers for awhile, and I mean that in the best way possible).
• Took a walk on Christmas day through the quiet, peaceful neighborhood.
• Saw the best Christmas window display EVER.
• Opened gifts on Christmas morning in our pajamas.  Even though we didn't get gifts for each other this year (hello, vacation), we did have stockings.  Three, to be exact.  One for Joel, one for me, and one for the cats.  The cats got a load of Christmas toys because their mommy is a crazy person who can't resist buying more toy mice that will invariably end up in the toy graveyard under the oven because these mice are different!  They're red and green and adorable!  (That particular mouse piqued Old Man Max's interest and is no longer with us.  RIP, Christmas mouse.  Sorry that Max ripped your intestines out).  Joel cheated and sneakily bought me several thoughtful stocking stuffers, including a yoga magazine and a box of my beloved Moose Munch.  I got him nothing because we said no presents! I am a bad person.
• I also made out with some good, low-key loot when we went to visit my family two weeks ago.   I got a Starbucks gift card, some adorable note cards (the supply of which I've already depleted considerably), and some supplies for our upcoming trip to Spain -- travel books and Airborne, since my mom is convinced that all my business travel is the root cause of my many colds this year (I'm pretty sure she's right; I got sick approximately once a decade before I started traveling for work).   I also got myself several threadless t-shirts, which I love.  Thanks, me!  You're the best!

So tell me, did you get anything good?  Besides the warmth in your heart that comes from celebrating a joyous holiday, of course.

Just pretend that you're reading this yesterday.

I fully intended to wish all of you internet people a very merry Christmas yesterday, but Santa didn't deliver the high-speed internet I asked for.  WTF, Santa?

(Video of Max patiently posing as Santa here)

I tried uploading some pictures over the dial-up, hoping that they'd actually appear thanks to some sort of Christmas miracle, but no such luck.  So just pretend that you're reading this yesterday.  Merry Christmas!

We spent yesterday cooking a delicious meal of pot roast, stuffing, roasted potatoes, sauteed spinach and dinner rolls.  And, of course, taking the requisite Christmas-morning-in-pajamas pictures.  I have no explanation for why Henry is acting like he is incapable of supporting the weight of his own head in this video; whenever put the antlers-hat on him he goes all limp.  It's almost like he doesn't like wearing them or something.

Henry the half-dead reindeer from Pink Herring on Vimeo.

But trust me, he is wishing you a very happy holiday. 

Holiday paparazzi

I don't want to get all grinchy on everyone this close to the actual holiday, but I am about to lose my shit.

Yesterday we had an office holiday party at a restaurant.  The office closed at 2pm and we all went to a nice Italian place.  Except, see, this was the Office Holiday Party #4, and to tell you the truth, I am all partied out.  The food was pretty bad.  I've made better eggplant parm myself.  The service was awful.  There were thirteen Christmas sweaters in attendance, and I'm not even including just plain red sweaters in that count.  Thirteen sweaters with sequined snowmen and three dimensional poinsettias.    

Then, this morning, my coworker (who told me earlier in the month that she was going to "hug the grinch out of me") shows up to the office with her camera.  To take everyone's picture.   When asked what the purpose of these pictures might be, she replied "it's just for me, don't you worry.  Just for me to have some photos of my coworkers for the holiday season".  Well, that really clears things up.  Of course, everyone wants photos of PEOPLE THEY SEE EVERY DAMN DAY. 

I am considering telling her that I am 1/32 Native American, and that it is therefore against my religion to have my soul captured on film.   That's true, actually, the 1/32 Native American part.  My mom wanted me to put it on college applications so I could play the minority card, except we don't know which tribe (tribe?  I am blocking the correct word here, and that's a shame because I have two Louise Erdrich books at home) we "belong to", so I thought it best to just check "white" and be done with it.   I guess I should hide all the pictures on my desk to make this excuse more plausible.

Or I guess I could just tell the truth: IT'S TOO DAMN EARLY FOR CAMERAS.  GO AWAY.

I think I need the four-day holiday weekend I have coming a little more than I realized. 

Here she goes with the cats again

Hey, so remember how I have this cat name Madison? You know, the cat with a girl's name even though he is a boy (and again, I'd like to remind everyone that I DID NOT NAME HIM, I just sorta forgot to ever get around to changing it) and who occasionally tries to rip my face off? Yeah, him. When we last left our intrepid hero, Madison was sulking in the corner with a faceful of yellow goop. I left that goop on his face, thinking that, being a cat, Mads would use the lick paw, wipe paw over face, lick paw again, repeat ad nauseum method of grooming himself. This would solve the problem of goop on his face, while at the same time possibly even get more of the goop into his little mouth. Apparently, the trauma of medicating an ornery cat caused me to forget the simple fact that Madison does not so much groom himself. Instead, the yellow goop dried into a hard yellow mass, giving Madison a spunky little sideways mohawk. I was fine with this.  Rock on!

Madison, however, did not like the punk look. I came home the next night to find bloody clumps of Madison's fur, crusted with yellow goop, on the stairs. He just would not leave that area alone, so I had to resort to cutting it out before he could do further injury to himself. As a result of my fine barbering skills Madison is now missing a giant hunk of fur on the left side of his face along with his right eyebrow. All the yellow goop has been removed... just in time for us to start all over with the second dose of de-wormer next week! Whee!!

Now, being the brilliant person that I am, I queried the vet about perhaps putting Madison on some sort of chewable de-wormer, should such a thing exist. This route worked quite well last year when I resolved to put all three cats on Frontline (different day worm, same shit) and then discovered that Madison was not so much going to allow me to put any stuff on his neck. Oh, hells no. Instead, he bit me and hid under the bed. After I'd already opened the tube. AWESOME. After that incident, I went out on a limb and ordered some "flavor tabs" that were billed as being less effective than topical Frontline, however since none of the Frontline actually made contact with Madison's skin, "less effective" was better than nothing. And wouldn't you know, Madison happily gobbled down that "flavor tab"?  Halle-freakin-lujiah. Make that a double A-men, because it turns out that, indeed, there IS a Santa Claus chewable tablet that is really intended for heartworms, but happens to kill roundworms as well. SIGN ME UP. I picked up a six-month supply for all three cats last night. I am not messing around. These worms, they are going to die.

I got home, looked at the bill for these medicines, and then gave Max a stern lecture about going on a diet, because did you know that his dose actually cost me fifteen extra dollars just because he is so fat? Yes. The diet, it starts tomorrow. Or maybe on January 2nd.

Max sniffed his big boy pill, gave me a suspicious look, and then stood there. With just a little prodding, happily chewed and swallowed.

I placed a normal-sized pill next to where Henry was murdering a toy mouse. He paused, scarfed it down, and returned to his killing.

Good, I thought. They really are "delectably flavored for cats"!

Do I really need to tell you that Madison didn't eat the damn thing? That he bit me, hid under the kitchen counter, and then proceeded to position himself angelically in his cat bed the moment Joel came home?

Oh, and guess who is also due for shots? SEND HALP. AND VODKA.

Nine states in four days

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My baby brother, Michael, has safely arrived in Utah.  He drove the 2,164 miles by himself over four days, stopping in Cleveland, OH on Sunday night and in Des Moines, Iowa on Monday. 

The travel bug in my thinks this whole adventure sounds like so much fun.  Driving across America!  Seeing the sights!  I have to admit, I've always loved roads like Route 80 and I-95 that span thousands of miles.  On bright sunny days in high school, I used to get the urge to just hop on Route 80 and keep driving.  Not because I wanted to run away, but just because the whole idea that I could just head out on one road and evenutally end up in California enchants me.  When Jenny and I drove from the Fort Lauderdale airport to Miami beach in the spring, I couldn't help but squeal as we got on 95.  I mean, it's the same road I drive on to go to the mall at home!  Isn't that cool?

On the other hand, taking this kind of road trip alone sounds sort of boring.  I've been known to succumb to highway hypnosis on the simple three and a half hour trip from Baltimore to New Jersey, so much so that I actually missed my exit on the Turnpike on one occasion.  (That was followed by a panicked phone call to my dad because OMG WHAT HAPPENS AFTER EXIT TEN?  HELP DADDY, I DON'T WANT THE HOLLAND TUNNEL TO EAT ME ALIIIIIVE!) And sitting in the car for that long without the ability to sit Indian-style or stretch out on the back seat periodically would probably leave me on the side of the road with a sign that says "WILL WORK FOR ADVIL".  So I guess I will just continue to live vicariously through my little brother for this particular adventure.

So, way to go, Michael!  Here's to hoping for lots of snow.

Did I say "whim"?

I was planning to give a little bit of backstory on The Trip later in the week, but I realized after the fiftieth person said "On a whim!?  Who the does that?" that I might have inadvertently made myself sound like a Trust Fund Muffy.  That's not what I meant when I said whim.  I swear.  Dudes, I work for a nonprofit.   Enough said.

What I meant by "on a whim" was that Joel and I have been toying with the idea of going on a winter trip for many weeks.   It's most likely that we will not be able to go anywhere this summer for various reasons, and we both some vacation time to burn thanks to many, many (MANY) weekends spent traveling, working, or both.   For awhile, we were thinking Argentina.  Doesn't Argentina sound awesome?  And it's summer there in January!  Llamas!  Glaciers!  Evita Peron!  I was hooked.  Frommer's Argentina was checked out from the library.  However, the plane tickets, they were pricey.  We could have done it if we skipped Patagonia, but dude.  I am not going to Argentina and skipping Patagonia.  And I'm not going to Patagonia unless Santa leaves me a winning lotto ticket in my stocking next week.

So, Argentina was canceled.  We tried to think of some other warmish places that we could go for cheap.  We basically came up with nothing.  Then, on Friday, Joel called me to say he'd found a deal on Hotwire for seven nights in Barcelona.  Well, once upon a time, I studied abroad in Madrid.  I spent a semester trying to see as much of Spain as I could, and the one city I didn't make it to was Barcelona.   This made me very sad.  I've wanted to go to Barcelona ever since.  And since it's (slightly) warmer there than it is here, I said "book it".  And then I immediately crossed all my fingers and toes and emailed my supervisor, hoping that my vacation request would be approved, since the tickets were nonrefundable. 

They were approved.   Off we go to Barcelona!   In my personal jet!  Which will also be transporting 300 of my closest friends, and will be stopping for a 4-hour layover in Newark, NJ.  Tell me that doesn't sound like a good time.   Whee!  Anyone have a few vicodin they could spare?  Muffy would be forever grateful if you could go ahead and send that over, prior to January 20th.  Just call my personal assistant, he'll give you the address.  If he's not busy scheduling pedicures for my kitties, that is.

All joking aside, I know that Joel and I go on a lot of trips, and I hope that the Internets aren't out there thinking that we're a couple of spoiled asshats.  I don't know why I feel the need to justify our spending, but I do.  And I don't even mean here; I am already sick of explaining to my coworkers why and how we decided to just up and go to Spain.  Peoples, have you seen my car?   I mean, I love my car.  But she's not getting any younger, if you know what I mean.

We live a fairly frugal lifestyle. Joel re-uses ziploc bags, and I refuse to wash my workout clothes until I've worn them at least twice.  I walk to work, Joel rides his bike.  Both our vehicles are over 10 years old.  And in case I haven't mentioned this, we live in Baltimore, one of the cheapest cities in America.  Every time I go to New York or Chicago I just about faint over the prices of things.  When I found out that parking at our hotel back in September was fifty dollars a night, I nearly cried.  That's like... a lot.   Seriously, if you want to live cheap, move south of the Mason-Dixon line.  We may have some killer humidity down here, but livin' is practically free.

Anyway, I'm late for my nightly appointment with Javier, my personal masseur.  I just wanted to clear up that whole "on a whim" thing in case I die of a Holiday Spirit Overdose at my office Christmas Breakfast tomorrow morning.   In the event of such a tragedy, who wants a nonrefundable ticket to Barcelona?

And now, on to more pleasant topics

Joel and I spent the weekend with my family in New Jersey, celebrating Christmas. I realize that Christmas is traditionally held on December 25th, but my baby brother packed up his car and started driving out to Utah on Sunday, so we decided to move Christmas up by a week and a half.  Jesus said he didn't mind. Despite the sleet and snow coming down on Sunday, Michael departed around 2pm and made it to Cleveland around 10pm. He is probably somewhere in the Chicago vicinity at this moment. He starts work at Snowbird on Thursday!   Let's all give my baby brother a hand for not inheriting the worry-wart gene and allowing his big sister to live vicariously through him while he does awesome things.

While Michael was driving west on Route 80, Joel and I were headed south on the NJ Turnpike with 100 pounds of cat litter in the back of Joel's truck. Navigating a cart filled with four 25-lb bags of cat litter to the checkout was probably the truest Crazy Cat Lady experience that I've had thus far, but we needed something to weigh the back of the truck down to provide optimal four-wheel snow driving conditions, and why shouldn't it be something we needed anyway? Unfortunately, what was billed as bona-fide Wintry Mix in New Jersey was nothing but a little bit of wind in Baltimore, so those last two bags were probably overkill.  But hey, I like to play it safe.  The way there were playing this storm up on the news, I was sure we'd have at least a foot of snow and a delayed opening this morning.  Is it bad that I check the forecast compulsively in the winter, and that when I see Wintry Mix, I get all happy inside? Wintry Mix is the key to work closings in Maryland. Come to mama, sleet/snow/rain!

In any case, I highly recommend having Christmas early. I think we should start doing this every year. We had a lovely weekend, there was no traffic despite the many inches of snow and freezing rain that fell, and now we are free to relax and hole up at home to enjoy two four-day weekends in a row. My plans include painting the bedroom, watching a lot of TV, and vacation planning. On somewhat of a whim, Joel and I booked a trip to Barcelona on Friday. We'll be going for a week in January. I am beyond excited.  Audrey, the internet's resident expert on all things Barcelona has already provided me with innumerable suggestions (thanks, Audrey!) and we have several books to peruse, but any suggestions ya'll have for Things Not To Be Missed are welcome. This is probably all I'll be talking about for the next month. Sorry.

Oh, and I finally joined Flickr.  I uploaded some random pictures.  Now what?

A nice, quiet evening

OH BOY.  THIS IS GOING TO BE FUN.

This was a lovely evening.  I dumped approximately 40 lbs of litter into three trash bags, scrubbed three litter boxes, and OH YEAH.  I GAVE MADISON SOME MEDICINE.  THAT WAS FUN.

I can't wait until two weeks from now, when we get to do this all over again. Until then, I'll just bide my time by disinfecting litterboxes and dumping the litter every damn day.  And washing my hands raw.  And trying not to throw up, because OMG.  FUCKING WORMS.   

An uninvited holiday guest

This week marks the one-year anniversay of Henry's entrance into our lives.  I celebrated the occasion by having his nails professionally trimmed over the weekend (verdict: best $12 I've spent in a long time) and dropping off a ziploc baggie full of poop this morning (verdict: the worst $24 I've spent in an even longer time.)

Why, you ask, would I willingly tote a bag of poop (double bagged, and in a disposable tupperware) in my beloved Coach bag? 

BECAUSE OMFG I THINK THE WORMS ARE BACK.

I had been thinking about what sort of post I should write about Henry's anniversary; sentimental sappy with pictures of him sleeping on my chest and being the lap cat I'd been dreaming of?  Funny post about Henry's unparalleled weirdness, complete with stories about how he HATES one particular spot on the exposed brick wall and has contests with himself to see who can jump the highest and cling, suspended by his front paws from the door frame?  Chronilogical linkage about finding him, losing him, finding him again, the pain and suffering and woe, followed by the happiness and bliss of my own cuddle-happy kitten?  But now, now that's all moot because all I can think about is THE WORMS, and why does this keep happening to meeeee?

I am currently waiting for the vet to call with the preliminary verdict, and in 24 hours we'll have the lab analysis.  But I already know what it is, after the past year I certainly think that I can recognize a roundworm when I see one.  Never in my life did I think I'd be proud of my parasitic recognition skills, but by this point I am thinking of adding it to my business cards and resume. 

Hey, you know what's going to be fun? Treating these roundworms. If I remember correctly, the medicine is a nice yellow liquid that has to be squirted into the cat's mouth and swallowed.  This is no problem with Henry and  Max, but Madison?  Oh, Madison. I love Madison very much.  For the most part, Madison is a sweet, quiet, no-hassle cat.  He never gets sick, he doesn't care what kind of food or litter we use, he's never peed on the floor or jumped on my head at 3am.   However, there is a little devil that lives inside of Madison.  And when that devil comes out... well, it's not pretty.  This is an actual email exchange from earlier this week, after I emailed my mom pictures of Max and Henry in their holiday costumes:

From: OPH
To: Mom
Subject: Hohoho
Date: 12/10/2007 9:49 AM

Max wishes you a happy holiday!

From: Mom
To: OPH
Subject: Re: Hohoho
Date: 12/10/2007 10:15 AM

He certainly looks cute too ... wouldn't it be nice to have a picture of Max and Henry all dressed up... next to your CHRISTMAS TREE!!!!! 

From: OPH
To: Mom
Subject: Re: Hohoho
Date: 12/10/2007 10:22 AM

Yes, we have been trying, but I don't think that idyllic photo will happen. henry HATES the santa suit and flips out when we put it on max. I think he is just upset because max gets to be santa and henry just gets to be a reindeer. I did take some pictures of the tree... it looks very nice...

From: Mom
To: OPH
Subject: Re: Hohoho
Date: 12/10/2007 10:24 AM

where is Madison fitting into this xmas photo?

From: OPH
To: Mom
Subject: Re: Hohoho
Date: 12/10/2007 10:31 AM

Madison is a very nice cat as long as you dont' try to make him do anything he doesn't want to do... things he doesn't want to do include taking medicine and wearing outfits. It stops being fun when someone loses an eye trying to get the costume on the cat!  So Mads is exempt.... but don't feel bad for him, he has already claimed the tree as his own.

*************************************************

If this were a novel, I believe that would be called "irony".   

New Year's resolution #1: Make more friends.

The one thing that I unabashedly love about the holiday season is holiday cards.  I love to write things longhand.  With a pen.  I love cute paper products.  I love addressing the envelopes and I love picking out fun holiday stamps at the post office.   I love getting holiday cards too, but not half as much I as enjoy writing and sending them.  It's a compulsion, and I love it.

I know that many people think of Writing Christmas Cards as just another item on the never-ending holiday to-do list.  I am not one of those people.  If I know you, you are getting a holiday card from me.  Please do not feel obligated to send me one in return if that's not your bag, baby.  Just send me your address so I can assault you with my mailz.

I found some supercute, super CHEAP cards at Walmart this weekend ($3 for 20 cards!) (I know that this should not be such a shock, but I seriously never go to Walmart.  Especially not around Christmas time.  The crowds, they scare me).  So now here's my problem.  I don't know enough people to send twenty cards to.   So would any of you lovely internet peoples like a (purple) card?   Please?

If you all say no, Holiday Santa Max will have a bone to pick with you.

moar funny pictures

Ah, ICHC.  You will never get old.

Thy leaves are so EXPENSIVE

Execution of an innocent tree from Pink Herring on Vimeo.

So, we got a Christmas tree.   Joel was adamant that, if we did indeed get a tree, it must: 1. Be a real tree, and 2. Be cut down by us. Joel is a bit of a Christmas tree snob, as it turns out, and he looked at the people who were dragging out a huge tree as we walked in with pity in his eyes.  "I don't know why people get White Pines," he said.  "They're not even Christmas trees."

"It looks like a Christmas tree to me... and it has floppy needles, so you don't get stabbed.  Seems pretty smart if you ask m--"

"No.  That's not a Christmas tree."

Ohhhhkay.

So apparently, according to experts, the only true Christmas tree is a Douglas fir.  They all look like pine trees to me, but what do I know?   I'm just the holiday grinch from New Jersey.

We wandered around the "farm" for awhile, looking at the smaller trees.  I really wanted to get the most pathetic-looking tree we could find, because wouldn't that be funny?  Plus, I felt bad for those poor Charlie Brown trees that no one wanted.  Who would give them a home?  Maybe I can sneak back at night and put a few decorations on them.  Maybe I can just put them in my purse and take them home and adopt them.

Anyway, NO.  Joel was not having any of that.  After not too long, we settled on a healthy looking little tree that passed all of Joel's inspections (although he did note that it had some dead needles toward the center, hmmm, that's not a good sign).  Joel sawed it down, which took far less time than I thought it would -- for some reason I thought "chopping down a tree" would be a little more ceremonious than a few swipes with our handsaw -- and we dragged our prize up to the gate to pay.

So, there were no prices posted at this Christmas tree farm.  I guess that should have set off warning bells in my cynical brain, but I sort of figured that it was a Christmas tree farm and so in the spirit of Christmas everyone had to be kind and fair and love one another.  I wasn't really paying attention to the practical aspects of Christmas tree procurement.   Plus, Joel had told me that this place had some free-roaming, real live reindeer, and I wanted to pet them, okay?  (Turns out that was a different place, a different place THAT WE WILL BE GOING TO NEXT YEAR). 

We got up to the gate with our tiny little tree, and the lady said -- and I quote: "Oh, I hate to do this to you sweetie.  But that tree is going to cost you seventy-five dollars."

EXCUSE ME????

"That's a Douglas fir", she continued (I KNEW THAT! DOUGLAS FIRS ARE THE ONLY REAL CHRISTMAS TREES! I WAS PAYING ATTENTION!) "and Douglas firs start at $75.  I really hate to charge you that, but there's nothing I can do."

Joel and I were both dumbfounded, but since we had already cut the tree down, there wasn't really anything we could do.  Since we certainly did not have $75 in cash on us, I had to write the lady a check.  Something about the fact that she had me make the check out to her, and that she shoved a pen in my face before I could even say "no thanks, I have a pen in my bag" makes me think that she could have, in fact, done something about the outrageous price tag.   

Just in case you missed it, THE TREE COST SEVENTY FIVE DOLLARS.

We put the tree in the trunk of my Jetta (which just felt sort of wrong, but I didn't think Joel would go for buckling it into the passenger seat while he rode in the back), and drove to the mall so I could check out the Ann Taylor Loft sales.  They were playing a particularly irritating Christmas song, and an ATL employee looked me dead in the eye while I was browsing the shoes and said "I am going to kill myself before Christmas if I have to listen to this song one more time."  AMEN.  That is just one more reason why I love ATL with all my heart.

On our way home from the mall, we stopped at Walmart to get a replacement bulb for my car, because surprise of surprises, I have ANOTHER taillight out.   As we stood with the trunk open trying to install the new bulb, a little girl walked by with her parents.  She pointed at our trunk and exclaimed "THAT'S A REALLY SMALL TREE!"

I wanted to yell after her, DON'T TALK ABOUT MY SEVENTY FIVE DOLLAR TREE LIKE THAT!, but I just burst out laughing.  Yes, yes it is.  It's a very small tree.

But it's our tree.  And no one talks smack about our tree.

Long Live and Prosper

When I first heard about the TV strike, I was all "whatever.  How long can that last?  We peoples need love our TV, they will find a way to work it out."  I was even a bit relieved, because dudes.  The fall lineup was killing me. 

So, the strike happened.  We caught up on everything in the Tivo cache.  The strike continued.  I watched all of Seasons 1 and 2 of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on DVD.  The strike continued.  I cleaned my house, did all the laundry, made a new lasagna recipe, organized the litterbox room office, cleaned the house again, SCRUBBED THE OVEN.  The strike continued.

And so when Joel set the Tivo to record Tin Man, a SciFi Channel miniseries about the Wizard of Oz, I did not even protest.  I mean, what else am I going to do?   I've already cleaned out the fridge and sanitized the carpets.  Bring it on.  Sigh.

Here's the surprising part: I am sort of in love with it.  I think that this officially makes me a sci-fi geek, if you also take into account that a few months ago Joel started watching this strange movie called Highlander, which apparently everyone in the world (except for me!) heard about in 1991.  I made fun of him, made fun of the Highlander's very badass coat, made fun of science fiction in general... and then Joel went to bed and I said, "um.... I'll be up soon. I just have to finish this, uh, very important thing I am doing here on the computer.  It might take awhile.  Oh, no, leave the TV on...you know, just for background noise."  Also, I am still watching Moonlight, GOD KNOWS WHY, since it is painfully, horribly bad.  I just can't quit you, Mick St. John.

Also, I might sorta kinda love like Battlestar Galactica now.  "Frack" still annoys the living shit out of me, but the show... it is sort of awesome good.

So, Tin Man.  Anyone else watching?  I haven't seen Episode Three yet, so no spoilers.  We have to ration this last part out for at least three nights, otherwise we might actually have to turn off the TV and, like, talk to each other or something.

Just for the record, I still think Star Trek is boring.

Beautiful Addiction

Yesterday afternoon I was starving, but the can of soup I'd brought for lunch just wasn't doing it for me.  I ventured upstairs to the coffee shop (which also sells overpriced sandwiches and assorted lunch items) in hopes of procuring something more appetizing.  They did have one slice of pizza left.  Their pizza is delicious, but it is also $2.75 per smallish slice.  On this particular day, that was a price I was willing to pay.   

(Despite the high food prices, I love this place with all of my heart and my black little soul.   The people who work there are friendly and cheerful, but without crossing the line into annoying territory.  Their coffee is great and pretty cheap.  They provide me with an excuse to leave my desk when I really need a break.  I really and truly love them.  It's a happy place.)

My favorite coffeeshop employee, Brown Haired Girl, was at the register when I walked up, and she cheerfully asked if I'd like a hazelnut coffee, my usual drink.  "No," I told her. "I'd like that last slice of pizza."  I think I might have drooled a bit, that's how hungry I was.  She got me my pizza and and I tried to hand her my coffeeshop debit card (10% discount on everything!  LOVE!), but she just waved it away.  "No charge," she said.  "It's the last slice."  "T-Thank you!", I stammered.  I wanted to tip her, but all I had with me was the debit card.  I made a mental note to bring cash the next day so that I could leave a nice tip. 

Now, here it is, the next day.  I actually remembered to take cash out of my wallet when I went upstairs to get my hazelnut coffee this morning.  Except, what I thought was a $5 bill actually turned out to be a $1 bill.  When I pulled it out of my pocket, I was horrified.  Not only was I unable to tip Brown Haired Girl, I was 25 cents short.  I didn't have enough to pay for my coffee. 

BHG acted like it was no big deal, like people come up there all the time without enough cash to pay for their coffee.   The worst part is that I felt like a crack addict for that  moment when I realized NO MONEY = ME MAYBE  NOT GET COFFEE. 

"I am just ONE stomach bug away from my goal weight!"

I'm alive, but food poisoning is still kicking my ass.  Nothing sounds appetizing.  This is like me saying "No thanks, I have enough money.  Just give my lotto winnings to someone else."  I have food cravings that scare the life out of me, because if and when I am ever pregnant, LOOK OUT WORLD.  Last week I was cruising the local food market near work with two coworkers for something suitable to eat.  We circled the market twice and finally settled on giant pretzels, which was pretty much the only edible offering in the entire place.  I was starving, but the pretzel still wasn't what I really wanted.  It would do, but it wasn't going to be great.   Shut up, you know exactly what I mean.

And then it hit me: Diet Coke.  That was what I needed to take this meal from "OK" to "delicious".  I had a can of Diet Pepsi in the fridge back at our office, but that's not the same.  I wanted Diet Coke.  Yes, there is a difference and I can taste it.  Moreover, I wanted Diet Coke from a bottle. 

This is the level of insanity that we are usually dealing with.  And it is nothing new.

But since that fateful order of General Tsao's, I just have no interest in food.  Joel had to remind me to have some soup for lunch yesterday and for the first time in....ever?  I didn't finish my dinner.   I've said many times that I would kill to be one of those people who just doesn't care about food, who only eats when they're hungry and stops when they're full, who isn't thinking about what they're going to make for dinner at 10 o'clock in the morning.  But honestly, it's sort of sad.  I miss food.  I miss liking it. 

I am fairly sure that once my stomach has fully recovered I'll be back to normal, so don't shed any tears for the death of my love affair yet.  And the upshot is, according to the somewhat dubious scale in our bathroom, I've lost six pounds thanks to this little Adventure in Vomit. 

You might not want to read this if you're eating.

If you ever find yourself standing in the Atlanta airport, wondering should you get a nice thick slice of Sbarro pizza or a a hearty order of General Tsao's chicken with fried rice, I STRONGLY urge you to go for the pizza.  Honestly, I don't know what is wrong with me.   Pizza is my favorite food.  Why would I not choose the pizza?   I was actually in the Sbarro line when I decided, nah, let's change things up a bit.  You know, since I just had (delicious) Chinese last night.

I will never stray from pizza again.  I am pretty sure that I will also never eat Chinese food again.  Just the though of it right now is making me reach for the barf bucket next to the bed.  Yes, there is a barf bucket next to the bed.  Luckily I haven't had to use it yet, since it's the same bucket we mop the floor with.  But that is only because I have spent most of the past 24 hours in the bathroom. Who am I kidding anyway, I never mop the floor.  Then again, I never throw up.  Sure, from time to time I will pull the old trigger when it becomes apparent that it's the only way to get all of the alcohol out of my body, but I cannot remember the last time I spontaneously threw up.   I think it was probably some time in middle school.  I have this vivid memory of driving in the car with my mom near Dell's Village, and all of a sudden I know I'm going to barf.  I threw up into some sort of vessel (possibly we had brought the barf bucket with us, since I did have a designated barf bucket when I was a kid) and then proceeded to freak out because the puke was green.   I thought  I was going to die.

Well, when I puked up the one slice of toast that I've eaten since I consumed that fateful General Tsao's, it was green.  And I am pretty sure that I am going to die.  I have been in bed all day and thankfully I have tomorrow off, because despite giving the cats a run for their money in the Most Time Spent Sleeping Today category, I still think I've got some barfing left in me.

Luckily I have my work laptop at home and apparently the illegal wireless signal is pretty strong in the bedroom, so I can still blog from my deathbed. You're welcome.