Operation Pink Herring

So long, farewell

Oh, internet.  I have so many things I want to write about.  I finally finished The Omnivore's Dilemma, seven months after I started it!  And... well, I swear there were a lot of other things too, but I've plumb forgotten because all I can think about right now is OMGOMGWEHAVEN'TPACKED and on top of that I have a HUGE last-minute work deadline, sooo...

Here's a video of Max that didn't look half as dark when I watched it on the camera's screen, fucking computers.  If you listen closely you can hear Henry yowling at the wall in the background.

Maxwell Maximillian Maximus from Pink Herring on Vimeo.

See you in a week!  Or two!  Maybe!

Venue searching, new beds and assorted other goodness

Although we've still not set a date yet (SO STOP ASKING EVERY DAY, FRONT DESK LADY, SHEESH!), my thoughts have been preoccupied lately with all things wedding.   Every morning when I look in the mirror, I contemplate whether my hair has grown any longer, whether I should get a trim this week or push it off a little longer, whether I should go for a casual, flowy down-do for The Big Day or perhaps a simple, low bun instead?   I wonder whether I should look for a makeup artist and risk having a panic attack when she tries to put foundation on my face, or if I should just go to the Clinique counter a few weeks before, stock up on some new mascara and lip gloss and call it a day.  Ooh, maybe I should ask Sister-Wife Jenny to do my wedding makeup!  She's good at makeup, and she won't try to sneakily put foundation on me.  That's a great idea!

And this is all before I've finished brushing my teeth in the morning.

I've also been suffering a compulsion to buy things, especially things that are on sale, "for the wedding".  Like that three-strand pearl necklace I saw in the Macy's One Day Sale circular, marked down from $400 to $99: I was thiscloseto buying it.   What if I never see such a great deal again?   What if I can't find this exact necklace next month?  And wouldn't it be nice to have another thing checked off the list, one less item to worry about down the line?   I tell you, I almost had myself talked into that necklace.  And the matching earrings.  And a pair of shoes I saw on Piperlime.  All these things, for a wedding whose date has not even been set yet.  Is this what "nesting" is like?  Because I think maybe I should have bought that necklace.  Damnit.

Although we still haven't set a date, we have been making excellent progress in Operation Wedding.  Over the past few weekends, Joel and I have visited no less than eleven potential weddings venues.  I have almost finished entering these all into an exel spreadsheet that tracks the date we visited, their prices on everything from ceremony fee to chivari chair rentals, the cost difference between Saturday and Sunday, and everything in between.  So far, we have four real contenders.  And a dozen more places to look at.  (What can I say, I like to be thorough!)   While time consuming, I'm really quite enjoying the great venue search.  I didn't think that driving around all around Maryland every Saturday would be enjoyable at all. In fact, I kind of thought it was going to suck.   But it doesn't suck!  It's actually been a fun way to spend time together.  The set appointments force us out of bed at a reasonable hour, and with coffee in hand, we set of to conquer another corner of the state.  Driving through the beautiful scenery in Western Maryland on Saturday was downright idyllic.   I can't wait to see which place we end up going with.

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After spending Saturday looking at four different venues, the only task I wanted to get accomplished on Sunday was getting the new bed upstairs, by hook or by crook.  Joel and I managed to get the boxspring upstairs by ourselves on Thursday, which involved some tricky engineering and a bit of walking on our neighbor's roof, but I had this sinking feeling that the extra-thick, extra-foamy mattress was just not going to make it up the stairs.  I'm a worrier, that's what I do -- and let me tell you, I was worrying plenty when three kids from Joel's team arrived on Sunday to help move it.  Luckily, we needed neither hooks nor crooks, and it only took the four of them less than 20 minutes to get the entire job done.  One of them actually said "That's it?", when I showed them the mattress.  "Dude, when people say they need help moving furniture, they usually mean, like, the whole house," he explained.  God, I love the college mentality. 

You know what else I love?  Our new mattress.

And as you can see, I'm not the only one enjoying all the magical little Swiss masseurs.   Madison plopped himself in the middle of it within minutes after it was set down, and I thought he was going to die a happy cat right then and there. 

I've slept very well both nights so far, and I haven't even been doing what Joel calls my Alligator Death Roll during the night -- turning over and over until I have managed to wrap all the sheets and blankets around myself.  I consider that a very auspicious start.  With all the money I'll be saving on Tylenol PM and coffee, this mattress is practically going to pay for itself... after about 35 years.   But you know what, you can't put a price on a good night's rest.  That's what Madison says, at least.

Thanks to the wonder of Craigslist, our old bed was sold and gone by Sunday evening.  During the 48 hours it was listed, twelve people responded to my ad.  When I informed interested parties that it had already been promised to a buyer, two people tried to offer me more than the asking price, and another wanted to come over right then to whisk the bed away first.  I turned them both down, of course, but I still made out with $40 for a 5+-year-old mattress and a slightly warped wooden frame (which was fully disclaimed in the ad).  The best part is, I only paid $20 for the set five years ago.  I think I've stumbled upon my life's calling: stalking craigslist (already do that), snapping up underpriced items, and selling them for a profit.  All I need is a partner who has someplace to store all my finds.  Any applicants?

Max was the only one sad to see the old mattress go.  I came downstairs on Sunday afternoon, after we'd carefully laid it across the couch, to find him sleeping right in the middle of it.  When the buyer came to pick it up, I swear I saw Max shed a single tear.  I promised him that the mattress went a good home, where it would receive lots of attention and plenty of Fancy Feast, but he still wouldn't speak to me the rest of the evening.

 

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An adorable duck couple was hanging around on our block yesterday.  I saw the male sitting on the sidewalk in the morning when I left for work, and I thought he must have been sick.  I mean, ducks don't hang out on city sidewalks, right?  There are plenty of ducks in the harbor and plenty more in the nearby park, but I've never seen any just wandering around the 'hood.  I thought this poor dude would surely fall victim to the stray cats that prowl our block, but when I arrived home that night he'd been joined by his wife and they were marching around together, quietly quacking to themselves.  I found it so adorable that I grabbed the camera and took a few pictures of them.  I wasn't the only one interested in them; the orange cat that lives a few houses down looked like he would have killed to be able to jump through that screen. 

>

I assume that the Mr. and Mrs. Duck were visiting because one of the crazy ladies on our block (the owner of Orange Cat) likes to feed the pigeons, and our sidewalk is constantly littered with birdseed (and pigeon crap, but we won't get into that).  I didn't see them this morning, so I'm telling myself that they were just out on a daytrip and they've now safely returned to the park or the harbor or wherever they came from.  They were NOT hit by a car or eaten by a stray cat, so don't you even THINK that.  No, I can't keep them as pets, and, yes, that makes me sad. 

Baby, we got it

All the pretty things I WANTED:

(1. Scooter, 2. Kitchen table, 3. Kitchen cabinetry, 4. Crown molding, 5. New front door, 6. New non-back-breaking bed, 7. Fancy camera, 8. A pretty wedding)

Aaaaand...what we GOT:

(1. New bed, Sick Cat #1, Sick Cat #2)

First of all, I'd like you all to say hello to the new love of my life, our ridiculously expensive (even though we got it for half price on Craigslist) Tempurpedic bed.   I am in love with this bed already.  I want to call in sick for an entire week so I can do nothing but lie on it all day long while the million tiny little swiss citizens inside it massage my back. 

The only problem with that plan is that it's still propped up against the couch in our first-floor living room, as we need about four people with superhuman strength to come and carry it up two very narrow flights of stairs for us.   Ability to bend the laws of physical space would be a plus, as we thinkit's going to bend up around the corners, but we can't be sure.  It's a whole lot thicker than our other mattress.  You know, because of the millions of tiny little swiss masseurs inside it.  If it turns out to not bend around the corners, would anyone be willing to lend us their helicopter for the weekend so we can airlift this thing into the third-floor bedroom?

And in cat news, Maxwell isn't doing so, um, well.  We begin kitty chemo this week.  Don't worry, it's not as bad as it sounds.  He just gets one extra pill every other day, his hair won't even fall out or anything.  Kitty chemo is just aimed at relieving pain and slowing down cancer growth, so it's only about 1/10 as aggressive as human chemo. 

Sadly, Madison, never one to be left out, appears to have kitty cancer as well.   It wasn't nothing, after all.  I'm still hoping it's actually his thyroid (which could be fixed), but something is definitely wrong with him.  I'm really, really sad, of course, but I'm taking this all pretty well (if I do say so myself).  Maybe it's because I'm in denial; both Max and Mads are still acting like their normal, happy selves... knocking over unattended glasses of water, licking Joel's morning cereal bowl when he's not looking and staring menacingly at the stray cats outside the window.   Or maybe it's the millions of tiny Swiss citizens in my living room.   Either way, things are good at the moment, and I'm just sitting here, trying to move that mattress up two stories with the power of my mind, and simultaneously hoping like heck that the thirteen bucks a month I've been paying for Madison's fancy health insurance isn't going to call whatever he has a pre-existing condition.

Or! It could be nothing.

Reason #7893 your fluffy ferret-cat might be wasting away (OR, Things Dr. Google, DVM won't tell you):

Hey, idiot.  Your cat might just be really, really stubborn.  Toss the fancy organic*, not-tested-on-animals, all-natural kibble in the closet next to the organic*, environmentally friendly, all-natural cat litter and buy some goddamn Fancy Feast already.

Madison: 53,897

Me: -6

*Neither the food or litter are actually organic.  Which is a real shame. 

I can has medicare?

Hey, guess what I bought this week?   PET INSURANCE.   Crazy Cat Lady bridge, officially crossed! 

Between Max, The Cat With A Thousand And One Problems (Food allergies?  Check!  Obesity?  Check! Sensitive stomach?  Check!  Crippling anxiety?  check!  Cancer?  DOUBLE CHECK!) and Henry, The Cat Who Ran Away And Then Came Back With Three Parasites And A Mangled Paw, I've wondered from time to time if I should have considered pet insurance.   But in general, I dislike insurance - surely a mindset I inherited from my mother, who describes insurance as "betting against yourself".   I've had terrible experiences with my own bastardly insurance company, and I just don't trust that paying for insurance will actually guarantee that I won't be slammed with bills because of some loophole or fine print. 

Plus, PET INSURANCE?  Do you want to know how much fun I made of my former coworker for having health insurance for her Teacup Yorkie?  A LOT.  But she also considered her dog "an investment", so she totally deserved it.  Also, her dog was seriously annoying. 

BUT.  Lately, Madison has been looking a bit thin.  We had sort of noticed it, but weren't at all concerned until the fourth or fifth person to visit our house in the past few weeks remarked on how gaunt he looked.  It's not like I hold him up in front of visitors and ask HEY TAKE A LOOK AT THIS CAT,   WHAT DO YOU THINK, TOO SKINNY?  It's more like our guests are a tad surprised that when they go to pet him and get stabbed by his protruding hip bones.  His fluffy fur hides his weight very well, but now that I've started paying attention... he's way too thin.  Our questionable bathroom scale says he's lost twenty percent of his body weight since he got weighed at the vet's office in January.   My bank account started to panic when Dr. Google, DVM considered this symptom and returned diagnoses like "object lodged in stomach: surgery required" and "hyperthyroidism: say hello to expensive bloodwork and lifetime medication". 

My first instinct is to ignore, ignore, ignore.  So he's lost a pound or four?   Whatever, he's getting older.   He seems fine.  He's still capable of pushing me off my pillow at night and chasing Henry around the house. 

My second instinct, which is growing stronger by the minute, is that something is really wrong.  Worry has been building up all week, until on Wednesday night I found myself on the computer at 1am signing him up for pet insurance.   The next morning, I decided I was crazy and called to cancel the policy.  By the time I hung up with the friendly customer service guy half an hour later, I'd bought a policy for Henry as well.   

I cringe at the thought of telling people that my freaking cats have health insurance, but I honestly feel SO MUCH BETTER now that I'm paying $13 per month for accident and illness coverage.  I do realize that whatever is wrong with Madison technically pre-dates his policy and is therefore not covered, but I'm hoping that I can find some sneaky way around that by holding off a few more weeks before taking him to the vet and pretending like whatever's going on is a brand new problem.  (Dear insurance company:  Just kidding!  This is all lies!  I would never commit insurance fraud!)  And hey, if it turns out that nothing is wrong with him and I really am just a crazy, over-protective worrywart, well... I'd be very happy with that.   

I haven't bought any insurance for Max because I sort of feel like that ship has sailed.   Really, who is going to insure his chronically allergic, neurotic, obese, cancer-filled ass?   He's a seinor citizen (66 and a half, if one human year = seven cat years), so shouldn't there at least be some crappy government-sponsored insurance to get him his kitty viagra?   Do I sense a future Michael Moore film?

Do any of you have pet insurance?  Have you used it?  Is it a total scam?   I would love to hear about any experiences or recommendations you have.  Except for advice to chill the fuck out.  Trust me, I've spend 27 years trying to do that.  No dice.

I'll keep you posted, don't you worry.  Keeping the interweb updated on my cat's health issues is priority numero uno here at OPH Headquarters.   Whether you like it or not.

What, you didn't know that Max speaks with British accent?

Greetings, kind citizens of the internet.  Maxwell Maximillian Maximus here, wishing to extend my sincere thanks for your kind words regarding my recent diagnosis. 

I'll not make light of my condition -- things have been difficult this past week.  Oh, not because of the cancer!  No, my fine chaps, that's not yet bothering me much, I'm happy to report.  It was the full day at the health asylum that truly turned my mood black - and to tell you the truth, friends, I'm still not fully over the trauma.   Now, the veterinary doctor is a lovely lass, but when someone comes at me with a pair of clippers, I don't know about you, but I feel compelled to react.  How could a fellow know that she just intended to give me a haircut?  For all I know, they had me confused with a poodle who was due for an appendectomy, and I'll tell you - I was having none of that.  But once we all had a glass of bourbon and laughed about the whole mess, I started to feel a bit drowsy, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up with a headache and an orange tabby in the next cage over.  Lovely old gal, she was.  A bitty chatty for my tastes, though.

In any case, while I was - shall we say, sleeping it off - the doctor took the liberty of scanning my internal organs and showing the films to my human caretaker.  It seems everything is in tip-top shape, except for a spot of lymphosarcoma in the old digestive tract.  Certainly not the best news I've heard, but let us not dwell on the negatives; I'm told that a positive attitude is of paramount importance and I intend to keep my spirits high.  Apparently my only symptom is that I've lost two pounds since January, and I tell you, these doctors can never make up their minds.  All my life they've been telling me diet this, limited portions that, and now that I've finally dropped a few inches from the old waistline everyone's got their knickers in a knot about my health. 

There's been some talk of a surgery to get a biopsy of my intestines, but I must admit that I don't much like the sound of that.   I've discussed it with my family, although, to tell you the truth, I sort of stopped listening when they started in about dollars dollars, blah blah blah; I had appointments to get to later in the evening and I don't have time for their constant blathering.  In any case, we seem to have agreed that I will get a special diet and some medication for now, and if I haven't gained any weight back within a month's time we'll reconsider that dreadful biopsy.  I was sort of hoping that my therapy would call for the eviction of that pesky ferret and his kitten-friend, but I suppose I can continue ignoring their antics a bit longer. 

So that's all for now.  I am late for my 3:00 nap, and I really must be going.  Please do accept my deepest, heartfelt thanks for your kind thoughts and words.  Ta-ta, mates! 

Cheerio, 

Max

I survived.

If you are wondering why I was so stressed out about this reunion weekend, let me explain:  I am crazy.  I have problems.  And have I mentioned that I'm crazy?

In general, I just hate these sorts of forced functions.  I got one email (among dozens regarding this reunion because I made the mistake of accepting the invitation to join Reunion Facebook group) last week about a networking event on Friday and the phrase "break out your business cards" was actually used.  I almost threw up reading that - do I need to explain, or have I sufficiently covered my hatred of networking in over the past two years of blogging? 

Because I still live in the same city as my alma mater, I've gone to Homecoming events every year.  It was never great, but never that bad.  The Young Alumni tent is an overpriced frat party, but it can be entertaining if you're drunk enough.  The homecoming lacrosse game is still a boring lacrosse game, but it can be entertaining if you're drunk enough.   

I've never panicked the way I did this year because there was always the possibility of just ignoring homecoming altogether.  If there were people I cared about coming back, I'd show up at a few events, pay my $20, collect my commemorative beer mug, and catch up with people.  But this year was The! Big! 5! Year! Reunion!  It was going to be So! Much! Fun!

For most people in our class, this was the first reunion they'd attended.  And I can see the excitement in that.  But this is my FIFTH.  And quite honestly, I'm over these reunions.  I feel like I need a disclaimer here, because I didn't hate college.  I LOVED college.  I had a minor life crisis when college came to and end and my life as I knew it ended with it.   Twenty-two was a not a good year for me.   I spent the majority of it feeling simultaneously lonely and overwhelmed as I struggled to adjust to working full time, cohabitating with Joel, and just becoming an adult.  I wished a million times that I could turn back the clock and just go back to school, where everything had a purpose and I knew what  my role in the world was.... even though I spent quite a lot of time senior year stressing out about tests and papers and thinking about how easy everything would be once I just graduated and started working, because then I'd have money and my weekends would be free from endless studying and staying up all night bullshitting papers.   Grass: greener, etc.

But then Joel and I bought a house, moved out of our craptastic apartment, got some cats.  I got a new job that sucked significantly less than my old one and paid significantly more.   At some point, I stopped feeling like a college student masquerading as an adult.  I moved on, for lack of a better phrase.  And I'm happy.  Though I may complain about trivial (and at times, not-so-trivial) things here, I am so content with my life it's ridiculous.  I love where we live, I love my friends, I love my family, I love my fiance.  I  love my three adorable cats.  This is the life I want. 

And yet, when I find myself forced to make small talk with people I don't know well, I inevitably feel a crushing sense of inadequacy.  I feel like a loser because discussing careers and networking opportunities makes me want to throw up.  I feel like I suck because I don't have a fancy job title or a posh city loft or crazy stories about my wild nightlife.  I feel kind of boring.  I don't WANT one of those fancy jobs, I don't want to be a single girl partying hard in NYC, I don't want to be in law/med/business school.  But I do feel bad for NOT wanting those things.  Sometimes I feel like I used my reserve of overachiever, reach-for-the-stars gasoline during high school and college, and now I'm just a slacker.  Honestly, that is probably a good thing.  The level of perfection that I used to demand from myself in every area of my life was unsustainable and I am so much happier and healthier now that I have let all (most) of that go.  But I still feel guilty about it.  If that makes no sense at all to you, that's because you're sane. 

In a nutshell, that's why I was dreading this reunion.  I felt like I was supposed to be SO! EXCITED!, when I really just wished I could hole up in my house and ignore the whole thing.  But I couldn't do that, because that would be antisocial.  And so  my friends and I decided that we had an obligation to attend at least one official reunion event.  We decided on the lacrosse tailgate because 1. It was cheap, and 2. It was not the frat party Young Alumni Tent.   I was OK with this decision until we were sitting in a coffee shop across from the lacrosse field half an hour before the tailgate was scheduled to begin, and all of a sudden I started having a panic attack. Why are we going to this?, I asked my friend Sarah.  What the hell were we thinking?  Do you want to just cut our losses and run? I seriously would have PAID the $15 ticket price just to not have to go to that event.

What is my problem?  Well, let me try to explain the totally irrational roots of my social anxiety reunion disorder: 

1. I have totally sucked at keeping in touch with people from college who aren't either A) Joel B) My friend Liz , who doesn't really count as a "college" friend because before we were college friends, we were high school friends, C) From my track/XC team.  Over the past few weeks, I've spent a lot of time thinking about why and how this managed to happen, and I think it's partly because I overscheduled myself SO much during college that I missed out on a lot of just hanging out time, and partly because I hate talking on the phone so much, and partly because I just suck.  Remember my New Year's Resolution to keep in better touch with my friends?   I made that resolution because I KNOW I suck at this and I want to get better.

I was afraid I'd come back and see how everyone is still BFF with all their college friends except for me, and then I'd feel like a giant loser.

2.  I really hate making small talk/bullshitting about "what I'm doing now".   I feel like I have nothing to report on my life.  Still living in Baltimore, still working at a job, same old same old same old.

3. Sure, I have the big engagement news, but the next logical question is "so, when's the wedding?" and I'm not positive on this one, but I don't think that durrrrrr? is a socially appropriate response.

4. Did I mention that Joel was out of town all weekend?  I usually have no problem being on my own while he's coaching or traveling for work, but at these kind of extremely stressful social events it would be really, really nice to have him to lean on, instead of calling him from a bathroom stall and begging him to come home right now PLLLLEEEASE.   

5.  We found out last week that Max has cancer, and that is not related to any of this at all except for that it isn't exactly making my mood any better, you know?

So those are all the reasons that I am crazy.  Now for the good news: this weekend was not nearly as bad as I was expecting it to be.  Actually, it was kind of awesome.   After having a joint anxiety attack, Sarah and I agreed that we would go to the tailgate for half an hour fifteen  minutes seven minutes.  We'd grab some snacks to get our $15 worth, and then we would book out of there and we would be able to say that we went to the stupid reunion.  Our two friends who abandoned us "forgot to register" agreed that they'd go for a walk around campus and that if we hadn't re-emerged within fifteen minutes, they'd call us so that we could pretend there was some emergency and extricate ourselves.  And just as we were about to get up and go in, I spilled coffee all over myself.  Oh, yes.  I did.  I am THAT awesome.

We purposely went at the very beginning of the tailgate to avoid the crowd, and it was beyond awkward.  There was ONE other person there, and she was weird.  She chatted us up.  It was bad.  And we still had five of our seven minutes to go.

And then something amazing happened.  Other people showed up.   People that I love and haven't talked to in years.  People who are now married to other awesome people, people that I actually wanted to talk to.  People whose numbers I obtained so that we could meet up later and hang out.   People who just laughed and helped me and Sarah exit gracefully when the tent actually started to fill up with ex-sorority sisters and a dude who actually refers to himself as HK03 (Homecoming King) (I'm not joking) and the whole thing started to go downhill very, very quickly. We lasted thirty-three minutes in an Official Reunion Event, and it was actually sort of fun! 

And then we went to Holy Frijoles, which now has a liquor license.  I pounded a pomegranate margarita and ate every bite of my burrito and everything was alright.  Because sometimes alcohol really DOES make things better.

The rest of the weekend was actually wonderful - I got to see my friends, my cats didn't cause anyone to go into an allergic fit (although they came close), people actually called me and came over to my house and we all hung out and it was so lovely.  Best of all, since I didn't know that that People I Haven't Seen in Five Years would be coming to my house, I didn't even have time to freak out and obsessively clean beforehand.  (But things were still generally in a VERY clean state, thanks to my mom's visit a few weeks ago, don't worry).  We spent time watching TV in our pajamas, I stayed up until 2am catching up with people I truly love, laughing so hard that my abs hurt on Sunday. 

Sunday was a laid back day, filled with a long lunch, and a lot of chilling out.   I didn't even have to call Joel once to beg him to come home early from his race. 

Even though the weekend as a whole turned out extremely well, I've never been so happy to return to normalcy.  Joel came home soon after my last friend departed, and we quickly settled into our normal Sunday night routine of making dinner, watching TV and getting ready for the week ahead.  God, I never knew normal could feel so good.

Everything you wanted to know about photography but were too lazy to learn

Have you ever found yourself frustrated when you upload a set of vacation pictures because all the outdoor picture are washed out and all the indoor picture are yellow?   Have you ever wished that you were better able to take advantage of your camera's settings, but found all the terminology in the manual confusing?  If so, today is your lucky day, because I have just completed a month-long Photography for Dummies (not the actual title) course!  And now that I have wasted spent the past four Monday evenings suffering through two-and-a-half hour classes learning how to skillfully operate my own camera, I am going to share my newfound knowledge with the internets!  Grab a pen and paper and get ready to take notes.

The first thing you need to learn is the basic photography terms, such as F-stop, aperture, White Balance and  ISO.  You don't need to actually  know what they mean, but be prepared to nod like you know what's going on when your instructor throws them around in class.  You should definitely avoid asking if aperture and F-stop are the same thing during the third class session so that the teacher doesn't think you are stupid (even if the answer is YES THEY ARE THE SAME THING!)  F-stops have numbers like F2.8 and F11 and those numbers mean something, but that's not important.  All you need to remember about F-stops is the following phrase: "small number, big opening!"  Even though handout says right there that a small F-stop corresponds to a shallow depth of field, it's important to remember "small number, big opening" because that's counterintuitive and that means it makes you sound smart.   It will also be the answer to every question the instructor asks, so don't forget: SMALL NUMBER, BIG OPENING.  Got it so far?

Next up: ISO.  ISOs have numbers like 200, 400, 800.  My camera goes up to 1000, which is apparently pretty good, especially since Joel bought our camera from a his credit card RewardPoints catalog.  A higher ISO setting enables you to take pictures in dark places.  I remember this because there was a cute boy in the class and he is a freelance food writer and he has to take his own photographs of the food he writes about. Often these restaurants have low lighting, and he asked the instructor how he could get the pictures to come out better, and she said he should use a higher ISO.  I asked the teacher why I shouldn't just leave my camera on 1000 all the time if that's so totally awesome, and she gave me a look sort of like my dad gave me when I asked him why I couldn't just hold the clutch down all the time in my new manual transmission car.  So, you know, don't do that.  I think.

(Oops, I just remembered that I was supposed to ask Cute Boy the name of the bar he works at in Federal Hill when he's not busy freelance writing so that I could set him up with my friend Liz.  Sorry, Liz!  I forgot because I was too busy going home early to watch Girlicious paying attention in class.)

ISO also stands for something, but don't worry about that.

So now we know all about F-stop and ISO.  The next thing you need to know about is White Balance.  White Balance has something to do with light, and by adjusting it you can take a perfectly nice picture like this:

and make it look like this:

When you look at the pictures on your computer, you should note which settings you used for the good pictures so that you can remember to use those settings again in similar circumstances.  This is called "using metadata".  In order to use metadata, you need to have some sort of photo editing program, such as Photoshop Elements.  Or, if you're too stupid to figure out how to download an illegal copy of Photoshop Elements using your without having your stolen wireless internet crap out on you cheap to pony up $99 for Photoshop Elements, you can just keep using MS Paint.  In that case, you might want to try writing down all the settings you used on each picture on an index card for reference later. Just don't accidentally throw the index card out with your empty Starbuck's cup.  Also, make sure you turn off the camera while you're carefully noting down all the "metadata" so that your battery doesn't run out an hour into the two-and-a-half hour field practice. 

Now, you may have noticed that all the good photographers like to make the backgrounds of their photos blurry.  This is called "making the background blurry" and it serves to keep the background from "competing" with the subject.  To make the background blurry, you need to use a small F-stop, which gives you a shallow depth of field.  And don't forget: small number, big opening, because to be a good photographer you need to be able to confuse people.  Of course, this is all assuming that you did not purchase your camera using credit card RewardPoints and thus YOUR CAMERA ALLOWS YOU TO ADJUST F-STOPS.  In that case, your camera probably also has a portrait setting, and why don't you just brag some more, asshole?

So the lesson here is: if you want to make your pictures look all artistic and professional with blurred out backgrounds and everything, you should probably do some research before you buy your camera.  And maybe you should not limit your choices to those available in your credit cards RewardsPoints catalog.

BUT!  If you are already screwed the proud owner of a camera that will not allow to adjust your F-stop, all is not lost!  You can still take artistic portraits, just like all the fancy photographers.  The secret is to change your settings to Black and White.   Witness:

Boring picture of my some crazy lady's cat:

This picture is bad because someone's finger was covering the bottom corner of the lens  the flash is set too high   it's a picture of a cat  it's in color.  Fortunately, this problem is easy to correct once you've taken a class on photography.  You simply move your finger off of the lens  turn the flash setting down  find something more interesting than a cat to photograph   go to bed already change your camera's setting from "Normal" to "Black and White".   Viola!

(This picture is my new desktop wallpaper.  It replaced a picture of Max in his Santa suit)

You are now a professional photographer.  But don't just go to bed because it's after midnight for the love of god, stop there!  Don't limit yourself!

For instance, you can try some action shots.  Here I've caught a my cat subject as he's eagerly awaiting the toss of his beloved toy prey.

See how interesting that is?   You're really starting to catch on now.

Below we have an example of a common problem with action shots: the shot has come out blurry because my cat the subject is whacking around that poor Aflac duck that Joel picked up at his last benefits fair devouring his prey.

To correct this, you need to use the stop-motion setting on your camera.  This is feature is often noted by a sports icon and increases the shutter speed.  Alternatively, you can increase the shot's ISO, which lets more light into the lens.   ISO and F-stop balance each other, so you can adjust either one to create the desired stop-motion effect.   And shutter speed relates to one of them.   Since my camera has an extremely poor setup lacks the ability to adjust f-stop, instead I increased the ISO by setting my camera to the little golf icon stop-motion setting. 

As you can see, the motion is perfectly frozen.

But don't stop there!  Get out and find a variety of subjects to practice on!  For instance, here is another one of my many cats subject I encountered in the wild:

See that glint in his eye?  That's really good, according to my instructor (who has actually taken pictures of real wild animals, and her pictures have been in National Geographic and OMG SOME OF THEM HAD PONIES IN THEM).  I accomplished this by accident getting down on the floor.  It's a really good idea to get on the same level as your cat subject.  Especially if you've just vacuumed really well because your mother was coming to visit.

While I was lying on the floor in my hallway at midnight-thirty down on my subject's level I was fortunate enough to catch another cat wild subject passing by on his way to drink out of the toilet the local watering hole.   In instances like this, you should do anything necessary to get a blurry great shot even if it means losing your slipper and jamming your elbow against the wall because you never know when the opportunity will come around again. 

Take as many shots as you can to ensure that you get at least one that's not blurry exactly what you want.  You can always use MS Paint photo editing software to black out touch up any slippers rough spots when you're back at home.

If you're limited to using a the same cat subject for all your shots, you can always experiment with different angles:

(I wanted to make this on my desktop wallpaper, but I was afraid people would think I'm weird or something)

But always put safety first.  Never antagonize a wild animal in order to get a shot. 

If the unthinkable happens and you find that your cat demands to be petted and won't sit still any longer yourself being charged by a wild animal, throw a toy mouse down the stairs create a distraction and immediately go to bed and shut the bedroom door retreat to safety.

Now that you've got the basics principles of photography down, get out there and PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE.  And if all else fails, don't forget: small number, big opening!

Checking in

Hi, internet.  What's up?  Oh, me?   No, I'm fine!  No, not really that busy.  It's just a bit of blogger's block.  No, nothing serious, I'm sure.  Yeah, I'll go to my doctor if it gets any worse.   Maybe I'll call in sick tomorrow if I'm not feeling better by then.  Don't want to pass this think around to the whole office, ya know?

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So, my week of "baching it" flew by uneventfully.  I successfully became a vegetarian for the week, if you don't count the lasagna leftovers I ate for two lunches.  Fine, and two dinners.  But otherwise I would have had to throw it away, and how is throwing perfectly good (delicious, meaty) lasagna in the trash saving any cows?  Exactly.  So I'm saying I was vegetarian for the week and I'm proud of myself.  It was actually easier than I thought, and that's probably because I had Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner several times.  And also for breakfast.  And pop tarts for lunch.  Being vegetarian doesn't mean being healthy, who knew?

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Joel came home from his annual Spring Break coaching trip with a nasty cough/bronchitis/Asian bird flu.   I am pretty sure I got myself put on some sort of watch list when I bought every cold and cough medicine the pharmacy had on its shelves.  Dude, I'm not a meth dealer.  But I'll take any spare percocets you guys have lying around.  Hey, just offering.  Waste not, want not and all that jazz.

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As much as Joel's bronchitis/Asian bird flu sucks (a lot) (for him), at least that's all he brought home.  YES, WAY.   SAME CAMP JOEL WAS AT. Needless to say, I've spent the past three days asking Joel if he could check his bags for snakes just one more time.  And what about under the bed?  And in the closet?  Under the sink?  Under the couch?   Oh, AND THEN THERE'S THIS.  Hey, did I ever tell you guys about the boa constrictor that we found living in the dropped ceiling of Joel's old house?  Man, that was a riot.  FUCKING SNAKES.

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In other news, Max went to the vet last night (looong boring story involving calcium levels, but they threw out the big C, and who's NOT going to take their beloved fatty in for the test when they throw "IT COULD BE CANCER" at you?  Not me, that's who) and when they printed out the receipt for me it had a little picture of Max's face in the top corner.   That made paying $179 for a cancer test much more bearable, for some reason. 

Max would like me to note that he does not agree.  NO MOARZ NEEDLZ PLS KTHXBAI.

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We went for a walk last night, and it was downright idyllic.  We were thoroughly enjoying the springtime weather and the lingering daylight until Joel suggested that we walk around the boat/duck pond in the park and came upon quite a ruckus.  A big white duck was trying to drown a smaller mallard duck.  I know what you're probably thinking: he wasn't trying to drown her, stupid.  That's what we call mommy and daddy duck's special time.  Well, that's what I thought too.  At first.  But the more we watched (oh, shut up, you would have watched too), the more suer we became that he was not uh, "loving" her, but in fact drowning her.  Horrified, I turned to find a rock to throw at him and I almost picked up a dead, squished rat.   Ah, Baltimore.   

I found a stick to throw (missed by a mile), and some neighborhood hooligans arrived and managed to actually hit the white duck with their projectiles, giving the female mallard a chance to run off.  As funny as it was watching a duck try to run, for the rest of the night I couldn't stop wondering why that one duck was trying to drown that other duck. 

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Will you guys still be my friends if I admit that I've been watching The Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious?  And that I sort of love it, but not as much as I loved The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll?  There is too much Robin Antin and not enough of Mike the choreography dude yelling at people in this season.  But still... love.  It's like America's Next Top Model but WITH CHOREOGRAPHED DANCING.

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And... that's all I got.  Time to go check for snakes under my desk.  Again. 

Rats of the sky

Until Heidi mentioned it a few days ago, I'd never heard the term rooster-cat, but BOY DID I KNOW WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE.   Unfortunately, I can't follow Heidi's lead and shut the window on the damned thing because our neighborhood rooster-cat LIVES WITH US.   He sleeps in our bed and he's cute and cuddly and adorable most of the time.  Except for when he sees a pigeon, then he morphs into hunter-cat and becomes more than a little bit psychotic.  Henry, he HATES pigeons.   HAAAAATES THEM.  He expresses his deep-seated hatred for all of pigeonkind by howling a strange, awful crow-meow at them and trying to jump through the window when they make their early-morning flybys. 

Henry talks a big game.  You should hear the names he calls those pigeons, and all the things he says he's going to do to them.  He's going to kill them, maim them, eat their babies and make sure there's not a pigeon left alive to tell the tale, that's what he's going to do.

At least, that's what he said until a big, scary pigeon had the audacity to land on our very own window ledge. 

Pigeon watching from Pink Herring on Vimeo.

Most boring video ever, or thrilling documentary one brave pigeon who wouldn't back down?  You make the call.

Just one more wedding-related post. Then I'll find something else to talk about.

Soooo... hi.

I have returned from a long weekend in New Jersey.  I had to attend a work function on Thursday and Friday in a town that just happens to be approximately 20 minutes from my mom's house, so I'd planned to go home and visit for the weekend before You Know What took over our lives.  And then You Know What happened, so the weekend sort of morped into an informal celebration weekend instead.

I really have been trying to think about something non-engagement/wedding related to write about, but... hrmm. 

Max has a vet appointment tonight.  It's sure to be thrilling.   I'm not sure where my car is and it's likely to be in the single digits temperature-wise by 7pm, so that should make things interesting.

Oh, and we switched back to an enviroment-killing strip mined cat litter for one litter box becaue Henry likes killing the planet.  I almost forgot about that particular peice of excitement!  Who doesn't love a good story about (more) cat piss on the carpets?

BACK TO THE WEDDING STUFF.

We had a very small, semi-engagement party on Saturday night.  It was lovely.  My mom made dinner for our family and a few close family friends and Joel and I answered every wedding-related question with "Durr.. I don't know".  And then we all fought about religion and we found out that my Dad is Lutheran.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.   It just seems like I should have... known that?   Or something?

Welcome to the family, sweetheart.   We like to live by the "learn something new every day" rule.  Apparently I'm half-Lutheran.  Hope that's cool.

Oh, and also:  I have officially now shopped for wedding dresses. 

My mom and I were going to go hiking on Saturday, but when I woke up at the early hour of 11am it was sleeting and knowing my mom, she probably still secretly wanted to go hiking but she managed to scale it back for me.  What should we do instead, we wondered?   Simultaneously my mom mentioned that she would be happy to go dress shopping with me "some time".

I called her bluff and said "Well, how about right now?"

And so we went dress shopping, and even my mall-aphobic mom had fun.   I found a few dresses I liked, got an idea of what styles look better than others on me, and all in all, fed the wedding fever.  We survived the fancy-pants Short Hills Mall without getting any dirty looks (we did dress up for the trip, it shoud be noted) from the Fancy Peoples.

This concludes this installment of OMG YOU'VE ONLY BEEN ENGAGED FOR THREE WEEKS WEDDING TALK, coming to you live from the all-wedding, all-the time (even though we are still miles away from setting a date) channel.  Tune in next week when I tell you about how I bought two bridal magazines and am now terrified of becoming a "wedding identity theif"!

Or I could take a video documentary of Max's vet visit, if you'd prefer.   Ha, just kidding.  I would never do something as boring as that. 

Phantom cat odor, keys, and pickup lines

When we arrived home on Monday night, I was braced to be hit in the face by a wall of Phantom Cat Odor when we opened the front door.  Every once in awhile I'll catch a whiff of PCO in the front room, undoubtedly from the period of time last year that I like to call Hell On Earth, when Henry was peeing on EVERYTHING with no explanation.  I've treated spots he peed on with hundreds of dollars worth of Resolve, Nature's Miracle, Arm and Hammer Pet Odor Treatment, regular old Arm and Hammer sprinkled (dumped) liberally all over the carpet, Special Enzyme Cleaners Ordered from the Interwebs, and basically tried everything known to mankind to get rid of the smell, and STILL. Still we smell it sometimes.  I even ordered a black light to find hidden pee-spots (which was a total waste of money) and soaked pretty much the entire carpet in gallons of enzyme cleaner and STILL.  I smell it, sometimes.  And that's the problem: I only smell it sometimes.  Which I take to mean that most of the time, I've become so acclimated to PCO that I don't even notice it.  When we returned from Lake Tahoe this summer after being away for over a week, we were bowled over by the stench upon returning home.  Oh my God, we realized, This is what our house smells like to normal people.  And that is why you'll find me burning seventeen different strategically placed scented candles whenever someone is coming over.

Before this turns into an entire entry about cat pee (which I'm sure would be thrilling, but I've got more important things to tell you about) my point is: when we came home from Barcelona on Monday night I did not notice any tangible cat odor upon walking through the door.  Success at last!   Nor did I find any passive-aggressive pee spots anywhere in the house.  Nope, all we came home to was an excessive amount of cat litter tracked through the Poop Room and one pile of barf.  Not bad, not bad at all!

But that would just have been too easy.  There is always a price to pay for going away and having a fabulous time, and for this trip that price was hopping into Joel's truck on Tuesday morning to find the battery had mysteriously died while we were away.  We abandoned ship truck and Joel and I switched keys so he could borrow my car for the day.   When I went to the grocery store that evening I took my spare set of keys, rather than be bothered with walking all the way upstairs to get my primary set back from Joel.  When I got home, I remembered that I hadn't been able to get into my office that morning because my office keys are on my primary key set, so we switched back. I gave him his keys, and I took back my keys. But the spare keys remained in my purse, and so when I kissed Joel goodbye on Wednesday morning and told him, "Sure!  Borrow my car again!  Of course, darling!", I waltzed out the door with both sets of keys to said car. 

This is what Joel has to look forward to FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE. 

But whatever, it was a good excuse for me to meet Joel downtown for lunch to deliver my spare keys. 

I borrowed my coworker's metro pass and rode it one stop, which left me a few blocks from Joel's office.  As I was getting off the train, the guy behind me mumbled something.  I ignored him, which I believe is standard protocol for such situations.  He caught up to me on the escalator and mumbled again, slightly louder, "So, just getting off for lunch?", which I'm sure you'll all agree is the most original pickup line EVER.  I told him "yes" and tried my best to walk away, but he was having none of it.  He walked with me for three blocks, chatting me up with conversation about his business, how important he is, blah blah blah, but since he was just full of himself and not a total dangerous-looking psycho, I figured there was no harm in it.  He was asking me about my job, and then it turned out that we went to the same college, and then he told me he was looking for someone just like me to come work at his big important company.   I realized exactly how lame this line was at the time, but I figured what the hell -- maybe he really does want to give me a fabulous job and pay me lots of money to work from home in  my pajamas.  So I gave him my card.  (After he asked for it, I didn't just throw it at him and tell him to call me, anytime, day or night.)

What should really shock you about that statement is not that I gave my card to a total stranger who tried to pick me up on the shady Baltimore metro, but that I actually had a business card with me.  The only reason I did was because I had re-organized my massive wallet the night before to remove all the Euro coinage that was weighing me down.  God, I'm so professional.  Except for the fact that I'm pretty sure I gave him my outdated card with my old position title.  Whatever.

And then he asked if I'd like to have lunch with him at Panera Bread, and I told him that I was sorry, but I couldn't because I was meeting my fiance for lunch.   It was the first time I've said that lovely French word in a real conversation (as opposed to the many conversations I have with myself in my head and the conversations that I have with the cats when I get home at night, who's my schmoopy kitten-head?  You are!  Yooou are!)

Then I got to tell my fiance that we couldn't go to Panera like he wanted to because I'd just given my card to a random stranger in there. 

So we went to Chipotle instead.

And thus ends the most discombobulated entry in history.  I had my usual, a vegetarian burrito with both kinds of beans and corn salsa, in case you were wondering.  And yes, I do know that the pinto beans have pork in them and I don't care because I'm not really a vegetarian.

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PS - Thank you all so so very much for breaking this site's comment record with your congratulations.  In return, I promise not to become an Interweb Bridezilla.   And I will write The Proposal Story, but be forewarned that it might induce gagging and diabetic comas because it is just that sweet.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

PPS - OMG WE'RE GETTING MARRRRRRIED!!!!

PPPS - I promise, that's the last time I'll do that.

PPPPS, Confidential to Ruthie: Dude, you have to leave an email address when you comment so I can reply!  Yes, I heard, and CONGRATS to you too! 

 

This Bag is Not A Toy

I have developed a disturbing obsession with Ewan McGregor.   Over the long Christmas and New Year's weekends the stars aligned to bring Ewan back into my life.  First, Joel's parents sent me an Amazon gift card, which I managed to spend within an hour of opening the envelope.  I'd been itching to order some new music; I even added a few CDs to my Amazon wishlist while I was compulsively searching for the Barenaked Ladies/Sarah McLaughlin version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.  I know, I know, normal people are downloading music and listening to their itunes playlists on their microscopically sized MP3 players... normal people also do not have dial up internet.  At the rate we're going, I'll be driving a flying car before I break down and get an iPod. 

Anyway, I'd been doing a lot of thinking about CDs, so the minute the gift card hit my hands I'd added both discs of the Moulin Rouge soundtrack to my car.  I love this movie dearly, and somehow I managed to lose both the DVD and the soundtrack during one of my many college moves.  The second disc, which I bought from an illegal street vendor in Spain, mysteriously stopped working (imagine that!).   Waiting for regular speed shipping to reunite me with these two old friends was torture, and the minute they arrived I had them in the computer, blasting "Your Song" at full volume.  I defy any of you to name a song that is more romantic than an Elton John classic sung by a hot Scottsman.  I'm listening to it (on repeat) right now.  It makes me tear up EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.  Sigh.  I'm not joking even a little bit when I say that I want this to be the song I dance to at my wedding.   Don't worry, I'm sure Ewan will be able to sing to me and dance in his kilt at the same time.  And maybe we'll even invite Sir Elton!  He can play the piano and sing backup.

The same weekend that the CDs arrived, we also got The Island from Netflix.  I knew that this got terrible reviews, and that's why I love Netflix.  Sure, it bumped off a "better" movie to make it to our house, but I don't feel that I've wasted money when I add a totally ridiculous film to the queue.  Or every single episode of The Office.  Who cares that I'll probably get around to watching it in 2037 since it's currently ranked #189 in the queue?  If the writer's strike continues much longer, we just may make it through the entire list sometime this decade.  Anyway, The Island lived up to the reviews: it was painful.  Three days later Joel and I were still thinking about how awful it was. Why were they even serving bacon in that cafeteria?  How exactly did they explain Pregnant Lady's impending baby? If Clone Ewan instinctively knew how to drive a flying motorcycle, wouldn't he also have known that red means stop? But the awfulness of the movie did not matter one bit, nor did Clone Ewan's horrific American accent, because Evil Ewan SPOKE WITH THE SCOTTISH ACCENT.  FOR, LIKE, TEN WHOLE MINUTES.   God, it was fabulous.

Now, weeks later, I still can't get enough of "Your Song".  I know that Ewan was roomates with Jude Law in acting school, and that he is married with two kids.   And I just found myself wondering if there was some sort of podcast I could subscribe to where Ewan would just talk.  He could talk about how he loves to litter and pollute the oceans, how he takes baths in gasoline and burns down the rainforest, kicks puppies for fun.  Hell, he could drone on about how great mornings are, I WOULD STILL LISTEN.   

Ahem.  In other news, I fear that the "Child" Endangerment Division of Animal Control may soon be knocking on our door to request a home safety inspection.  Just two days after the incident with accidentally ingesting mind-altering drugs, Joel and I came home from his office holiday party to find the house trashed.  The curtains had been pulled off the front window, his bike had been knocked over, and there were plastic bags scattered all over the house.  After confirming that the burglar alarm was set and functioning properly, we speculated that the cats must have had a wild night of their own while we were out. 

And then I found this:

moar funny pictures

Luckily, my Eagle Scout boyfriend had a pocketknife handy and Henry was none the worse for wear after his losing battle with a plastic Safeway bag.

I really need to install a nannycam.

12 steps

I went home to check on Max (and Madison, who was still locked in the bathroom while Max remained intoxicated) during my lunch break today.  I'm proud to report that rehab/detox seems to be working -- it's not been an easy road, but I think that this big guy is almost back to normal.  He's still a little wobbly, and he's still battling to keep his eyes open, but I think he's going to make it through this.   

A day in rehab from Pink Herring on Vimeo.

I also tried to get a video of Henry wall-jumping while I had the camera out, but he refused to do it on film.  He was too busy doing God-knows-what in the bathtub.  He hangs out in there all the time.  I don't even want to know why anymore.  It's number 489 on the list of Strange Things Henry Does.   I cannot figure out how to rotate the video, so just tilt your head (or your computer screen) to the left if that sort of thing bothers you as much as it bothers me. 

(Please pardon the mess)

(Also, please ignore the many, many colors on the wall.  Decisions: who can make them?)

And the verdict is: PLUMB FUCKING CRAZY

So, the take-both-cats-to-the-vet-at-once idea?  BAD, BAD IDEA.   I don't know what the hell I was thinking -- oh wait, yes I do, I was thinking it would be nice to spend one evening wrangling felines into boxes and cars and exam tables instead of two.  In the future, please remind me that two nights of Chinese water torture would be more pleasurable than what went down last night (and continued right on through to this morning).

Getting Max and Madison into their carriers was a snap.  Madison loves to climb in boxes, so we just put his carrier on the ground, let him hop in, and then shut the door.   Done.  Max put up a half-hearted fight for about 5 seconds and then settled into his carrier as well.  So far, so good.  Joel asked me if I'd given Madison his tranquilizer, and I replied that I'd tried, but he wouldn't take it.  This is what happens every time I try to give Madison one of the lovely pink pills the vet gave us for him, he takes one sniff of the treat(s) I've hidden it in (this time I broke it into quarters so not even a hint of pink was showing), gives me the finger, and saunters off to scratch something.   Last night was no different.   Oh, well.  Such is life.  I tried.  Sigh.

Madison performed like the devil that he is at the vet; claws, hissing, spitting, and I swear to god, I heard him curse at us once or twice.  He didn't mind the rabies shot, but that brazen bitch of a doctor wanted to do things like LOOK IN HIS EARS  and SHINE A LIGHT IN HIS EYES and worst of all, TOUCH HIS BELLY.   Oh, hellz no.  He'd rather die, and he was determined to take us all to hell with him.  Joel likes to watch this seizure-inducing show called Naruto, in which the protagonist, a nine-year-old ninja warrior who wears an orange jumpsuit, relies on the Spirit of the Nine-Tailed Fox that lives inside of him to get him out of the life-threatening situations that seem to be an everyday occurrence  for a nine-yr-old Japanese kid living in a ninja village.  I forget how exactly the Nine-Tailed-Fox got inside him, possibly his mother had an affair with a Fox Spirit, it's all kind of fuzzy because the entire dialog of the show consists of a non-word expressions like "OH!" and "AH!" and "OOF!", and on top of that, I'm pretty sure that the title song (which is in Japanese, but with random English phrases like "Fighting dreamers (yeah!)" thrown in - the "yeah!" is actually in parentheses, and I know that because the entire song is subtitled) is implanted with evil subliminal messages about helping Naruto become the third hokage, BECAUSE HOW ELSE DO I KNOW ALL THIS STUFF?   (Because I desperately want the writers to take me on as a consultant so that I can explain to them difference between chakra and chi, which they use interchangeably on the show, that's why.  Take a freaking yoga class before you start putting cult-anime on TV, that's all I'm saying.)

ANYWAY, my point is that I think that Madison has the Spirit of The Nine-Fanged Cobra living inside of him, because for a lazy jerkface who spends all day sleeping on my memory foam pillow and can't even be bothered to try to run out the door when I come home anymore, his strike is almost faster than the eye can see.   He managed to somehow give me a puncture wound in my thigh (through my pants), although I have no idea when that happened, since I was cowering against the wall during his entire exam, and he also managed to give the vet a nasty scratch WITH HIS HIND LEG.   Even when he was securely back in his box, he was still striking at us from inside, shaking the entire carrier as if it contained a gremlin that had been fed after midnight and then exposed to water.

All this served to scare the living hell out of Max, who never enjoys vet visits but usually behaves himself quite well.  This time he hissed, growled and even swatted (claws in) at the vet.  He's never swatted a person before.  He endured the teeth-checking and the shot and the belly touching (while I'm pacing around, mumbling "stop growling, Max, you LOVE belly rubs!  Please please please stop growling", and Joel is hissing at me to "breathe, you're making Max nervous!  Relax!").   And then... well, then they wanted to take him in the back for bloodwork, since Max is officially a geriatric cat now, and I said OK and then we listened to Max scream bloody murder for the next ten minutes.  I almost cried.  I was shaking.  I felt like the most terrible, horrible cat parent in the world for not bursting back there and saving him.  When he came out, the vet was very apologetic, swearing up and down that they didn't do anything to hurt him at all... he just freaked out when they tried to pick him up and put him on the exam table.  "My Big Boy hates to be picked up, and I didn't tell them that," I thought to myself.  I was feeling like a pretty terrible person, damned because I tried to do the right thing for my cat's health.   All of your parents of real children out there:HOW THE HELL DO YOU IT? 

We got home and, thank the gods in heaven and the spirits of the nine-tailed foxes everywhere, Max and Madison both immediately morphed back to their normal selves.  We made some dinner, watched half of Alexander (Joel, of course, ordered the "director's cut", which I'd like to announce features a completely unnecessary shot of Colin Farrell's balls -- shield your eyes if you rent it, I sure wish I had), chugged back a large glass of wine and went to bed by 11pm.

The story isn't over.

At about 3:15am, we were both awakened by a cat-scuffle, accompanied by Henry's signature INTRUDER ALERT INTRUDER ALERT howl.  This is the scream he saves for sightings of other cats through the window (which he vigilantly patrols) and Santa Max.  The Santa suit completely confounds Henry, and you may have noticed that the door is very much CLOSED in this picture -- that served two purposes: keeping Max from trotting under the bed to sulk, and keeping Henry from attacking RED INTRUDER CAT, his mortal enemy.   The INTRUDER CAT that Henry was tracking last night was just Max -- no Santa suit, no New Year's Eve hat.  Just Max.  I got out of bed to break up the scuffle and noticed that Max seemed particularly ruffled by this affront.  "I know, it's been a long day", I told him, as I gave Madison a (gentle) kick and stuffed Henry back under the covers with me.  "Leave him alone, guys" I instructed. 

Five minutes later, Madison had Max cowering in the corner again, and I could have sworn that I saw Max stumble as he backed away from Asshole Madison.  Madison got another gentle kick as I shooed him out the door and down the stairs.  I decided to stay awake for a little while to make sure he didn't come back.  Madison may be a lazybones, but he's persistent when douchebaggery is involved.  Sure enough, he slinked back in to harass Max a few minutes later.  Fed up, I shut him in the downstairs bathroom and came back to bed... where I saw Max fall over as he was trying to lie down.   Joel sleepily asked what was wrong, and I told him I didn't know, but that Max was acting really strange.  "I think he might be sick," I said, "I'm going to read for awhile to make sure he's OK". 

I finally went back to sleep around 5:30, and when I woke up at 7:15 for work the first thing I did was check on Max.  He still looked... off.  He was walking and purring, but his gait was off and he visibly tripped over his own feet twice.   When I leaned in to give him some face scritches, he purred and purred, which I took as a good sign.   But his eyes... were they crossed?  And dude, why are his inner eyelids creeping up like he can't stay awake? 

Did you figure this out yet?  Because it took me this long to realize that when we got home from the vet, my food-loving fat boy gobbled up those roofied treats that Madison rejected earlier in the night.   He is still stoned out of his mind a full twelve hours later, but he seems to be happy.    It would be funny if I hadn't been so worried, if I hadn't been awake half the night watching him stumble around and wondering if they hadn't clubbed him in the head while trying to get that damned blood sample, and if I didn't feel like the world's worst pet owner for leaving those tranq-ed up treats lying on the floor. 

In other news, Max weighed in at a new high last night: 16.4 pounds.   I know I've referred to him as a sixteen-pound cat before, but that was sort of an exaggeration.  Up to this point, the highest he's ever clocked in is 15.6lbs and to be honest, I sort of thought he was slimming down.   

It's just more of him to love.   

The good, the bad, and the ugly: Monday edition

The Good:  The vet called on Saturday.  I am the proud owner of three parasite-free cats. 

The Bad: Someone has started peeing on the rug in the litterbox room.  I can't be sure since I have yet to catch the offender in the act, but I think it's Max.   In that case, I take back all the nice things I said about being so proud of him and all that bullshit.  WTF, Maxwell?  No, really, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?

Also, Max and Madison are also both due for their 3-year rabies shots, and I've decided to take them in together.  Time-saver, or official proof that I have gone plum crazy, because OMGWTF ARE YOU THINKING WOMAN?  Only time will tell!  Stay tuned!  And in the meantime, I promise, no more crazy cat lady talk!

The Ugly:  I have somehow managed to sweat through my light, button-down shirt.  It's not even noon.  I only wore a light coat that was completely appropriate for the springtime weather this morning, and I wasn't all red-faced when I got to work.  I'm not a big sweater.  I put on deodorant this morning.  And yet, there they are: two big pit stains (luckily, not overtly visible because this shirt I'm wearing is a light color).   

I think I have my special expensive deodorant to blame for this, but I'm not really sure what to do.  And this is where you come in, interweb peoples, because I need help.  Serious help.  You cannot imagine how much stress I have over Deodorant Issues.

See, all my t-shirts that are even moderately fitted have black/brown pit stains on them.  I don't even buy white shirts any more. I am positive this is not sweat-related because the shirts I wear to the gym and to hot yoga classes have no such stains.  I was at the point of just giving up deodorant altogether last year when I complained about this annoying problem, OMG ALL MY SHIRTS HAVE PIT STAINS, WAHHHH, to my friend, KP, who admitted she had the exact same problem -- until she switched to the Adidas brand deodorant.  Adidas deodorant is aluminum-free, she explained, and it's the aluminum that causes the staining.   I rushed out to the store to buy a case or twelve of Adidas deodorant, and guess what?  Safeway doesn't carry it.  But they do carry Tom's of Maine deodorant, which for the $5-a-stick price tag is also aluminum-free.  It's also  all natural, organic, and cruelty free, which is all good and fine and great, but most importantly: NO ALUMINUM.

Since I've started using my hippie deodorant made from hops and rainbows and unicorn tears, I haven't noticed a single new pit stain.  Not even on the shirts I wear under sweaters, which tend to be tighter and of, ahem, a slightly lower quality than shirts I'd normally wear.  Hooray!  Except that I'm now sweating through my shirts in the middle of winter.  I fear what will happen when the Baltimore Summer rolls around.  I'll probably drown in a puddle of my own sweat before I made it halfway to work.  What am I to do?

Please tell me I'm not the only one who has this many issues with freaking deodorant. And then, tell me how to fix this.  Do you have strong feelings about deodorant?   A favorite?   A magical solution to my problems, preferably one that doesn't include showering more often?   I should mention that I have tried the Dove line, and while I love their "real beauty" ad campaign as much as the next girl, I hate their deodorant and you couldn't pay me to try it again.  (OK, yes you could, but you'd have to make it worth my while because that shit not only stained my shirts like nobody's business, it also STANK after a few hours of normal wear). 

I swear to God, just while I was typing this, I ACTUALLY SWEATED MORE.  My office temperature is normally set to "Polar Ice Cap" and I haven't moved from my chair in over an hour.   WHAT IS GOING ON?   Early menopause?  Global warming?  Severe Case of the Mondays?   I haven't a freaking clue, but I'm pretty sure this is all Max's fault.

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.   

 

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. 

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