Operation Pink Herring

Signs that you're not upholding your vow to eat healthier

Sign# 1257: Your plastic fork breaks under the weight of your ravioli and meat sauce. 

Luckily, I keep a real fork in my desk for just such emergencies.

Denial is sorely underappreciated

I have received so much advice and sympathy about Max's dental situation, ranging from "I've spent so much money on my cat and I totally understand your situation" to "You know, you could just stop going to the vet." I'll leave you to guess which family member recommended the latter (but here's a hint: it was the same person who propped me up and tried to feed me lunch after I fell head first onto fresh concrete as a baby), but thanks to everyone for weighing in their opinions.  I'm leaning towards a compromise and trying to find a vet who can do it for a more reasonable amount of money.  There's certainly something to the "ignorance is bliss" approach though, and I'm seriously considering that option as well.  After all, I turned out just fine. 

In other news, I'm feeling slightly better about all the crap I have to do, not because I've made any headway, but because both Supernatural and Smallville were FINALLY new episodes last night.  I feel that is a sign that the universe has smiled on me, and that everything will be OK.  As further evidence of my position of favor in the cosmos, it looks like there will be free lunch at work today (now I feel sort of guilty about taking all the leftover raviolis for lunch and leaving none for Joel).  Since the world seems to love me, I've decided to stop worrying about school and just BS both the huge papers I have due (still 6 weeks away) and stop worrying about them.  It was a liberating decision, and I honestly don't know why it took me so long to come to it.  I think I have been out of college for too long and was inadvertently sucked in by the warped grad-student mentality of all the middle-aged women in my program.  I slept through the night for the first time in ages last night. 

I think the Tylenol PM may have helped, just a little.

Does anyone have an extra $900 lying around?

I took Max to the vet on Monday night for a regular vaccination.  Personally, I don't really think he needs all his regular vaccinations, since he never goes outside.  (Madison -- now that's a different story.  Madison is an "indoor cat," which means I don't let him go outside because it's too dangerous in this big city world, but he still manages to run out the door with some regularity, like if I happen to be carrying in an armload of groceries, or if Joel takes the door off its hinges to paint it and doesn't bother to tell me, for example.  He usually just runs into the alley and cries until I come to rescue him, but, cat-God forbid, if I couldn't find him right away and lock him back in the safety of our rowhouse,  I wouldn't be surprised if Madison bought some coke off the dealer at the end of the block and then asked a rat that was foaming at the mouth if he could borrow his needle to shoot it up. Madison needs his vaccinations.  I just wish they could give him a shot for intelligence).  But Max, sweet big boy that he is, embodies the term "scardey cat" as fully as it could possibly be illustrated. Max is scared of "strangers" (people that are not me or Joel), animals he sees out the window, loud noises, not-so-loud noises, certain television shows, specific spots on the carpet, and most of all, the chimney.  He didn't come out from under the bed for almost a month when we first brought him home.  Max would rather starve to death in the comfort of his own home than go outside, bless his heart.    And that's just fine with me.  That's why I love him.

But, poor Max has problems (problems that I won't even go into, because I fully realize that no one cares but me).  These problems require him to be on a prescription food and several medications, and he's doing really, really well on them, so the last thing I want to do is take him off them.  However, the vet won't sell them to me unless he's up to date on all his shots.   So, last night I crammed my poor Big Boy into the cat carrier (which he is terrified of) and put him in the car (of which is is also, understandably, terrified).   But, the car wouldn't start, which will most likely be a topic for several future entries.  So we had to walk to the vet, which is only about 4 blocks away, but have I mentioned that Max's nickname is Big Boy?  He's a fatty.  And he moves around in the carrier, which makes him even heavier.  But, much to his dismay, four sweaty blocks later, we made it to the vet. 

I am indescribably proud of how well Max did at the vet.  Usually vet visits include howling, crying, and peeing in the carrier.  Horrible as this may sound, it's much better than taking Madison to the vet, because Max is such a sweetheart.  He would never scratch anyone, and I am sure that he pees out of fear, not retribution.  In contrast, the last time I took Madison to the vet, they had to take him "in the back" to get a blood sample from him.  When they returned him to me nearly 30 minutes later, they gave me a bottle of tranquilizer pills and kindly asked me to never bring him in again without sedating him first, thank you very much.  Yesterday Max held the crying to a minimum, even when they picked him up (which he's scared of) and poked and prodded him.  When a puppy (whose irresponsible owner did not have on a leash, despite the clearly posted leash policy) ran up to his carrier and jumped all over it, he refrained from peeing.  In fact, it was was a urine-free trip.  I love kitty antidepressants.

However, the vet didn't want to focus on what a trooper Max was.  Instead, he wanted to focus on how disgusting Max's teeth are.  I'm well aware that Max has some bad shit going on in there, because he has the worst breath I've ever had the misfortune of smelling.  It's so awful, that when he yawns, you can smell it across the room.  So the fact that Max's teeth aren't pristine comes as no surprise, but I don't feel that I fully deserve to be reprimanded for Max's lack of dental hygiene, because I did not adopt him until he was already 5 years old and had already developed his rotten teeth because his previous owner was a terrible, horrible person, the type of person who dumps a 5 year old cat at the SPCA because they "didn't have time for him".   For some strange reason, the vet didn't seem interestd in playing the blame game, he just wanted to focus on the "solution."  A solution that involves several abscessed teeth being surgically extracted from Max's poor little skull.  Under general anesthesia.  And painkillers and and antibiotics and bloodwork and x-rays.  $880 worth of them, to be exact. 

I looked in the mirror when I got home from the vet's office to find a fourth enormous zit had cropped up.  Excellent.  I guess that's one way to deal with things.

But aside from sprouting acne in response to my problems, I don't know what to do.  I can't bear the thought of my sweet scardey cat having rotting teeth in his mouth and doing nothing about it.  But I also can't let go of all the things I could do with $880.  Like buy a new computer, go on vacation, fund my IRA.  One part of me feels like a psychotic cat freak for even considering spending that much money on an animal (stop nodding your head, Mom).  And another part of me feels like a terrible person for not taking care of this two years ago when the vet first started nagging me about Max's teeth. 

Advice and donations are welcome.

Death by Stress

Once I took this Psych class called "Motivation".  It wasn't about how to motivate yourself or the Seven Habits of Highly Successful People -- it was about the physiological drives that underlie everything we do: eating, sleeping, and sex.   It was quite enlightening, really.  (The ironic thing about the class was that it was at 9am on Thursdays and Fridays, which was part of my brilliant plan to combat early senior-itis and become more productive by forcing myself to get out of bed before 11am, and therefore adding hours to my day.  For fourteen weeks, at 8:45am every Thursday and Friday, an epic battle took place between my urge to sleep and my neurotic nature.  Unlike most college students, I never missed a class for anything other than a track meet until I hit my final semester.  Even then, I think I only cut Intro to Sociology, like twice.  I am a neurotic, compulsive person, and so far it has served me well.  That is, until I had to get to class at 9am, and suddenly I felt flung back into those dreadful high school years, years of struggling to stay awake in classes and failing miserably.  I'm not lazy, people.  My internal clock just isn't set for this "early bird gets the worm" world.  It's tragic, really.  It's the source of nearly all the problems I have in life, and damnit, it's just not fair.  The people I hate most in life are the people who are bright-eyed and ready to take on the world at 8am, people who say "good morning!!" in a sing-song voice and actually mean it) 

That was the longest parenthetical statement ever.

So anyway, as I was saying, I'm pretty sure that I made it to every class (even though I was almost killed twice when I stumbled across Charles Street, half asleep, not realizing that right around 9am the entire real world is hurrying to get to work.  In their cars.  Not expecting to see a walking zombie crossing the street without looking.   It's just dangerous to be awake that early.).  And we spent a lot of time in that class talking about stress.  Not the kind of "too much to do, to little time" stress that people talk about every day, but the kind of stress that causes the "fight of flight" reaction.  The stress that releases adrenaline so you can hit the brakes faster and avoid hitting a deer that jumps in front of you, or that helps you run faster if you're being chased by a serial killer (watched a little too much Lifetime this weekend).  Physiological stress can save your life by helping your react quickly.  It's your survival instinct.

But maintaining that "fight or flight" readiness over a long period of time takes a toll on your body.  And that's what I'm starting to worry about.  On Friday I entered full panic mode over all the work I have to do for school, and all the work I have to do for work , not to mention all the work that needs to be done at home.   I have 10 books sitting on my desk that I was planning to have read by now, but haven't started.  I was in my office until almost 9pm on Friday night copying selections out of them to use for my research paper, but I didn't actually get anything written.  And that's just for class #1.  I haven't even started thinking about class #2 (I tried, but if the jerkface librarian isn't going to show up, it's hard to get things done).  Then there's the pile of actual work work on the other side of the desk, which isn't getting done because I'm too busy writing about all the work I have to do on the internet instead of actually DOING ANY OF IT.  And then there's the house.  The house that again has so many cat hair tumbleweeds blowing around that it could be the set for an old Western movie, an inch-thick layer of cereal on the kitchen floor, and don't even get me started on the holes in the walls.  They're still there.  And with me in class all day on the weekends and Joel coaching, they're not going anywhere unless Madison straps on a tool belt and starts putting up drywall. 

That's not the real problem, I've been in similar (or worse) situations and pulled it off  -- the problem is that there are still SIX WEEKS left before the semester ends.  The panic button in my brain doesn't usually go off until a week, or two at most, before the deadline.  If I'm already this stressed about all of this, I don't know how I'm going to survive for another six weeks.   On Friday night I was so exhausted by the time I got home that I collapsed into bed at 10:15... three hours and a quadruple dose of Tylenol PM later, I was still lying there, contemplating how tired I was.  As a result, I got none of the work I'd planned to do on Saturday done because I was too busy laying around thinking about how tired I was, and I barely made it on time to Jenny's birthday party in DC at 5pm.  Once I got there, I was all set to have a nice night out, get some deep alcohol-induced sleep, and then be refreshed to welcome Joel home on Sunday. 

Instead, I consumed one (or five, it's hard to tell when they come in pitchers) too many margaritas and woke up on Jenny's floor at 3am with a splitting headache and three brand new zits.  Not little pimples.  Three of the largest zits I've ever had in my long and accomplished acne career.  There was no sign of them when I did a last-minute check in the mirror circa 8pm.  Less than 12 hours later, they had taken over my face. 

So what I've learned here is that stress might save my life the next time I'm in a car accident, but I'm not sure that I'll survive until then.  I think these zits might be terminal.

If he could put up drywall, I'm not sure I'd trust an animal that regularly gets stuck in the banister anywhere near a hammer.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away

Yesterday I picked up four -- FOUR -- prescription refills for me and Max (and to think that I once mocked people who had health insurance for their pets). Between the two of us, we've got more pills than my 85-year-old grandmother.

Plus, I had a that physical therapy appointment I mentioned before, and that was so much fun that I thought up a little game to celebrate the wonderful world of pharmacologic therapies.  Here are all the medications we're collectively on.  You get to guess who takes each one -- me or Max.  The winner gets my last percocet (HA just kidding, I'm fresh out... any doctors in the audience who'd like to write me an Rx, feel free!)

NO GOOGLE SEARCHES ALLOWED!  I'll give you the indication for each, so don't cheat.

1. Clindamycin -- skin

2.  Brevoxyl 4 -- skin

3.  ZD diet -- allergies

4.  Busparin -- antidepressant

5.  Seasonale - get only 4 periods a year!! Pharmaceutical genius!

While we're at it, why not make some guesses about the OTC drugs we know and love too:

6.  Extra Strength Tylenol -- back pain

7. Simply sleep - insomnia

8. Tylenol PM - back pain and insomnia

9. Hartz Hairball Remedy -- hairballs 

And finally,

10.  Guess which one of us has to go to the doctor for a distemper shot on Monday.  Though God knows, we could both use one.

Post your answers in the comments section... and you better not get #9 wrong.  Or you can feel free to email me with the name of a good detox/rehab center... just kidding, Mom.  I really am not addicted to anything except the caffeine in Diet Coca Cola.  And Law and Order.

In other news, I just found out that I am FINALLY getting a laptop for work.  This makes me happier than I can possibly describe on a website, because it's hard to jump up and down shouting "thank you thank you thank you" while kissing everyone in sight over the internet.  This wonderful news comes just seven months after I tried, in vain, to convince The Powers That Be that I really needed a laptop because, hello! I travel a lot FOR WORK and it would be a lot easier for me to keep up with all that WORK you're always expecting me to do if I didn't have to be totally incommunicado whenever I'm not physically in my office.  Oh, and because my home computer is from 2000, and is therefore tragically outdated and slow, and also I might have accidentally deleted Microsoft Office when I tried to reinstall Windows last year.  My pleas were met with responses that varied from bureaucratic stalling to completely ignoring my emails, and after 3 months, I just gave up. 

Then, yesterday, at a welcome breakfast for a new employee, an angel from IT floated in and casually mentioned to our boss that our computers are up for replacement, and might we want to consider laptops?  Why, that sounds like a great idea.  Why didn't I think of that?  Where do I sign?  And viola, in less than 36 hours we've gone from blatantly disregarding emails to signing off on purchase orders.

I'm not sure whether I should be incredibly happy, or smack my head against my desk because of the frustration I've endured in this struggle for a mobile work environment, and the fact that my opinions/ideas/pleas are apparently worthless around here.  For now I'm going with happy, with a side of "I'll believe it when I'm typing from my new laptop."

If a train leaves New York at 6pm, and another train leaves Chicago...

Let's say you had to do a research paper on... oh, I don't know, something like Paris as a tourist destination during the Impressionist era, for example. And suppose you did a cursory search of your school's library, found nothing, and decided to throw in the towel and just let the research librarians earn their paycheck and do the research for you. Hypothetically, if you emailed the librarian for Art History listed on the library's website, and got this hypothetical response:

To: Jennifer

From: Jerkface Librarian

Date: March 17th,2006 3:19pm

Subject: Re: Art History Research Guide

Dear Jennifer, If you're on campus next week, I serve on the library's Reference Desk on M Level on Monday (10am-12n), Wednesday (6pm-9pm), and Friday (10am-12n). Please feel free to stop by during those times. If those times are not convenient for you, please send me another email indicating 3-4 times that work for you.

Best regards,

Jerkface librarian

...to which you hypothetically replied:

To: Jerkface Librarian

From: Jennifer

Date: March 17th, 2006 4:36pm

Subject: Re: Art History Research Guide

Thanks! I will come by on Wednesday evening.

... what might you reasonably expect (hypothetically) when you arrived at the library reference desk at 6:30pm on Wednesday, March 22nd, 2006?

I hope it's not that said librarian will be present. Because you'd be WRONG. It's "spring break" and all the librarians go home at 5pm. Duh.

What a great trick logic question this would make on the SATs. Consider this hypothetical situation Copyright 2006 Jennifer , Inc.

Life Lessons from Carrie Bradshaw

Remember that episode of Sex and the City, somewhere in Season 5 or 6, when Carrie realizes she's truly over Mr. Big because she can delete his phone messages without even listening to them, instead of saving them and analyzing every word?

I reached that point this morning.  I am officially over JCrew.

My sordid affair with JCrew.com started in high school. They'd offer great deals.  I fit in their sizes.  Free shipping if you spent over $75 and easy returns in store.  Everything was great.  I was in love.

But slowly, our relationship started to go downhill.  At first it was little things -- you had to spend $100 in order to qualify for free shipping, and then $125.  It wasn't that big of a deal, since you could still just order something expensive that you had no intention of keeping and return it to the store. 

Then the deals you could get online started to sour.  There'd only be awful colors and XXXL sizes available, or it would only be off-season clothes.   When I needed to update my wardrobe, JCrew just wasn't there for me.

And then I --ahem -- might have gained a few pounds.  And instead of being supportive, JCrew no longer wanted to be seen with me.  I had to resort to having my "clearance" pants hemmed at $12 a pop, because apparently, if you're not fitting in petite sizes, you're supposed to be at least 5'9''.

Then one day, there appeared jackets that cost $650 -- excuse me?  $650 for JCrew?  Unless that cashmere came from a walking, talking sheep, $650 seems a little arrogant.  Who did they think they were?  It wasn't the price that was the real problem, but the attitude.

And then there came the deal breaker.  "Clearance" became "Final Sale."  That is to say, no more returns on sale items.  Even if it doesn't fit.  Or it wasn't what you were expecting.  Or, shockingly, if the impossibly skinny, elegantly tall, perfectly tanned, suspiciously happy and care-free model looked a hell of a lot better in those pants than you do.  You either had to pony up the shipping costs, or order $125 worth of stuff and just hope that everything fit and that "peony" pants would look as cute on you as they did online.

I allowd myself to be burned a few times.  I had my heart set on cute sweater that was on sale, and then just as I was about to enter my credit card number, it added on $15 for shipping and tax.  By that point I really wanted the sweater, so I ordered it anyway.  Another time, I assumed that pants that were the same style and same size would fit the same, only to be unpleasantly surprised and stuck with the "No returns on final sale items" policy.

Well, I've had enough of this relationship. Instead of being drawn in by their tempting email, promising Free Shipping* on the New Spring Must-Haves, I just hit delete.  I didn't even open it. JCrew and I have officially broken up, and I am so over it.

If I get an invitation tomorrow to a "Business Wear Meets Christmas Present" costume contest, I'm going to have to eat my words.

As you read this, my house is burning down

Things I forgot to do this morning:

1. Turn off the receiver
2. Pack a new box of oatmeal
3. Mail my taxes

As a result, I have really bad breath, my house may be burning down as we speak (or communicate over the internet, or whatever), and I'll have to wait an extra month to get my tax refund .  That's the cliff notes version of this entry.  If you'd like to read about the events that led up to these unfortunate developments, scroll on down.

1.  Because I am a nice person, I decided that I would tape all the shows we're addicted to for Joel while he is in South Carolina.  Since we are still technologically living in the 90s, that means that I have to use an actual tape and a VCR, not a Tivo like normal people.  I'm not delusional enough to think I can program a VCR (and as an aside, I no longer even feel guilty or stupid for being the stereotypical female who is unable to program a VCR, because every couple of weeks I have to tell the guy from Medical Video -- who spends his days producing award winning, television-quality movies, using a room full of very expensive recording and editing equipment -- what happened on Lost, because he screwed up setting his VCR to tape it), but I thought I might be able to tape something that I was actually watching.

BUT -- For reasons I still do not fully understand, we have this thing called a receiver.  It hooks up to our TV, and because we don't have enough cables, you have to turn it on when you want to watch a DVD, which then is connected to the receiver, which is connected to the TV.   At least I think that's how they are all connected, but I'm not really sure.  So to be on the safe side, I always just turn them all on.  Then, I use remote #1 to change the VCR input to the TV channel you want to record.  Remote #2 changes the channel on the the TV to channel 3, and then remote #1 changes the input on the VCR to "TV".  Remote #3 is standing by in case it is needed and to provide moral support.  Last night, I got this all to work on the first try.  And I recorded 24. And I cut out the commercials.  Tell me I'm not the best girlfriend EVER.   

But, as I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep, I remembered that I had forgotten to turn off the receiver.  The receiver is like a laptop, and it gets hotter and hotter the longer it's been on.  We have this trendy compartmentalized Ikea (of course) TV stand, so the very large receiver just fits on its shelf, which turns into a mini-sauna as the receiver just keeps giving off heat that has nowhere to go.  I was not in the mood to get out of bed, so I made a mental note to turn it off in the morning.   This morning, in a turn of events no one could have foreseen, I forgot about it.  I may come home to a pile of ash this evening.  Whoops. 

And that brings us to #2.  This lapse of memory probably won't result in my house burning down, but it is even more tragic,because we have insurance on the house.  If it burns down, we'll get a new one built that won't have 100-year old wood floors and holes in the walls (yes, the holes are STILL THERE and they're not going away anytime soon).  But I am not aware of any insurance product that provides coverage to non-morning people when they forget to bring breakfast to work. 

As you probably have figured out by now, I hate waking up in the morning.  I will do just about anything to sleep a few minutes later, which includes eating breakfast at work.  Unless it's one of those wonderful days when there are free bagels floating around, I eat oatmeal for breakfast while I'm checking all the emails that came in overnight.  I keep a stash of oatmeal packets at work that I try not to let go below a week's supply of breakfasts.  I meant to bring in a new box this morning, but... I left it on the counter.  I'm starting to notice a trend.   So I had to eat one of the Quaker Apple-Cinnamon packets that I keep shoved in the back of my desk for emergencies.  Next to Plain, Apple Cinnamon Quaker Oatmeal is my least favorite oatmeal flavor.  It's just nasty, and it gives me really bad breath. So my apologies to everyone in my office that has to talk to me today.  Because I also forgot to bring in some more Dentyne Ice.

Lastly, I forgot to put my tax forms in the mail... again.  I've been meaning to do this since Friday, when I finally did my taxes, but it's harder to put something in a mailbox than you'd think -- when you don't live in suburbia and have a mailbox right outside your house.  I think this particular bit of memory malfunction might be my subconscious trying to get me to re-check my calculations before I mail it off to the IRS, because I'm pretty sure I screwed them up.  Well, sorry Freud, but I'm not re-doing calculations that have me getting a fat refund.  The IRS can just fix it for me, like they did last year.  That is their job, after all.

The idea of screwed up taxes and my house burning down just reminded me of the scene from Office space (which I watched on TBS on Friday) where Peter comes in to work, the day after he slid the letter claiming responsibility for the rounding-up scam under Lumberg's door, expecting to be arrested, but instead finds Initech burned to the ground.   If they make a movie about my life, hope it's as awesome as Office Space, and I think I'd like to be played by Natalie Portman.  Or maybe Penelope Cruz.  And while we're at it, if you could just go ahead and make my advance royalty checks out to CASH, that would be terrific.  Mmmhmmm, Ok then. 

Spring Break, sort of

I'm on my own this week.  Joel is off for spring training with his team, at a facility in South Carolina called Camp Bob.  He insists that, despite the name, it's some sort of YMCA place that all the rowing teams in the Mid-Atlantic go to for spring break, and NOT a presidential resort or a center for psychiatric rehabilitation. He will be coaching three practices a day, eating in a cafeteria/mess hall, and playing a lot of Xbox without having to hear me whine my litany of abuses against video games and all those who play them. The only thing I hate more than video games is professional football.  Sorry, Daddy.   So, as of 6am on Saturday morning, I'm livin' single.  It's not like I see Joel for more than a few hours a day, but it's weird knowing that he's not coming home later, that he's not just still at work or at practice. 

I had class all day on Saturday and then went out for a belated St. Patrick's Day celebration, so I hardly even noticed how empty the house was until Sunday morning, when I woke up feeling like death on the couch.  Why I felt so awful is really a mystery.   I didn't drink that much on Saturday night, because green beer is only fun when you can actually drink beer, and despite my bloodline, I can't choke down a beer without gagging.   (Vodka, now that's a different story.  Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't adopted from a family in Siberia.  That would explain so much... my bitter hatred of cold weather, my undying love for vodka, and my need to stockpile enough food to survive a nuclear winter).   I guess the angry monster in my stomach and the jackhammer in my head could have been a result of the two very large Red Bull and Vodkas I consumed the night before.  Or the questionable grilled cheese and turkey sandwich I made myself upon arriving home semi-drunk (the turkey smelled weird, but I ate it anyway, figuring that the heat from grilling would kill any rottenness).  Or the fact that I stayed up until somewhere around 4am watching some fine late night programming on USA, including Law and Order SVU, more SVU, and most of Frequency, and then fell asleep without washing my face or brushing my teeth.  But whatever the cause, I felt crappy enough to decline an invitation to go out to breakfast and remain on the couch until approximately 3pm, where I flipped back and forth between Fear, Space Cowboys, and The Lizzy McGuire Movie.  After watching Hilary Duff wrap up all her crazy schemes and pull off a happy ending, I felt much better physically, but sort of lonely as well.  Lizzy McGuire, Darcy's Wild Life, Scout's Safari, and Strange Days at Blake Holsey High are among the shows that I've given up in order to live peaceably with another human being who doesn't share my penchant for television programming targeted at 11 year olds.  It was great to get back in touch with my pre-adolescent self... but at the same time, I missed having someone around to plead with me to change the channel.  To combat my loneliness, I went on a hike (and managed not to get lost) and made a desperately needed stop for groceries on the way back.  $275 later, I emerged from Sam's club.  I swear, I didn't even buy that much.  Damn Siberian genes.

Now that it's the work week again, I'm sure the time alone will fly by.  I'm also on "spring break" this week, but it's part-time graduate school spring break, which means that instead of going off to some exotic and exciting locale to drink alcohol (or to Camp Bob), I'll be coming to work from 8:30-5 and working on the two research papers that are coming due much too quickly.  Fill up my cup, sounds like a party!

I don't really understand why jobs don't have spring breaks.  And summers off.   

Spring Break, sort of

I'm on my own this week.  Joel is off for spring training with his team, at a facility in South Carolina called Camp Bob.  He insists that, despite the name, it's some sort of YMCA place that all the rowing teams in the Mid-Atlantic go to for spring break, and NOT a presidential resort or a center for psychiatric rehabilitation. He will be coaching three practices a day, eating in a cafeteria/mess hall, and playing a lot of Xbox without having to hear me whine my litany of abuses against video games and all those who play them. The only thing I hate more than video games is professional football.  Sorry, Daddy.   So, as of 6am on Saturday morning, I'm livin' single.  It's not like I see Joel for more than a few hours a day, but it's weird knowing that he's not coming home later, that he's not just still at work or at practice. 

I had class all day on Saturday and then went out for a belated St. Patrick's Day celebration, so I hardly even noticed how empty the house was until Sunday morning, when I woke up feeling like death on the couch.  Why I felt so awful is really a mystery.   I didn't drink that much on Saturday night, because green beer is only fun when you can actually drink beer, and despite my bloodline, I can't choke down a beer without gagging.   (Vodka, now that's a different story.  Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't adopted from a family in Siberia.  That would explain so much... my bitter hatred of cold weather, my undying love for vodka, and my need to stockpile enough food to survive a nuclear winter).   I guess the angry monster in my stomach and the jackhammer in my head could have been a result of the two very large Red Bull and Vodkas I consumed the night before.  Or the questionable grilled cheese and turkey sandwich I made myself upon arriving home semi-drunk (the turkey smelled weird, but I ate it anyway, figuring that the heat from grilling would kill any rottenness).  Or the fact that I stayed up until somewhere around 4am watching some fine late night programming on USA, including Law and Order SVU, more SVU, and most of Frequency, and then fell asleep without washing my face or brushing my teeth.  But whatever the cause, I felt crappy enough to decline an invitation to go out to breakfast and remain on the couch until approximately 3pm, where I flipped back and forth between Fear, Space Cowboys, and The Lizzy McGuire Movie.  After watching Hilary Duff wrap up all her crazy schemes and pull off a happy ending, I felt much better physically, but sort of lonely as well.  Lizzy McGuire, Darcy's Wild Life, Scout's Safari, and Strange Days at Blake Holsey High are among the shows that I've given up in order to live peaceably with another human being who doesn't share my penchant for television programming targeted at 11 year olds.  It was great to get back in touch with my pre-adolescent self... but at the same time, I missed having someone around to plead with me to change the channel.  To combat my loneliness, I went on a hike (and managed not to get lost) and made a desperately needed stop for groceries on the way back.  $275 later, I emerged from Sam's club.  I swear, I didn't even buy that much.  Damn Siberian genes.

Now that it's the work week again, I'm sure the time alone will fly by.  I'm also on "spring break" this week, but it's part-time graduate school spring break, which means that instead of going off to some exotic and exciting locale to drink alcohol (or to Camp Bob), I'll be coming to work from 8:30-5 and working on the two research papers that are coming due much too quickly.  Fill up my cup, sounds like a party!

I don't really understand why jobs don't have spring breaks.  And summers off.   

CSI: Baltimore

When I told my mom that Max had eaten an entire piece of salmon that Joel left on the counter when he went upstairs for a minute, I'm pretty sure she thought I was exaggerating.  He couldn't possible have eaten a whole slab of salmon.

When I told my co-workers how devastated I had been the night before, when I had baked a frozen pepperoni pizza for dinner and left it out on the counter to cool, only to come back and find half of it eaten, crust and all, I think they thought I was a little bit insane.  Everyone knows cats don't eat pizza.

When I showed my friends how Max stands on his hind legs and walks around upright anytime you open the fridge, I think they were just a little bit scared.

But honestly, I don't think that anyone believes me when I tell them that Max will eat anything, as long as it's not not cat food.  ANYTHING.  Lunch meat, whole sandwiches, pizza, rice, bread, and of course, any sort of meat (raw or cooked, even frozen).   But, now -- now I have PROOF.  At least, the best proof I could have without actually catching on camera with a slice of pizza hanging out of his mouth.    

Yesterday I packed myself a nice, healthy lunch consisting of leftover pasta and a Dannon strawberry-banana yogurt.  I put it all in a paper Starbucks bag, complete with a napkin.  Then I left for work and left it sitting on the kitchen counter.

When I returned home at 5:30, I was expecting to find some smelly pasta and some bad yogurt, conveniently packed in the bag that I could just throw right into the garbage.  But, instead I found this:

Hmm.  I distinctly remembered putting these items into a bag, not upside down on the floor.

But finding something knocked onto the floor isn't at all an unusual occurrence in our household.  Both Max and Madison are perfectly comfortable knocking over anything that they find to be interfering with the Feng Shui principles of the room. What was puzzling to me was where in the hell the pretty Christmas Starbucks bag (which I had been saving since December to use for taking lunch to work, whenever I actually got around to making myself a lunch for work instead of just drinking coffee and stealing Hershey kisses off my boss's desk when she goes to the bathroom) had gone.  Did I imagine it?  Am I actually going insane?  I grabbed a Diet Coke out of the fridge and went upstairs to watch some Law and Order while pondering my potential lunacy.

And on my way up the stairs I found this:

I may be crazy, but I KNEW I didn't leave that napkin on the stairs.  Very strange.  But, there was Law and Order to watch, so to the living room I went.  And then, the mystery became clear.

I sat down on the couch, and noticed something strange across the room.  What's that there, next to Max's scratching board?  It looks suspiciously like a Starbucks Christmas bag.

A Starbucks Christmas bag that has been viciously torn to shreds, to be more specific. 

Sadly, we'll never know what really  happened to this poor casualty of Max's neverending quest to consume human food.   If I had to guess, I'd say it's likely that when Max, lacking opposable thumbs, was unable to open either the tupperware or the yogurt container, he resorted to torturing this unlucky hostage in hopes that it would tell him  WHERE THE SYNTOX NERVE GAS IS GOING TO BE RELEASED!!  Or, at least how to open a plastic Tupperware.  The courageous bag held out until the end.  I gave it a dignified burial in the recycling bin.

Later I found this on the second flight of stairs (as well as with pieces of white paper all over the house):

Despite the violent tendencies of my pets, I think the most disturbing part of this story is that I threw away the pasta (I didn't really want to eat it anyway) but I put the yogurt back in the fridge.  I'm sure it will be fine, right?  If I die of food poisoning, someone sue Dannon for me.

Hello to my Sydney reader! You are one sick fellow.

Last night I took a look at my visitor stats, and I was surprised to see that someone in Sydney had accessed this site.  Not to imply that my witty descriptions of the enthralling events of my life don't aren't worthy of an international following... but for the most part it seems that my site is most popular among New Jersey and Baltimore residents who are either related to me or who depend on me to do their laundry.  There have been a few visitors from Ohio and Iowa thrown in (to whom I've been meaning to say, "Hello!  Who are you? Thanks for reading!), but I'm pretty sure that I don't know anyone in Sydney.  My mom once went to New Zealand, and my friend Ly-Lan studied abroad in Wollongong for awhile, but that's about the closest I come to having any acquaintances Down Under... and while it's true that Ly-Lan was being pursued by the authorities for violations of her student visa while she was there, I hardly think that they could still be looking for her now, several years later.  And even if they were, I doubt if they would be tracking down an international fugitive (who, I should point out, now has a successful career and leads a completely legal (for the most part) life) by looking her on my website.   However, if they were, I would be quick to ask if there is a reward for information leading to her capture, because I just happen to have this recent photo of her pretending to be a respectable citizen that I would be happy to turn over if they price were right.   

Don't be fooled by her smile.  She's a tricky woman and she will force you to drink Long Island Iced Teas and then vomit on your carpet.  Arrest her!

But, before I gave up a good friend of mine to Interpol, I noticed that there was a referring site for this mysterious Australian reader. And the Big Brother internet tracking software that typepad uses even gives you a link to the referring site, which, of course, I clicked on:

http://www.google.com/search?q=%22injection+in+my+ass%22&hl=en&lr=&safe=off&start=50&sa=N

Yup, that's my site, the #7 Google match if you do a search for "injection in my ass."

So, hello and goodbye to my one and only Australian reader, because I assume that you didn't find what you were looking for when you typed that search term into Google, sat back in your computer chair, and prepared for what promised to be an exciting evening of kinky internet porn.

I can't wait to see what kind traffic those last three words will bring to this site. 

The problem with the Do Not Call list

Last night, our house phone rang.  This doesn't happen very often because I am a child of the cell phone generation, and if anyone did want to call the land line, they'd have to do it at a time when we are home, AND Joel isn't tying it up by using the internet (Yes.  We still have dial-up internet.  We are cheap, frugal people who would rather spend money feeding an unhealthy addiction to Chinese food and buying Dyson vacuum cleaners than a faster, more reliable connection to the largest source of information and communication in human history.  Is there something wrong with that?), which basically amounts to a window of 10 minutes per week.  But last night a call made it through, and Joel handed the phone over to me.  I assumed that it was my father, because I am pretty sure that he is the only person who has ever called me on the home phone.  "Hi Da---" I was saying, when I was cut off by a high pitched voice talking at a rate that would have rivaled mine, when I'm angry and listing all the transgressions that Joel has committed over the past three and a half years (Max is usually my audience for these tirades, and he only understands English if you talk really, really fast or mention the word "sandwich").  "Hi Jennifer!!" the caller half said, half communicated through the rays of sunshine she emitted. "My name is Meghan and I'm a freshman at Hopkins!!! I'm calling on behalf of the Hopkins Fund!  I see that you graduated from Hopkins in 2003 with a degree in International Studies!!! What are you doing with that now!!!"

Oh, naive, cheerful little freshman.  Nice trick, asking me a question about my life to draw me into the conversation.  OK, I'll tell you what I'm doing with my degree in International Studies.  I'm working in a job that has absolutely nothing to do with anything I ever studied.  What's the scripted response for that answer? And if you're already a second-semseter freshman and you're working for the telethon instead of doing award-winning research at the hospital, there's no way you're getting into medical school, by the way.  Your parents are going to be very disappointed.

That's what I wanted to say.  But I didn't, because after my 3-week stint selling Cutco knives, I can't be mean to telemarketers anymore.  I can't yell at them for interrupting my viewing of the rerun of Gilmore Girls currently airing on ABC Family.  I can't even put the phone next to the cat and just walk away, like my brother used to do.  Instead, I let her finish her speech about how my donation of just $150 would help build the new Charles Commons housing towers that would enrich the Hopkins experience for future students, I gracefully declined, and then sent her on her merry way to pester someone else. For her sake, I hope she called a current student's parents next, because from what I remember, they were the only people who ever agreed to donate to the Hopkins telethon, in hopes that it would be noted somewhere and help their kid get into Hopkins Med.  I didn't even tell her that the contribution that I make every day by coming to work for Hopkins in exchange for the paltry salary they pay me should be more than my share of giving back to the Hopkins community.  That's how much kindness I have in my heart for impressionable youths who are manipulated into cold-calling by behemoth corporations.

I'm wondering if the Do Not Call list has actually had some negative effect on telemarketers, because even the letters I get seem to be more desperate than usual.  In addition to the weekly letters from children's hospitals that are printed in fonts that look like crayola crayon, this weekend I got a letter from Phi Beta Kappa bemoaning the decline of the liberal arts.  PBK felt that the situation was desperate enough to warrant resorting to scare tactics (and incomplete sentences):

"Because alarmingly, only 5.5% of US colleges and universities currently grant the majority of their undergraduate degrees in the liberal arts and sciences. 

Instead, more and more students are choosing specialized, vocational, and technical courses of study.  In this day and age -- as college costs soar ever higher -- they and their parents believe that a liberal education simply is not worth the price. 

But you know otherwise.  You appreciate that a broad-based academic experience is integral to cultivating individuals who think in a rational and orderly fashion.  Those who can lead America in this challenging era of rapidly growing complexity and globalization. 

That is why, as we celebrate our 230th anniversary year, the Society must -- like never before -- defend the very future of the liberal arts. Even as we foster the type of extraordinary achievement you enjoyed through your own collegiate success.

And that is why, when you return your 2006 Priorities Survey, I urge you to show your commitment to the liberal arts and sciences -- by joining the Phi Beta Kappa Society as a Contributing Member.  To recognize your immediate support, you will receive our elegant brass letter opener." 

Apparently, it's up to me and my underpaid liberal arts-loving comrades to save the world.  Unfortunately for PBK (and Joel) (and my family) (and my coworkers), I'm not a big supporter of thinking in a rational and orderly fashion.

Looks like the Maryland SPCA is getting my check again this year.

Why I look like hell today

Unlike most days, today I have a good reason to look like a disheveled mess.  Down the block from my house last night, someone was jackhammering until at least 1am.   When they were still jackhammering at 10:30, I was a little worried.  By 11:30 (when I was actually trying to go to sleep) I was pissed.  At midnight, I was tempted to call the police and report them. But I didn't, for several reasons:

1. It probably would have taken me 2 hours to get through to a real person at midnight, which would have made me even more pissed off.
2. I looked out the window, and I'm pretty sure it was the City of Baltimore that was doing the hammering, and I doubt they were going to come out and shut themselves down.
3. I've already called the cops several times to report public nuisances, and I think I may be becoming one. 
4. All those calls were rewarded by a total lack of action on the part of the city, which only ends up making me even madder.

If they're out there again tonight I don't know what I'm going to do, but it's not going to be pretty, that much I can guarantee.   Not that having an all-night Law and Order party with Madison wasn't fun and all.  It's just that I was the one watching Law and Order and Madison was the one sleeping, and when you start to wonder if your pets are mocking your in their sleep, you know things are getting desperate. 

However, in the spirit of public service, I am proud to announce that I waxed my legs.  For the first time since early December. You are all welcome.

I was also considering getting a haircut, but don't hold your breath.  When I see a show of good faith by the moonlight jackhammer crew, then I'll consider resuming my personal hygiene maintenance.

I never thought I'd say it, but I miss Jessica Biel

Tonight I saw one of the best episodes of 7th Heaven ever.   I haven't watched 7th Heaven in quite awhile.  I used to addicted to it, in a very sick sort of way.  But, then Mary left... and Simon turned into a younger, preachier version of Matt, and Lucy had that baby, and her husband... I can't even talk about him.  At some point it stopped being a love-to-hate show and became just a plain old HATE IT show, joining the ranks of Star Trek and BattleStar Gallactica. 

But today I was busy pretending to be reading a book when 6pm rolled around, and I forgot to change the channel to Law and Order, and all of a sudden I was sucked back into to the wonderfully terrible world of the Camden family. 

This particular episode was an older one, Ruthie was still pretty little and thank God, Lucy didn't have the baby or that grinning idiot of a husband.  Simon was either in 8th grade or a freshman in high school, and to be "cool" he started hanging out with a group of thugs, complete with bandanas and baggy pants, and of course they carried around a boombox blasting rap music at all times.  The rap music was the recurring theme of the episode.   According to the Camdens, rap music is bad because rappers hate women.  And you know it's true because Matt's token black roomate said so.   

So these bad influences run into Lucy and Ruthie in the "record store."  And then they call Lucy the B-word and give her a little tap on the behind.  Luckily Mrs. Camden just so happens to be walking by at the moment, and Lucy runs over and tells her what the mean boys did to her.  When the thugs "threaten" Mrs. Camden, she bangs on her chest with both hands and yells "you want some of this!", does the bang on her chest thing again and says "I brought seven children into this world and I can certainly take one out of it!!"  My my.  I don't think that's how a minister's wife is suppposed to talk.  But watching Mrs. Camden bang on her chest and say "Bring it!" was the best ab workout I've gotten in weeks.

The side story was Robbie and his girlfriend coming to Reverend Camden to see if he will marry them.  But, of course, Eric senses that something else is going on, and he gently pries it out of them that they're pregnant.  Oh my!!  But wait -- there's more.  When he talks to the girlfriend alone, it turns out she's not really pregnant, but she hasn't told Robbie yet.  When Eric breaks the news to Robbie, he just can't believe she tricked him like that!  Eric tries to calm him down, she didn't really trick him.  She thought she was pregnant, but then found out she wasn't, and just didn't know how to tell Robbie.  Then Robbie bursts out with this gem: "No, she tricked me into having sex with her!  She told me that she had a special female problem that could only  be cured by having sex and I believed her!"

And that, apparently, is what passes for wholesome television these days.  Thank goodness it's time for 24. 

A three hour tour...

Spring has officially arrived in the Mid-Atlantic, and to celebrate I decided that we should go hiking.  Since I still can't run, and my heartless brother took back "his" bike when he returned from Hawaii in December, hiking is pretty much the only way that I can get outside and enjoy the beautiful weather when I feel guilty about sitting inside watching Law and Order reruns all day.  So on Saturday morning when Joel and I were sitting around asking each other what we should do with the day (Joel: play video games and aimlessly surf the internet? Me: vacuum the house, clean the bathrooms, do our taxes?)  I declared that this day was TOO nice to sit around debating what we should do all day, looked in my handy book, and picked us out a nice 4.2 mile hike in Gunpowder Falls State Park.  In a shocking display of  enthusiasm, we were in the car and on our way before the clock struck noon. 

Look at us, on our way before noon.  It's a miracle.

As I looked up the Gunpower website to create that link, I noticed that they have clear, accurate directions to their trailheads online.  If we had followed those directions, this post would end right here.   

But, we didn't, becuase that would just be boring.  Instead, we followed the vauge directions in the book, and we were only slightly concerned that the parking lot that we arrived at was about 6 times as larger than the book said it would be.   

We were also unconcerned that we were trying to hike the Panther Branch Trails (blue blazes, according to the book), but the trailhead we found ourselves at was for the Gunpowder South trail (white blazes).  No big deal, becuase I am generally unconcerned with such trivialities as trail names, blaze colors, maps, and directions.  As I see it, the whole point of having a trail exist at all is that you can follow it without worrying where you're going.  But, as a precaution, we decided to bring the book along in my beautiful new camelback, you know, just in case.

We'd only been walking for a few minutes when a strange noise became audible.  We couldn't figure out what it could be -- maybe a flock of birds? The clopping of horses' feet up ahead?  As we continued walking it got louder and louder, but since the people fishing in the river didn't seem to be concerned by the noise, I assumed that it probably wasn't aliens or a cloud of killer locusts, which were my first two guesses.  The noise was almost deafening by the time we came upon it's cause:

 

When we came right up to the puddle, most of the little frogs turned out to be camera-shy little bastards and hid in the mud. But there were thousands of them in this one puddle, peeping their lungs out.  And I swear, it was a lot cooler than it looks in the picture.

We ventured on, and after a little while we came to the intersection of the blue-blazed Panther Branch trail.  I patted myself on the back and made Joel acknowledge that my navigational skills were getting better after all.  We happily continued on our little hike, without realizing that we were setting off around the 4.2 mile circuit in the opposite direction that I intended.

So, when we came an intersection, naturally, we made the wrong turn.  Then we made some more wrong turns, based on the assumption that we were traveling around the circuit clockwise, when actually we were going counter-clockwise.  And after about 2 hours of making wrong turns, I started to get nervous, because I'd only expected this entire hike to take about an hour and a half.  I tried to maintain the impression that I was still ably navigating this outing, but eventually it became clear to everyone involved that we were lost.   We took out the book and determined that we need to turn around, walk about a mile back, and make a turn on the the correct trail to head back to the car.  We were certain that we were on the right track when we started to hear the faint sound of the spring peepers in the distance.  after about 40 minutes after we'd passed the intersection going in this direction, we dead ended into a major roadway, next to a swamp with so many frogs that we could hardly fathom their numbers. There must have been tens of thousands, and there were gobs of frog eggs floating around in the water.  It was an amazing sight -- but this was certainly not the same peeper colony we'd passed at the beginning of our journey.  The frogs had led us astray. 

I broke out the book again, and this time I was able to figure out where we actually were, since across the road was a huge quarry, and on the map "quarry" was clearly marked.  Unfortunately, the quarry was at the opposite end of the 7-mile long trail than the parking lot where we'd left the car.  As it turned out, we had been walking in the right direction the first time.   

At this point, I was ready to admit that I fully suck at navigating, (although I would still like to point out that if that damn book had just given us correct directions to the CORRECT parking lot, none of this ever would have happened), so I turned the book over to Joel and surrendered the navigational duties.  Joel determined that we had two options:  we could walk the 7 miles along the river on the flat, straight trail, or we could walk back to the intersection and take a different trail, walk along a section, and then take an unmarked trail that looked like it intersected York Road not far from where we'd turned off to park.  Joel wanted to go with option #2, because it seemed to be a good bit shorter than the 7 mile route.  I wanted to go with the longer path that we were absolutely certain of, but since I was being blamed for our getting lost in the first place, I didn't get a vote in the matter and we set off to retrace our steps and look for the unmarked trail.  As we were setting off again, we'd been walking for 3.5 hours, and I couldn't help wondering how those noisy little frogs would taste.

We walked... and walked... and walked some more... with no sign of any unmarked trail.   Just as we were certain that we had missed it, an unmarked turnoff appeared on the left and we practically wept for joy.   We hadn't passed any fellow hikers for over an hour, and I was really starting to wish that we'd just taken the striaght and certain path along the river.   We picked up the pace, further encouraged by the fact that we could now hear a road in the distance.  But after we'd been following the trail for just a few minutes, we popped out at an intersection.  The same intersection that we'd been at an hour ago. We sat down on a log, realizing that we had no idea where in the hell we were or which direction to go.  We were out of water, we were starving, and I couldn't stop visions from the Blair Witch Project from flashing in my head.  As we sat wondering if we would really die on this spot, a frolicking herd of deer galloping by, mocking us.  They flew by, and didn't even stop to offer us a ride. 

We finally decided to retrace our steps entirely from that point.  After nearly 5 hours of hiking, we arrived at the parking lot, hungry, thirsty, and looking worse for the wear. 

 

Joel did not throw the evil book into the river.  But he wanted to.

We celebrated our survival by stopping at the Wegman's in Hunt Valley for lunch. If there was every any doubt in my mind that Wegman's in the greatest retailer of grocery products in the world, it vanished when I discovered that they have a Chinese buffet in their store.  I feasted on Sesame chicken and Joel devoured a 14-inch sub, and I don't think we spoke a word to each other the entire time, because talking would have slowed down the process of shoveling food into our mouths.

Nashville Star: The bastard child of American Idol and CMT

If I have to see one more commercial starring Wynonna Judd and Cowboy Troy , or another mini-commercial in the bottom left corner of my TV with those two bozos doing some sort of dance that looks like they're trying to shovel snow while their arms are tied to their sides, USA is going to move to a position on my shit list that is somewhere in between Jessica Simpson's "these bites were made for poppin'" commercial and the entire G4 network.  I do not enjoy being distracted while I am trying to watch Ice-T play a completely unconvincing detective. Nashville Star better get it's ass off my network, or I'll go elsewhere for my L&O fix.  I'd almost rather watch that douchebag from Criminal intent on TNT than these two dancing clowns.

She's an icon, he's a rebel.  They're both douchebags.

Lucky you! New photos are up.

I have spent the entire day observing a very boring video shoot at work, so I have absolutely nothing interesting to write about.  I did take a quick break from my observation duties to go to physical therapy (I just left my suit ensemble on top and changed my pants to sweats, and I have to say that I think the look is going to be the new fashion craze), and in a week and a half I will have some interesting and most likely inappropriate tales of my "internal examination" to determine what is wrong with my back.  In fact, now that I visualize it, it will probably be a tad too inappropriate to air on this forum, as several male family members read it.  So I guess I'll just complain about it to Joel.  Lucky you, sweetie! 

In other news, a fair chunk of my time yesterday was spent uploading and putting the correct dates on some pictures that are not of Max and Madison, for those readers who don't care how cute Madison is and what a good job Max is doing growing back all his hair now that he is on his kitty Paxil.   The pictures pretty much cover the past year, which is when we first got a digital camera.  Of course, Max and Madison still have their own albums and I will be updating them shortly (aka next week, if I have time).

Happy weekend!  And happy spring weather to all those in the Bmore area!

Please remember, your order and payment are due at the presentation

On any give day in my office, there are catalogs, order forms, and candy bars in the "coffee room," which is what we call the 3x3 foot space where the mini-fridge and coffee machine reside.  The office is made up of mostly 40-something women with multiple children, who are always having some kind of school fundraiser and are shameless about asking co-workers to donate instead of just buying all the candy themselves like good parents.  Or sending their kids out to bother the neighbors with door-to-door tactics, like my mom did (and it was damn good experience for my brief career selling Cutco knives).

Anyway, I'm used to the $1 Resses cups and the Pizza kits and the Avon catalogs.  There have also been several open invitations posted to attend Tupperware and crafting supply parties hosted by one office member or another.  But today, I came back from the bathroom to find an index card, face down, on my desk.  In yellow highligher "Flip me over!" was written.

I flipped it over.  And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but an invitation to an "Adult Home Party."  If I knew how to scan it in an post it here, I would.  But I don't.  So I'll just describe it instead.

There are little pastel colored flowers in each corner, giving the false impression that it's an invitation to an 8-year-old's birthday party.  At the top it tells me "You're invited to choose from an exciting selection of sensual products at a 'Naughy but Nice' party hosted by [name of very proper woman who works in my office]"  And then it lists the address and date, and a website to check out a preview of the products.  Of course, I went to the website, ignoring the fact that it was almost certainly going to get me flagged as vieiwing porn at work.  The website boasted:

Whether your tastes are mild or wild, Naughty but Nice sells all top quality adult toys. We offer very competitive pricing combined with fast, discreet delivery on a huge selection of adult toys including Stimulants, Flavored lubricants, Massage Oils, Vibrators, Pumps, Penis Enlargers, Dildos, Sexy Clothing, lingerie, glass dildos and other hot products.

We also offer in-depth, detailed advice on a variety of topics and questions about sex and the role of adult toys in your relationship. Send your own burning questions, share your experiences or just browse what others have sent.

I'm so tempted to go, but I'm also afraid that I'll never be able to look at anyone in my office with a straight face again.  And I have no idea who was invited -- did everyone in this all-female office got this invitation, or if I am part of a select few that were judged to be into this sort of thing?  Do I give off some kind of kinky vibe?  Is it because I sometimes wear low cut shirts to work???

Ouch, that looks like it's going to hurt

Ever wonder what happened to those painfully nerdy kids who never left D-level?  You know, the ones that were completely socially inept, who only spoke in Korean, and only spoke at all to engage in heated debates about the correct answers to the Orgo homework set?  The ones who took notes in seven different colors, and who started hyperventilating if someone else sat in their favorite lucky cubicle in the library?

They became doctors.   

Yesterday I had a follow-up appointment with my orthopedist, but when the door to the exam room opened, it wasn't "my" doctor, who is actually the doctor that I was passed off to by my real doctor.  It was another, new doctor, who explained to me that he was going to see me, and then go talk to my doctor about me, and then my doctor would come in.  Since I'm not a doctor, I figured, what the hell, who am I to judge the effectiveness of their medical system?  I mean, it seems like it might be more efficient to just cut out the middle man and go right the guy who knows my history, or at least my history from the point when I was handed off to him.  But I agreed to this system, just for kicks. 

Of course, it meant that I had to give this new guy a quick recap of the past 5 years, pausing several times so that he could furiously scribble notes.  I was going to point out that all this information was already in my chart, but, again, I held my tongue, even though he stuttered every time he asked a question, because apparently writing and speaking at the same time is a skill not taught in medical school. When I had finished, he gave me this brilliant analysis: "you know, some times these things just take time to heal."  That's when I knew that me and him, we weren't going to get along.

I very gently explained to him that my leg and back were going to just get better all on their lonesome, might it not be a reasonable expectation that 5 YEARS WOULD BE ENOUGH?  He responded by telling me a touching anecdote about his own life.  He's a runner too, you see.  But he has a touch of tendonitis a the moment, so he had to scale back his mileage a bit.  And what's even worse, one time, he hurt his shoulder.  And then he couldn't rock climb for a whole month.  That was really rough for him, so he totally understands where I'm coming from.  And the hardest part, was that while he wasn't able to climb, none of his rock climbing buddies would even talk to him! 

"Sweet friends you've got there," was what I wanted to say.  But I didn't.  Because, clearly this man's shoulder injury, which, it just so happens, got all better on its own, was so close to my own injury, that we were practically soulmates.  His story was such an inspiration, that I wanted to dance for joy, just knowing that sometimes, things just get better on their own.  Why had I never heard this brilliant medical advice before?

Still, I couldn't help but think that if that's really the case, then doctors should keep it to themselves, since they'll all be out of a job once the word gets out.   But I kept my mouth shut.  I was the picture of restraint.  I just closed my eyes and pictured myself strangling him with his own stethoscope and took a few deep, cleansing breaths.

When "my" doctor came in, he told me what the new guy had told him after talking to me, and I confirmed that it was pretty much right.  Then we went over everything again, just for good measure.  He determined that I should get one more cortisone injection, which was fine with me, because hey -- 5th time's the charm, right?  He asked me if I minded if the socially inept doctor observed, and maybe some other med students that were hanging around the office.  Since any modesty that I once possessed went out the window the first time that I got a cortisone injection, in my ass, in the training room at school, with all the trainers watching, I told him that I didn't mind at all.  I was, however, under the impression that they would be observing silently.  Or at least quietly.  I was not expecting to hear a conversation that went something like this:

Socially inept: How do you know where to insert the needle?

Doctor about to inject a foot long needle into my back: I just sort of feel around and guess.  See, (putting his finger on my back) is this where it hurts?

Me: um, a little bit farther down and more towards the spine.

Doctor: Does anyone have a pen?

Med student #1:  Here, I've got one!

Doctor:  Thanks.  I"m sure this pen is very clean right?  Clean enough to be used as a medical instrument?  Fantastic. (Tries to draw on my back) Hmmm, this one won't write, anyone else have a pen?

Med student #2: I'll get one! (Runs out of room and returns with a sharpie)

Doctor: (marking spot on my back) There we go, right about there.

Me: Actually, it's more like here.

Doctor: OK. (makes another mark) Now, hand me the long needle.

Med student #3: Is there a short needle?

Doctor: Well, if there's a long needle, then there must be a short needle.  Give me the longer one.

Med student #3: Here you go.

Doctor: now everyone crowd around, here we go!

Med student #2: Ouch, this looks like it's going to hurt.

(doctor inserts needle).

Med student #2: Now you'll feel a burning sensation. 

Me: (wanting to punch him in the face, but pinned to the table by a foot long needle which is, in fact, causing a very uncomfortable burning sensation)

Doctor: There we go!  All done.  Now someone hand me a band aid.

Socially inept: Here you go.   Oh, whoops.  It's stuck to your glove. 

Doctor: Darn gloves. There we go, good as new!  How do you feel!

Me: Like I just got a foot-long needle shoved in my back?

Doctor: Hmm. Ok, well go out to the front and make another appointment for 4-6 weeks.

Surprisingly, this was the first time that I've gone to the orthopedist with high hopes, had those hopes crushed, and NOT had to spend a good half hour in the bathroom afterwards crying.  So, it was a good visit in my book.  Afterwards I had planned to use the rest of my half-day off of work to go to the library to be productive.  I drove all the way to Homewood, and then remembered that there's nowhere to park there anymore.  Faced with the choice of walking a few blocks or just giving up, I chose to give up, and I certainly think I was justified.  I just kept on driving, went right the Safeway and bought $118 worth of groceries.  And I felt better.

Bass Pro Shops -- Where animal killers come to shop

If I had to sum up Saturday in a sentence or less, I was say it was a day of trials and triumphs; of moderately cheap wine and the full-fledged cheap wine hangover that it brings; of lovesick cats and feline home inspections.

That is one sentence. Yes, it is.

So, if that was Saturday, then I would describe Sunday as a testament to the utterly bizarre nature of Maryland, which is stuck somewhere in between Modernized Mid-Atlantic Suburban Sprawl Wonder and Confederate Wannabe.

Since we got drunk and missed the movie on Saturday night, we pledged we would go and see it during the day on Sunday, when it would be cheaper anyway, so actually it’s a good thing we are so lazy and always late because now we’re saving money.

(If that’s not some first-rate drunk rationalizing, then I don’t know what is)

So off we went to the Arundel Mills Mall, to see 16 Blocks at 2:20.  We were going to see the 12:30 showing, but, you know how it is.  We are slow.  We were tired.  It didn’t happen.  But I made sure we left plenty early to get to the 2:20 show, because, by this point, it was me against this movie, and I wasn’t about to lose to a movie with Mos Def in it.

The Arundel Mills Mall is the greatest mall I've ever seen -- and I'm from New Jersey, where there are at least three malls within a 30-minute radius of any given location.  It's one of those fabulous specimens of suburban sprawl, with the mall being about 20 square miles in itself, and surrounded by big box stores.  But it gets better -- it's about half outlet stores, including a Gap AND Banana Republic outlets.  And, they have a movie theater.  A 24 screen, Egyptian-themed movie theater, which is supposedly the most trafficked movie theater in the nation. The problem with this awesome movie theater is that there is never any parking within a mile of it.  Even in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, I wasn’t taking any chances, because I get my fill of parking space shortages around our house in Fell’s Point.  So I parked outside the Bass Pro Shop, in between two massive trucks.

As I parked my car, I felt a little shudder run down my spine.  At the time, I thought it was from Joel insisting on turning off the heat in the car, with no regard for my comfort (if you couldn’t tell, this is one of our recurring battles.  We could live a happy, happy life together if our body temperatures and television preferences weren’t polar opposites).  But now I realize that actually, that shudder was a physiological reaction to the fact that I was about to enter the Twilight Zone.

Here is the description of the store from the Arundel Mills’ website:

Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World

Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World offers the most comprehensive selection of Fishing, Hunting, Camping, Boating, Golf and Outdoor Gear, that you will find anywhere under one roof.  More than just a fishing and hunting store, you'll finda tremendous selection of outdoor and casual apparel, gifts, toys and merchandise for the entire family, with great brands, all at a guaranteed low price!

Unlike most self-promoting descriptions, this is not an exaggeration.

On this particular Sunday, they had several events going on outside the store, and before we even got in we’d passed through a boat show, a blood drive, and a BBQ/raffle.  There were more people waiting in line for their $6 pit beef sandwich than there are in the entire state of Rhode Island.

At this point of writing this entry, I was seriously struggling to think of how I could possibly describe what we encountered inside this "store".  Honestly, I wasn't sure that it could be put into words.  But!  Luckily, Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World has a website.  And their website has pictures, which are, in this case, worth much more than a thousand words.

After we'd navigated through the boat maze and the sanctioned blood-letting and the rabid meat consumption, we pushed our way through the entrance, which was lined on both sides by wire bins filled with these:

I picked one up and stuck it in Joel's face, saying "RIBBIT! RIBBIT!" Several people turned around to stare at me, and I commented under my breath that these people were pretty uptight if they couldn't laugh at a good frog imitation.  Joel just looked at me, then at the can cooler in my hand, and said "Um... that's a bass."  Ah, a bass, as in, not a frog.  I didn't see what the huge deal was, but apparently, I'd violated the Bass Pro shops Outdoor World credo, which is that animals are not funny or cute.  Animals are for killing.

We quickly walked away, and we were still on track with plenty of time to make it to the movie, until Joel was drawn in by the power of some orange rubber pants with suspenders, which looked something like this, except that they were orange.   In the time that I have known him, Joel has never been fishing, and certainly has not been doing the sort of fishing that would require pants like this (in orange).  But such is the power of the Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World brainwashing, that he was seriously considering paying nearly $100 for these.  I had wandered over to watch the demonstration that was going on in front of the 9 billion gallon fish tank over to the right, but I looked back just in time to see Joel's look of anguish as he desired those pants, he had to have them, they were his precious.  I knew I had to do something to break his trance, so I shouted out "Hey, my uncle fishes all the time and he has a hat he wears all the time and guess what it says.  'I'm a BASSHOLE'  Hahaha!" This tactic was not appreciated by the audience in front of the fish tank, who were learning from a very distinguished man with a gray mullet how to kill more fish in less time.  I suspect that several of them owned the same hat.

On the day in question, the nice little children watching the nice alive fishies were replaced by an audience of Maryland hicks learning how to catch more bass.

I was starting to become afraid for my life, so I walked away from the enraptured redneck audience, and I stumbled upon these, right next to the orange rubber pants that Joel was pining after.

Hey Dad!  Ever wonder what to dress your toddler in when you want to bring him hunting with you?  We have just the thing!  And now, also in a lacy version for your little girl.   

Yay!  Kill Bambi again Daddy!

As I held those lace-trimmed camo diaper covers in my hands, the theme from the Twilight Zone started playing in my head.  I quickly replaced the children's hunting apparel and tried to make my way out of the store (I abaondoned Joel when I remembered that I was carrying his wallet in my purse, so he was in no danger of succumbing to his desire to purchase The Orange Pants).  But before I could exit, I had to get around the indoor climbing wall.

On Sunday, the wall was speckled with children in bright yellow helmets struggling to make their way up Mt. Bass Pro Shop.  At least this is good, I thought.  Helping kids get exercise.  Teaching them survival skills.  All good things.  Until, I made it to the other side, where....

...two huge, dead, stuffed moose blocked my exit path.  And from the looks of it, they were getting ready to fight.  I don't think that the cougar about to pounce on the mountain goat were there on Sunday, but I might be mistaken.  The DEAD MOOSE gave me a little bit of a shock, I must admit, and I'm not sure that I looked up the mountain to see if there were any additional dead animals posed on it.  There might have been.

**I worked on this post for a long ass time yesterday, only to find that typepad had deleted everything after this point, probably because they are on Bass Pro Shops' payroll or something. But, I rewrote it, so screw you, Typepad, I will not be censored. Unfortunately, it was much better the first time.  You'll just have to trust me on that.  And I'll just have to start saving things to my hard drive**

So, now I was more than a little wierded out, and also very lost.  Because it's a big ass store.  And, I have no sense of direction.  If I had been thinking clearly, I might have gone over to the camping section, grabbed a compas, and navigated my way out of that place. But my head was spinning, and all I could think about was find Joel and getting the hell out of there, so I started looking around for the giant fish tank so I could orient myself.

I oriented myself right into the gun section.  Guns in general make me very uncomfortable (except when they are being handled by the able detectives in Law and Order), so I hightailed it out of there, but not before I saw a nice looking boy of about 9 or 10 years of age, hoist up a crossbow, aim it at his little brother, and fire it.  Don't worry, it wasn't loaded.  Bass Pro Shops are smart enough to store their ammunition behind a secure glass counter, and I'm sure those boys will grow up to be well-adjusted, producive members of society.

I started walking very briskly through aisle after aisle, desperately searching for Joel, and at every turn I seemed to be confronted by more dead, stuffed animals staring at me with their glassy eyes.  There were dead geese suspended from the ceiling in perfect V formation.  A dead baby bear climbing on a log in the camping section.  Dead ducks, otters, and partridges.  There was even a fake man, walking across a suspension bridge made of ropes and wooden planks that was hanging from the ceiling.  An idyllic scene... except that the man was falling through two broken planks in the bridge, which he was crossing in the first place because a large, angry, dead, stuffed bear was chasing him.

Then, like a shining beacon, I saw a patch of bright orange rubber hanging from the wall.  It was The Pants.  And closeby stood Joel, who was now enraptured by the bass fishing demonstration by the huge fish tank. 

I grabbed him and tried to tell him that we had to get out of that godforsaken place, but he'd fallen under the Bass Pro Shops spell.  A breif scuffle ensued as Joel desperately tried to extract his wallet from my bag in order to purchase The Orange Pants, and just as I turned to run screaming back to the car, I saw IT.  A moment later Joel saw IT too, and we both stood in utter, horrible, awe.

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

At this point, I need to pause for a moment to give you a little background.  One fine day, circa 1979, a mama raccoon was killed on the road outside our house in New Jersey, which, sadly, is a pretty common occurence on our particular stretch of road.  But the pathetic wailing that my parents heard was something new, and they went to check it out.  They found two baby raccoons clinging to each other, having just witnessed the tragic death of their mother.  My mother and father brought the baby coons into the house and raised them, keeping them as pets even after they were fully grown.  Eventually, they released Rocky and Missy back into the wild, but they still returned whenever we called them, with their own babies in tow, to eat Wonderbread crusts out of our hands.  Needless to say, there is a special place in my heart for raccoons. (And anyone from Disney who would like to purchase the movie rights to this heartbreaking true story, feel free to email me).

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

Standing in front of us, on top of the display, was a stuffed raccoon.  He was standing upright, with a terrible, sad look on his face.  Through each of his front paws, some industrious Bass Pro Shops employee had hammered a nail.  Propped up between the two nails was a fishing lure.  Apparently, this was the lure that the Raccoon Jesus would recommend.

The sight of the raccon with his stigmata was enough to snap Joel out of his trance, and we speedily exited the store and entered the actual mall.  And once The Orange Pants had lost their hold over his mind, Joel remembered the original reason for this trip: we were supposed to be seeing a movie.  Oh God, the movie.  I looked at my watch and stared for a moment in amazement.  Less than 15 minutes had passed since we had gotten out of the car.  For the first time, Joel and I were going to be early.

Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World: Check Your Reality at the Door

Untitled (I'm artistic like that, and also lazy)

Saturday was a long day, my friends.  The alarm went off at 7:15am, which, tragically, is the same time that I get up for work on weekdays.  Except that on Saturday, I couldn't hit snooze 6 times and stay in bed until 7:55, like I usually do before work.  Because I was determined to leave by 8:00am so that I wouldn't be late for class again this week.  Last time, I left my house at 8:30 and due to single-tracking on the DC metro, slow people getting in my way on the escalators, and the world spewing its hate at me in general, I was 30 minutes late, which is way more than my usual 5 minutes late.  So, I left at 8:00 on the dot so that I would be right on time for the 10:00 start of class. 

Arrival time in DC was 8:42.  I was parked (legally, no less) and in Starbucks by 9:03.  So I would just like to say a big THANK YOU to my dad for the Starbucks credit card thing he gave me for my birthday.  Because if it weren't for that and the coffee and cinnamon raisin bagel it bought me, I would have been pretty pissed off at being somewhere an hour early on a Saturday morning. 

I handed in my newly minted paper, but not before I noticed at least 3 more typos.   I sat in a darkened room and looked at art slides for 5 hours, and I stayed awake.  Then I drove home to Baltimore, just in time to make it to a yoga class, where I realized just how much flexibility you can lose when you neglect exercising in all its forms for over 2 weeks. 

And by this point, it was already 6:30pm.  We were all set to relax at home for a bit and then go to a movie.  Because that's how Joel and I roll on a Saturday night.  We're rockstars, I know.

Except that Joel and I are never on time for anything.  Movies included.  And I hate rushing, even though I am always rushing to everything, because I am always, always late.  So when all of a sudden it was 9:20, I realized we weren't going to be making it to the 9:50 movie.  So we opened up some of the $9.99 bottles of Boordy's "Maryland heirloom" wine I bought on Friday instead.

Sometimes I forget how much I love wine, and the happy buzz that it brings.  Sometimes I also forget that the happy wine buzz becomes an angry wine headache when you drink an entire bottle of cheap wine for dinner.   I remembered this fact very clearly though, when I woke up at 3am sweating bullets, head pounding.  I stumbled to the bathroom (I'd like to point out that the stumbling was not due to being drunk, but due to the fact that my back hurts me when I sleep in any position other than Child's Pose, and sleeping in Child's Pose makes my legs fall asleep) and pulled out my giant sized bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol (again, because of he back).  And then I cursed the half-pint Deer Park bottle for being the only water vessel in the bathroom.  I drank about 8 half-pints of water (this, I'll admit was because of the hangover), and sat on the toilet while the feeling came back into my legs and the pounding in my head stopped.  And then I realized there was something very wrong with this picture. 

Any time we go into the bathroom, for ANY reason, we are accompanied by a cat.  Either the cats think that we are not mature enough to brush our teeth and take showers without a chaperon, or they are just two perverted voyeurs. Whatever the reason, it is the only thing that Max and Madison agree on: do not, under any circumstances, allow a human a moment of peace in the bathroom.  And yet, there I was, sitting in the bathroom, self-medicating and even considering peeing before going back to bed, and no felines were barging in to supervise my activities.  Visions of them escaping the house through some masterminded jailbreak, or finally killing each other during one of their royal rumbles, or eating too much sheetrock off the floor and keeling over dead, flashed through my head, and at that moment I realized that I wasn't as hung over as I thought I was.  Because that horrible screeching sound wasn't in my head after all.  In fact, it was coming from outside, where about twelve very horny tomcats were lined up on the wall, yowling their hearts out. I think I saw the exact same scene once in a Garfield cartoon, and Garfield threw trays of lasagna at them to shut them up. What the family-oriented Garfield cartoon didnt have was two perverted peeping toms, no pun intended, glued to the window, wishing that they could be outside howling it up too.  And wishing even more that they were still in possession of their testicles.  So, that confirmed it: Max and Madison weren't dead after all, but apparently they are perverted voyeurs (as I had suspected).  I popped some more Tylenol and a couple sleeping pills and washed it down with another half pint of tap water, and went back to bed.  I shut the door to block out the serenade going on outside, and then I put a pillow over my head to block out the fervent scratching at the door when Max got bored of looking impotently out the window and wanted to resume his nightly routine of staring at me while I'm sleeping.  But my acetaminophen cocktail and my willpower combined were too strong for him, and they stayed locked out, and we slept until 11:30.  And it was glorious.

When I finally emerged from my fortress of solitude, I found that in a frenzy to escape to the outside world, some anonymous feline had managed to knock over the suitcase that was serving to cover the large hole in the wall (the holes in the wall are a long story of it's own, for another time.  For now, all you need to know is leaky pipe, holes in wall, hidden tastefully by suitcase).  They both swore in their cat-way of communicating (which includes copiously ignoring anything that they have knocked over, eaten, or destroyed) that they had nothing to do with it.  I have my doubts, though, since Madison had several chunks of sheetrock hanging from his fluffy little tail, and Max was covered from head to tail in a fine layer of white dust.  So, either Max has been using crack again, or they took it upon themselves to inspect the structural integrity of our house in the middle of the night.  And probably chewed up some wires while they were at it, just for good measure.  I am confident that they did not bother the nice little mouse that lives in the walls, though, because he was still running around in there on Sunday night. 

Well, my friends, that was my Saturday and Sunday morning.  Sunday afternoon was possibly even more interesting, with more missed movie times, slightly less wine consumption, and a very disturbing trip to the Arundel Mills Mall in between. But I'll leave you hanging on that, because I have officially just contracted carpal tunnel syndrome, and I really, really need some coffee.

A hard day's work

The paper is done.

It was only supposed to be a 5-pager, which would have been a big deal in high school.  But in college I refined my BS-ing skills so that I could bang out a 20 page research paper in less than 24 hours, without actually doing any research.  So 5 pages is no big deal.  So much not a big deal, that there's no chance of starting it earlier than the day before it's due.

So, the Day Off Work to Write The Paper went something like this:

9:00am -- Wake up, brush teeth, put on non-work day uniform of sweat pants and fleece top.

9:15am -- Do some vacuuming.  Put away some laundry.  Revel in the fact that I'm not at work.

10:00am -- Start up computer with full intention of starting paper.

10:01am -- See that the neighbors' wireless network is working again.  start surfing internet.

11:00am -- Pack up computer and go to physical therapy appointment.

12:00pm -- Go to Chipotle for lunch with Joel.

1:00pm -- Settle in at Barnes and Noble to really get to work.

1:05pm -- Realize that the Inner Harbor Barnes and Noble has only one outlet not covered by a bookcase, and it's covered by a huge garbage can.

1:10 pm -- Start working on paper anyway.

1:30 pm -- Computer battery dies.

1:31pm -- Eat leftovers from Chipotle.

1:45pm -- Arrive at coffee shop equipped with power outlets for computer, and free wireless internet.

2:20pm-- Stop surfing free wireless internet and resume working on paper.

4:30pm-- Get sick of looking at paper and declare it fished.  Attempt to email paper to Joel, and find that free wireless internet is no longer working.

4:45-- Arrive at home.  Connect to neighbor's wireless internet and email paper to Joel.

5:00pm-- Call Joel to see if he's printed out paper yet.  Joel claims not to have received email. Realize I typed in his email address wrong.  Re-email paper and make Joel wait on phone to ensure it goes through.  Wish that at some point over the past two and a half years, I had gotten around to setting up the printer at home.

5:05pm-- Joel receives paper.  Joel finds typo in paper. Fix typo.  Joel notices that I have used word "bourgeoisie" multiple times in paper.  Tell Joel to JUST PRINT IT OUT AND STOP JUDGING ME.

5:30pm-- Joel delivers printed out paper.

6:00pm--Realize I forgot to pick up cat food from vet.  And also forgot to shower today.

6:01pm-- Go to vet to pick up cat food.  Find out that they're all out. 

6:20pm -- Pick up wine on the way home from vet.

Einstein would totally understand

On Tuesday, my professor was going on in his wonderful British accent, saying that Einstein was a mess and totally disorganized because creative people aren't detail-oriented.  And that detail-oriented people aren't creative.  And I took offense.

But, then I realized that it's probably true, and that's why this entry is so boring.  I'm about as compulsive as they come.  "Detail-oriented" might even be on my resume.  It's not my fault, just like it wasn't Al Einstien's fault that he could never remember to brush his hair.  Neither can I dude, at least we've got that in common.

Not only am I apparently un-creative, I'm also a terrible student and a terrible employee.

I took the day off of work tomorrow to work on a paper due on Saturday.  I was planning to have that time "just in case."  But now, here it is, Thursday afternoon, and I haven't started.  Instead of starting, here I am writing about not starting. 

I also may have worn a low cut shirt to class, with the intention of making said professor more likely to "suggest" a topic for my final paper and maybe even "suggest" a few good sources to look at.

And it may have worked.

It's the most wonderful time of the year....

March 1st is my second-favorite non-holiday holiday of the year.  I have been looking forward to this day for MONTHS. 

Why?  Why look forward to March 1st?  Because it is MARCH!! Don’t you get it?  March means spring is almost here.  March means the cold weather is on it’s way out the door.  Forget “in like a lion out like a lamb” and the stupid groundhog in Pennsylvania running around looking for his shadow with 100 news cameras in his poor little face.  They’re old wive’s tales, they’re superstition, they mean nothing. 

If you’re still thinking “but March 1st isn’t a holiday!” then I ask, what exactly is a holiday?  To me, a holiday is a day that satisfies one or more of the following conditions:  1. I get presents 2. I don’t have to go to work 3. Something great happens.  Don’t confuse the third condition with “something great happened on this date in the past and now I’m remembering it.”  Because there's a big difference.

For example: President’s Day is not a holiday. It’s just a random date, sorta-kinda close to Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays, and I was definitely at work.  That is not a holiday.  The day after Thanksgiving, now, THAT is a holiday.

So, Happy March 1st (or as I like to call it, End of the Dreary Winter Day), the second-best unrecognized holiday of the year.  And if that groundhog sees his shadow next year, I'm sending Max to Punxsutawney to eat him. 

Did someone say eat?