Operation Pink Herring

Good help is hard to find

Last week, when my dentist told me that investing in an electric toothbrush was not an option, but rather an order, I was pretty sure there was no less fun way to spend $100.

I was wrong.  Because you know what is less fun?  Spending $138 at the vet, only to have your cat hiss at you and pee in the carrier.

Oh, Max.  Max, Max, Max.  Max has been chewing on himself again, and as much as I adore his idiosyncrasies and sympathize with his neurotic nature, having a cat that looks like he has leprosy isn't cool.  So, yesterday when I called to refill his kitty Xanax and low-allergen food, I also asked if I could make an appointment.  Lucky for me, they had an opening tonight.  Unluckily for me, Max has apparently learned to read a calendar and understand my telephone conversations. 

I always take the cat carrier out of the closet a few days before he has an appointment so that he won't associate the carrier directly with the dreaded trips outside his safety zone, but this time I didn't have a few days to lull him into a sense of false security.  I don't think Madison's insistence on sleeping in the carrier, and remaining in it when I brought it downstairs (while Max was scarfing down his daily Mommy's-home-from-work snack) helped either.   The minute I set it down, he looked up from his food bowl and bolted upstairs.  A few seconds later, I heard him pound up the stairs to the third floor. 

Instead of finding him lounging on top of the air conditioning vent in the bedroom, he was nowhere to be seen.  I checked his very favorite hiding place, and there he was, huddled under the bed, against the wall.  While Max hides under the bed everytime someone knocks on the door, when a large truck drives by, and on any date where the first of the month is a Thursday, I've never before had to extract him.   It was quite an enlightening experience.

Our bed, which I purchased secondhand for $30, is an Ikea masterpiece.  It has a queen-sized wooden frame, but doesn't need a boxspring, which is key when you live in a house so narrow that you have to hoist a mattress over the outside balcony.  Instead, it has these wooden slats attached together by a ribbon that runs through them, which gives support to the mattress.  Those Swedes, geniuses, I tell you.  But I bet they never had to coax a neurotic cat out from underneath Dalselv.  If they had, they would have thought twice about putting those supports down the middle of the frame.  Sure, they're great for "structural integrity"... not so great when you're sweeping a broomstick across the floor in an attempt to herd a large, angry cat out of his hideaway.  Pulling the broomstick out just enough to get it around the support gives Mr. Cat just enough room to squeeze past and hide against the wall.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  About 5 billion times. 

I finally had to get down on my belly and squeeze under the bed myself, grabbing Max by the scruff of his neck and dragging it out.  This was fun, because: 1. Max is large, 2. Max is surprisingly strong, 3. Max really doesn't want to come out, 4. you would not believe how dirty it is underneath a bed.  But, I got him out, and with the help of a towel and a few glasses of wine, got him into the carrier.  And then I remembered that Joel took my car to work, because his has a broken taillight and can't be driven until it is fixed, because he got a "repair" "order" from the "sheriff" last week. So we walked to the vet.  Needless to say, peeing occurred the first time we passed an unfamiliar blade of grass.

And then we waited.  And then, we got to see Condescending Jerk, DVM, because Nice Lady Vet is out on maternity leave.  Still.  SHE IS NEVER COMING BACK.  WAAAAAHHHHH.  There was some hissing and some growling from Max and some highway robbery for me.  And then Joel came and got us and we went home and I feel asleep on the couch for several hours.

I was in need of a bit of humor, I'll admit, and the internet is never disappointing when you're looking for a little pick-me-up.  Especially when you've posted an ad for a petsitter on Craigslist earlier in the day.  There are so many people out there willing to come into my home while I'm on vacation, care for my beloved animals, and have wild sex on my kitchen table and steal all my Ikea furniture.  It really warms my heart.  If you need a little light in your life, just read on:

Surprise! I made you something.

 

Doesn't that look delicious?   Yes, well, I thought so too.  And so, approximately two weeks ago, I decided that I would make it, as a surprise, mind you, for our anniversary.  Because we're "saving money" for our vacation next month.  I say that in quotes, because HA!  Yea right.  Meaning yesterday I spent just under $8 on crappy food from The Daily Grind, and this month has also included a trip to the Arundel Mills behemoth mall to purchase three skirts, three shirts, two necklaces, two pairs of jeans, a cute little nightgown-thingy, and some moviestar sunglasses.  All of which I bought "for vacation".  Wha??

So I decided to cook us a nice dinner, as a SURPRISE, because everything I cook always turns out so very well, especially when I'm trying to do it in secret.  It just sounded like a good idea at the time, OK?  And I found a recipe for "Cracked Pepper Blend Strip Steaks with Spinach-Corn Salad in Citrus Soy " at Wegmans.com, which -- despite the extremely long name -- looked like I could probably manage it.  Plus, the picture.  Yum. 

The one problem with the wealth of recipes at Wegmans.com is that I have no innate ability for cooking, and I've learned, the hard way, that when I'm trying something new, I really cannot afford to risk substituting Safeway brand ingredients for things like "4 Perfect Portion Strip Steaks (6 oz each)."  I've tried it, it's not a good idea.  There is a pumpkin roll cake out there somewhere who will testify to this fact.  Being older and wiser than I once was, I made a covert trip to Wegman's, and with the help of my equally talented chef friend, Liz, found all of the necessary ingredients to make The Perfect Anniversary Dinner:

Cracked Pepper Blend Strip Steaks with Spinach-Corn Salad in Citrus Soy  Serves 4 Active Time: 15 min Total Time: 1 hour

1/2 lb snow peas
4 ears corn, shucked
Wegmans Basting Oil
4 Perfect Portion Strip Steaks (6 oz each)
2 Tbsp Wegmans Cracked Pepper Blend
1 pkg (6 oz) Food You Feel Good About Baby Spinach
1/2 cup Wegmans Citrus Soy Sauce (Prepared Foods), warmed

Preheat grill on HIGH for 10 min.

1. Bring pan of salted water to boil on HIGH heat. Add snow peas; blanch 1-2 min or until crisp-tender. Drain and shock in ice water (to stop cooking process). Drain and cut in thin strips; set aside.
2. Clean grill with wire brush; using soft cloth, coat lightly with vegetable oil.
3. Drizzle corn with basting oil. Reduce heat to MEDIUM-HIGH; grill 8-10 min, turning frequently. Remove from grill; set aside.
4. Sprinkle steaks generously with cracked pepper blend, pressing in with heel of hand. Drizzle with basting oil (too much oil will cause flare-ups on grill).
5. Sear steaks until color changes one-quarter up from bottom, 3-4 min. Turn over and sear other side, 3-4 min longer. Brush seared meat with basting oil.
6. Turn; brush again with basting oil. Reduce heat to MEDIUM; close lid.
7. Cook to 5 degrees below desired internal temperature (see chart below), 8-10 min. Check by inserting digital thermometer halfway into thickest part of steak. Remove from grill and let stand 5 min before serving. Temperature will continue to rise 5-10 degrees.
8. Cut kernels from cobs. Gently toss together corn kernels, peas, spinach, and 1/4 cup Citrus Soy Sauce. Serve steaks over Spinach-Corn Salad, and drizzle with remaining Citrus Soy Sauce

See, even though it wins the prize for Longest Recipe Name Ever, it doesn't look that complicated... but yet, it's not so elementary either.  In a word: perfect.  I stowed the ingredients we purchased at Liz's house until Monday night so that the surprise wouldn't be given away when Joel noticed there were mysteriously all sorts of things in the fridge.  We hit a little snag when neither of us knew whether you should refrigerate corn on the cob, but we figured, eh, can't hurt.  Right??  Ack. 

I picked up the ingredients on Monday night and left Joel with strict instructions not to peek in the bags.  By this point, I had already admitted that the surprise was a special dinner, cooked by moi, because Joel kept asking if I wanted to go out to dinner, what with it being Restaurant Week and all.   Surely we could make an exception to our No Going Out to Eat Until Vacation rule for our anniversary?  Come on, it's only $30 for a three course meal at all these awesome restaurants we've been wanting to try!  Well, why don't you want to go? 

I didn't really mind admitting the surprise, because I am not very good at keeping such things a secret when I'm all excited about them.  Besides, the real anticipation was: Will She Ruin It?

Well, wager your bets ladies and gentlemen.  Did I ruin it?  The pictures will tell the tale.  You knew I took pictures, right?

Step 1: Bring pan of salted water to boil on HIGH heat. Add snow peas; blanch 1-2 min or until crisp-tender.

Pardon me, sirs, but that is about nineteen steps, not one.  And, really, "Step 1" was preheat the grill for 10 minutes, which I did not do, because I was too busy wondering things like, how much salt?  how much water?  what kind of pan? to notice that little pre-step.   Yikes, what does "blanch" mean?  Maybe this was not such a good idea.  Shit.  Well, too late to turn back now. 

I decided it was actually an excellent opportunity to use the giant wok (I think it is a wok, at least) that I have never used before.  Blanch away!

Is this what blanching is supposed to look like?  Maybe I should ask my trusty assistant.

Trusty Assistant, that look of confusion is not very helpful. 

Blanch = Boil?

Drain and shock in ice water (to stop cooking process). Drain and cut in thin strips; set aside.

I bet there was an argument over at Wegmans.com as to whether "(to stop cooking process)" was really necessary to add.  I for one, was quite glad to know why the hell you would want to shock your snow peas and make them pee their pants.  Especially before eating them. But, that little aside made it all clear.  Shock away! 

Except I only had like half a tray of ice cubes, and they were still totally steaming.  So I put them in the freezer.  Didn't see that coming, did ya, guys?

In fact, they were so shocked that they died and became angels, halo and all.

While I was waiting, I went ahead and preheated the grill.  Better late than never.  But first, I completed Step 2: Clean grill with wire brush; using soft cloth, coat lightly with vegetable oil. Because, REALLY, were you supposed to do that after the grill had been on for 10 minutes?  Maybe it's just me, but that sounds like a real bad idea.  I'm not even going to tell you that I learned that from experience.  Several times. 

Step 3: Drizzle corn with basting oil. Reduce heat to MEDIUM-HIGH; grill 8-10 min, turning frequently. Remove from grill; set aside.

Done and done.

Step 4: Sprinkle steaks generously with cracked pepper blend, pressing in with heel of hand. Drizzle with basting oil (too much oil will cause flare-ups on grill).

(Step 4.5: Gently break the news to Max that this is not for him.)

You really can't blame him for wanting some though. 

I mean, that's practically a work of art.

Step 5: Sear steaks until color changes one-quarter up from bottom, 3-4 min. Turn over and sear other side, 3-4 min longer. Brush seared meat with basting oil.

(Step 5.5: Invest in a stopwatch.) 

Step 6: Turn; brush again with basting oil. Reduce heat to MEDIUM; close lid.

Hey, guess what.  They weren't kidding about that flare-up thing.

Step 7: Cook to 5 degrees below desired internal temperature, 8-10 min. Check by inserting digital thermometer halfway into thickest part of steak. Remove from grill and let stand 5 min before serving. Temperature will continue to rise 5-10 degrees.

(Step 7.5: While you're out buying that stopwatch, also pick up a meat thermometer.)

Step 8: Cut kernels from cobs. Gently toss together corn kernels, peas, spinach, and 1/4 cup Citrus Soy Sauce. Serve steaks over Spinach-Corn Salad, and drizzle with remaining Citrus Soy Sauce.

(Step 9: Remember that you were also totally planning to cook some rice, but totally forgot.)

(Step 10: Regret that you decided against buying the recommended Uncle Ben's Ready-to-Heat Cooked Brown Rice, in a moment of haughtiness when you though, "Oh, I'll just use the regular brown rice that I alraedy have.  THE KIND THAT TAKES 20 MINUTES TO COOK.") 

(Step 11:  Use extra 20 minutes, which actually turns out to be more like 30 minutes, to clean up the mess you've made in the kitchen, pour a large glass of wine, talk to your dad on the phone, and watch your boyfriend swinging your helpless, innocent cat around in a paper bag, because that is their idea of "fun" and also "a good idea".)

(Step 11: Enjoy delicious meal you've prepared, rice and all, on your rooftop deck, whilst cat claws bag to shreds.)

All in all, I considered the meal a great success.  I didn't overcook the meat, and we averted all major disasters.  That's two successful cooking endeavors in a row, for those who are keeping track at home.   

Tonight we're going out for Restaurant Week.  Screw the rules.  It's our anniversary and we'll blow the budget if we want to.

Anticipation

I have a surprise planned for tomorrow... and it's driving Joel crazy.  I'm not good at keeping surprises a secret, I usually either get too excited and just tell him, or I accidentally give it away before the big moment comes.  But, so far, I'm on par for tomorrow.  Are you excited?  I am.  It doesn't take much these days, I'm afraid. 

Oh, and my portfolio?  The one that's due on Aug 1?  It's not so much coming along.  So, that's where I am when I'm not at work and off plotting grand surprises for The Man I Love.   Plus, things are boring lately.  The highlights of my weekend were trying not to listen to a poetry reading as we were diligently trying to vacation-plan whilst sipping expensive coffee drinks, and staying up until 1am last night playing "20 questions" with Joel trying to guess my awesome surprise.   Just wait until mid-August when I'll be all West Coast vacations and debaucherous parties.  Just you wait.  Then I'll be interesting.  Maybe.  Shut up.

Flashback

In honor of our upcoming anniversary on the 25th, Joke suggested a post about the beginning of my relationship with Joel, which is sort of a great idea, and I sort of wish I had thought of it myself.   The one problem is that I am outspokenly anti-sap.  Don't get me wrong, I can be a regular waterworks, but I like to keep my sentimentalism to myself because I'm the first to start gagging when someone is going on and on about their perfect life and perfect boyfriend and blah blah, pardon me while I vomit.   Not that my life and boyfriend are perfect... but you know what I mean. 

But anyway, I started thinking about a post about the beginning of our relationship, and I just got overwhelmed.  It seems like SUCH a long time ago.  I feel like those were different people, in different lifetimes.  Also, those were very troubling and embarrassing times, where I would frequently visit Joel late at night when I was intoxicated and he was trying to sleep before waking up for crew practice at 5am, and I'd start a fight about something, because that always seems like a good thing to do when you're drunk and the guy you really think you sort of like is sleeping.

Now I need to make a confession.  I have a pen and paper journal that used to be a super duper top secret when I thought that other people would actually care about the middle of the night ramblings I'd scrawl down in purple pen.  Now I keep them in a desk where Joel could read them anytime he wanted to, but I know he respects my privacy.  Either that, or he doesn't want to know what really goes on in my head.  Sometimes I write in it three times a week... lately it's been more like three times a year.  I rarely ever read the things I've written, because it's usually painful to see how worked up I was over silly things, and how often I find myself questioning my own sanity.  But every once in awhile, I leaf through them, and I'm so happy that I recorded, in a completely uncensored way, exactly what I was thinking at that moment.  It's so funny to see the things I thought were SO important, the plans I had for my life, and the people and things that really affected me.  Some of them still do.  But most of the time, I'd totally forgotten that it even happened. 

So, while I was thinking about the beginning of our relationship, I decided to look back to see what I'd written at that time.  And I found one entry that really, perfectly sums that period of time up.   It's so funny to look at this now, four years later, and remember exactly how confused, scared, excited I was (and I'm so happy that my quarter-life crisis decided to show up several years early, so I'm no longer an emotional wreck 7 days a week).  So, may I present, the first (and probably last) glimpse into the true mind of moi.   At this point we'd been "dating" about 2 and a half weeks, and I was still not using the b- and g- words. 

August 9, 2002

I don't know how all of a sudden I've fallen so hard for this boy, but it scares me.  I'm so mad at myself for being such an idiot and letting alcohol and estrogen overload make me look like an psycho.  Now I don't know what to do -- he changed his mind now and left a message on my phone saying I could come over if I want to, but that's not what I want to do -- well, actually that totally is, but what I don't want to do is be annoying and be there all the time when he just wants some space.  Most of all, I don't want to feel like such a psycho!  God.  If I were him I would be scared by now -- and the thing is, I don't even want a relationship where we feel like we need to check in every day, etc.  I like things the way they are, but somehow I can't seem to leave them alone.  Seriously, what is my problem? At least I'm not Jane* or John* or Joe*... gotta try to keep things in perspective -- my best friend didn't sleep with my boyfriend.  Because I don't have a boyfriend.  Let's remember that too.  OK, I'm going to call him... possibly go over there if Jane is there (actually nevermind because I think she is there with Joe since she was supposed to get home hours ago and her phone is mysteriously off).  But anyway, not staying -- the stupid thing is, I don't even need to! I'd like to talk to him, but I'm not that dependent yet... and I don't plan to be!  I need my head examined.   There is definitely some truth to Liz's theory that all guys are assholes and all girls are psychos.  Except I think I've found one that's not an ass... too bad he's still stuck with a psycho.

Excuse me, I have to go find a box or ten of Kleenex now.  Happy almost-anniversary, Joely.  Thanks for not dumping me yet.

* names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent 

Product Review: The doctor is OUT

Dr. Scholl's Freeze AwayTM: Common & Plantar Wart Remover

It is quite fortunate that I happened to have a dermatologist appointment to continue dealing with my acne-prone skin (which is far less prone to acne nowadays, thanks to twice-a-day antibiotics for the past 3 months), and that my dermatologist happened to be willing to burn my warts/calluses (actual pathology still undetermined) off at the same time, because this lovely stuff that the social Safeway sold to me several months ago has failed to do anything but make me cringe at the sight of the box. 

Let's take a look at the claims on the box, shall we?

"Doctor Proven Method" = This method works when administered by someone who went to medical school.  But, feel free to try it yourself!  Who are we to discriminate? And only $17.99!! A veritable bargain compared to a year at Harvard Med!

"Removes warts fast with as few as 1 treatment" = Haha!!! Or, you can spend an hour working up the courage to freeze off your own toe three times, and still have warts.  Idiot.

"Safe to use on kids ages 4 and older" = Burns like a mothafucka and will make a 25-year-old tear up.  Every damn time.

Picture of shiny white q-tip = PAIN.  SEE IT RADIATING?

"12 Treatments" = So, who wants in on the pool?  I say she tries it 4 times before she gets a clue and goes to a doctor.  Benny, you in?  Odds are 2 to 1.

"UPC 40226" = International code for suckers. 

The verdict?  Save yourself $17.99 and a lot of whimpering and go to a doctor, who can take care of the problem-o in less than 30 seconds, with a lot less tears.  I would recommend Dr. Scholl's Freeze AwayTM: Common & Plantar Wart Remover only if you do not have insurance, or if you enjoy things like stabbing yourself with a thousand daggers. 

Anyone want to try it?  I still have about 7 of the 12 treatments left, speak up before garbage day on Friday.

I appreciate my car, really I do...

... but let me give a word of advice to anyone who is a little bit stupid, like myself: DON'T ATTEMPT A LONG DRIVE IN 90+ DEGREES IN A BLACK CAR WITH NO AIR CONDITIONING.  Just don't do it.  No.  Seriously, don't.  It's not worth it.

I might have mentioned a time or two that I am a bit compulsive, so it will come as no surprise when I tell you that I keep track of how often I gas up my car.  Mostly this is to make myself feel better about showing up to work every day smelling like I haven't showered in a week (which is sometimes true, but in the summer even I can't pull off not showering at least every other day).  Sure, I might have just sweated through my cute little Ann Taylor shell... but I'm saving the planet!   It's OK that I have to do about nine times as much laundry, because I'm not contributing to our oil dependency!  When I made the trip to the airport last week, I stopped for gas, even though I still had half a tank, because I have promised my father I will stop running my tank down to empty and then calling him to wonder why my car isn't starting.  I looked at my little sheet (on the back of a Dunkin Donuts napkin), and saw that the last time I had gotten gas was on the first day of classes, 6.5 weeks ago.  A new record!  Hooray!

The problem with not driving like, ever, is that I tend to forget that not having air conditioning in the car is not acceptable when you live south of the Mason-Dixon line.   I'm all, WHAT, in college we didn't have any air conditioning and we survived just fine.  Which is two steps away from sitting around in a rocking chair telling my grandbabies about the good old days when I walked to school nine miles each way, in the snow, barefoot, uphill.  Because while it's true that we didn't have air conditioning in college, we were most certainly NOT FINE.  I definitely cried alot about not being able to sleep because my sheets were soaked with sweat, dumped ice water over my head, and walked around half naked because wearing clothes was pointless and just created more sweaty laundry.   These are the things I forget now that we live in the land of central air, where I wake up sweating in the middle of the night, go downstairs and turn the air back on, pop a few Tylenol PM, and go back to sleep.

On Saturday I finished my last class in a very anticlimactic fashion, came home and laid on the couch for an hour, and then started to get myself together to go down to DC to hang out with Jenny.  I contemplated packing a change of clothes and a toothbrush in case I didn't feel like driving home, but then I decided against it.  I did, however, think to at least change into a skirt instead wearing my one good pair of jeans.  That was a good move, and I'm quite certain it saved my life. 

I'm driving, windows are down, sunroof is open, I'm free as a bird and life is good.   That is, until I hit the Washington city limits.  I wasn't expecting too much traffic at 5:30 on a Saturday, but BOY was I wrong.   I forgot, there is traffic in DC ALL THE TIME.   This was a problem.  Because while I was fine cruising along at 80 miles per hour down 95 with the wind blowing through my hair, I was a SWEAT MACHINE sitting at the first traffic light on 50.  And then I continued to sit at that light, as it changed three times.  Such is DC traffic, you have to embrace it as part of your taxes to this country.  IF YOU HAVE AIR CONDITIONING.  If not, you just have to scream, bang your head on the steering wheel, honk, curse, and do whatever you can to try not to die, which will be hard. 

By the time I had progressed about three miles down 50, with at least 5 more miles to go in traffic, I started to panic.  Um, we were possibly going to go to a sangria party at Jenny's friend's house.  Jenny's friends all went to Richmond.  Richmond girls dress up in pretty sundresses and straighten their hair and are thin.  Jenny is going to be embarrassed of her sweaty, dumpy, Gap-clad friend.  So I did the sensible thing, and texted Jenny while I was at a stop light.  I would have called  her, except I didn't want to get my phone all nasty by putting it up to my face.  THAT'S HOW BAD IT WAS.

"I might need that second shower after all... I'm drenched," I sent to Jenny.

"Oh no, not raining here anymore," she texted back.

"Not rain.  Sweat."  I replied.

By the time I got to Jenny's house, I was literally dripping.  I felt like I was going to faint.  My favorite pink V-neck Gap tshirt had tiger stripes on it from where my stomach had flat out soaked it.  My bra? Soaked.  My back?  Soaked.  My hair?  Soaked.  My face?  Soaked, and also bright red.  It was a good look.   I hosed myself down in her bathroom, had a glass of wine, and then we decided to ditch the sangria party and instead took off in Jenny's fabulously air-conditioned car for dinner and a movie.  We saw The Devil Wears Prada.  It was excellent.  (**I've gotten some flak at work for saying I like a movie like that, when I rage against The DaVinci Code.  The difference is this:  If you're going to make a fun movie about clothes, make a fun movie about clothes.  Don't pretend that you're addressing important issues about the fashion industry, the male-female dynamic in the workplace, and the plight of Chinese children working in sweatshops.  The Devil Wears Prada was a fun movie about clothes, and I got what I came for.   The DaVinci Code, which, NO, I STILL HAVE NOT SEEN AND I NEVER WILL, on the other hand, is akin to Indiana Jones trying to pass itself off as Schindler's List.  If you want to be taken seriously, try not having a plane similar to that in XMen-2 fly your dashing Harvard professor off to Austria in 2 hours flat.   Just a suggestion.)   

Everything was great, until on my way home I saw a great flash of heat lightning, which I'm pretty sure was actually a speeding camera taking a picture of my license plate.  Damn you, DC, and your high tech enforcement of the laws.   I've heard of these dreaded speeding cameras, but up until now I've always been stuck in so much traffic in DC that I couldn't even speed if I had wanted to.  Well, that's what I get for driving home at 1am, trying to avoid sweating to death by driving under the cover of darkness.  The sad thing is, it will be my first speeding ticket ever.  Not that I don't speed.  Or that I have never been pulled over for speeding.  Because I do, and I have.  But I've never gotten a speeding ticket before.  And it will be a real shame, because I am a mere six months away from having a totally clean driving record again.  Is it true that tickets you get outside of your home state don't give you points?  Does Maryland even have points?  God, sometimes I miss New Jersey.

Anyway, this morning when I was faced with driving to a doctor's appointment, I decided I didn't want to die of a heat stoke in the middle of 83 North.  Instead of putting on my cute new work outfit (which I purchased in a Devil Wears Prada-induced shopping spree on Sunday), I put on my gym clothes.   And I need to make a few announcements to the people I may have scarred for life: 

To the woman holding a baby who saw me strip off my shirt so I could drive in a sports bra and shorts:  I'm sorry.  I have no choice.  Please don't think I'm a hooker. 

To the police officer who made eye contact with me as I was driving on 83, and yet did not pull me over:  Thank you.  Seriously, if I went under 85, I would have died.  The wind was the only thing that was saving me.  Also, I don't usually drive wearing a sports bra.  Just so you know.

To my dermatologist:  Thank you for making my skin 100 bajillion times better.  Thank you for also for freezing off the warts on my feet without asking me to make a separate appointment.  Most of all, thank you for not visibly cringing at my nasty feet.  I will buy a new pumice stone this week, I promise.

To my car:  Please don't take it personally if I don't drive you anywhere until November. 

To Max:  I will never laugh at you for sleeping on top of the air conditioning vent again.  But I may push you out of the way so that I can have a turn.

I better not have a nightmare about falling off a cliff while being strangled by a snake tonight

I sort of do not want to write this post, because I had a very nice nightmare last night that involved me being bitten in the face my an angry fanged snake and waking up screaming, literally.  If I say one more time how happy I am that Joel is coming home tonight I will be guilty of sounding like a clingy dependent-type, but holy hell, am I ever sick of living in a state of terror after the sun goes down.  I am also looking forward to Joel's return because it would be nice to wake up to something other than Madison scratching my scalp so that HE can sleep on my $100 dollar memory foam pillow, and Madison doesn't dare come near the bed when Joel is home, because Joel is the stern rule-enforcing cat-parent, while I am the one who's getting the camera because they look so cute when they walk on the kitchen table and sleep on top of the fridge.

So, now where were we?  Oh yes. 

Part 2: Heights Kill.

For those who know me in real life, I would appreciate if you could refrain from making any "well it's a good thing you're so short!  Get it?? Because you're afraid of heights?  And you're only 5'1"?? Get it??" jokes.  Yes, I get it.  It's just not that funny. 

OK, so heights.  I also hate them, although not with the same intensity as our serpentine friends, but rather with a sort of biological revulsion.  I know a few people who avoid elevators because they are claustrophobic, and as a person who has been trapped in an elevator on more than one occasion (although I can only remember one at the moment -- and a word of advice, do not get into an elevator at the National Gallery of Art having just drank an entire 20oz Diet Coke and really  having to pee.  It's a bad idea), I can understand that.  Those people are lucky, because fearing enclosed spaces is a generally accepted, while for the most part, completely irrational fear.  However, if you tell people that you hate elevators because of that split-second when they start to go down too fast, and that the feeling of free fall does not inspire Disneyland style euphoria, but instead an overwhelming urge to vomit, they will not be quite as understanding.  I know from experience.

I'm not sure why, but for a long time I would go on all the roller coasters at amusement parks, even though when they came to the inevitable mountain climb followed by a free-fall plummet I would have to try to talk myself out of crying every time.  Instead of throwing up my hands and screaming with pleasure, you would find me with my face scrunched up and eyes closed tight, clutching the bar and trying not to vomit.  At least I was smart enough to pass up that elevator ride at Disneyland though, the one where you just fall something like 13 stories straight down, which was good because there was a really long line for it. 

The fear of heights doesn't bother me on a daily basis, and actually I think this fear might even be classifiable as "rational", because I'm not the least bit scared or uncomfortable if there is a railing or some sort of protective enclosure in place.  But one of the main reasons why I declined a family vacation to the Grand Canyon was a brutal fear of riding a donkey down while overlooking our nation's greatest rocky chasm.  And the whole not showering for a week and sitting on a raft all day.  And the parties I had while I was home alone.  But, mostly, the heights.  Oh, sure, those donkeys have sure footing, I know, but can they handle a hyperventilating 16 year old with an overactive imagination?  I'm not quite confident enough to risk my life on that, thank you very much.

So where did this come from?  Was I dropped on my head as as baby?  Well, sort of. 

When I was a baby, I had one of those Fred Flinstone runner things, where I sat strapped into a bouncy little chair and propelled myself around the house with my own two feet.  According to my parents, I loved that thing, and I was awesome at it, because I was awesome at everything and also a very beautiful child to behold.  The fact that I lost all my hair around the age of 2 and was ungodly pallid in color detracted nothing from my good looks.  I was also a baby genius, by the way.  My mommy told me so.

So, my parents were building an addition onto our house to accommodate all of my baby genius paraphernalia, such as the Nobel Prize they were sure I'd win before the age of 5 and the many infant beauty pageant trophies I kept winning.  I mean, sometimes they didn't even enter me in the contests.  The judges would just see us walking by on the street and strip the medal off the other kid and give it to me.   It was hard having a child that good-looking, but my parents were making due.  This home addition included a large living room, which was two steps down from the kitchen area that had been built first.  While the foundation for the living room was being built, a "shoe" was put around the kitchen, and from what I remember (I was so goddamn smart that I remember my own birth, which was, of course, easy and painless for both Mother and myself) this consisted of a two by four nailed along the border of the kitchen.  I'd run around (training for my baby marathon, which I was favored to win) in my runner-thing, smash into the "shoe", bounce off, and run off in the other direction. 

Well, one day during the living room's progress, the shoe had to come off, and marathon training schedule was overlooked.  As I ran at full speed across the kitchen, I sailed right off the two-step cliff and into the new living room, breaking the world record for baby long-jump.  Unfortunately, I botched the landing and broke my fall with my skull. 

Now, I think I might have mentioned that, strangely, many of the people in my life are afraid of medical professionals, with my mother leading the pack.  Well, Mom secured her spot as Most Afraid of Doctors forever when, in a fit of panic-induced denial, she pretended that I was fine and sat me at the kitchen table for some lunch.  I promptly passed out in my plate.

I'm not going to lie, my memory of the incident is spotty, what with my FRACTURED SKULL and being less than two years old and all, but if Dr. Phil and his food friend Sigmund Freud were here, I think they'd tell you that I am completely justified in fearing high places for the rest of my life.  And if Carl Jung were here too, he would tell you that snakes are also totally evil, because that's in my collective memory and also in the BIBLE.  God, sometimes I loved being a psychology minor.  Can you tell?

I didn't fully realize how scared I was of heights until we went to Hawaii in December.  I knew we were going to be doing some serious hiking, because Mom had told us to be prepared for some "long hard days" -- what every person vacationing on an island paradise expects, I suppose.  One of these treks up a mountain included a long section with a trail a foot wide and a vertical drop down the side of the mountain on either side.  I'm not going to lie, tears were shed.   I hear it was quite a beautiful view when we mad e it to the top, but I was too busy vomiting in a bush and sobbing to notice.  And then my brother told us how he and his friends did the same hike in Teva sandals, including one fellow whose flip-flop broke early on, who went up the mountain barefoot.  Also, it was raining.   

When we finally made it back to sea-level, my mom wanted to know if I felt proud for having done something I was afraid of.   Somehow, I didn't feel too empowered for having broken down into tears in front of my family while on a tropical vacation -- at the age of 25.   I did feel an aura of love when my brother returned sunglasses that I had unwittingly dropped miles before without a word of jest or scorn at my melodramatic behavior.  I wonder what Freud would say about that?

I've Got the Golden Ticket

Actually, I've got TWO tickets, and only one of them is gold in color. The other one is fake-looking fax ticket, but don't worry.  United PROMISED it's real. 

And the best part?  Better than going on an awesome vacation with your awesome boyfriend?  Take a look at that little icon in the upper right corner... maybe you can't quite make it out in the photo, but that's a fork and a knife.  Insinuating that they are going to serve FOOD ON THE FLIGHT.

But you know what?  Too little too late.  I still hate you, United.

The Devil Wears Prada. And is Also in Charge of United Airlines, I’m Pretty Sure.

Well!  I know I promised I was going to write about how I fell headfirst into some fresh concrete as a baby today.  Soon.  Right now, I’m too busy plotting how I can get revenge on United Airlines. 

“This voucher can be used on ANY UNITED FLIGHT with an open seat”

That’s what the flight attendant in Chicago said when I agreed to give up my seat on a rainy night last October. 

"You should book the frequent flyer ticket first, because that has restrictions and the voucher doesn't." 

That’s what telephone booking agent told me last week, when I called to make sure the flight attendant hadn’t lied.

"There will be no problem, just call us right back when the miles have transferred into the account, and we'll book those tickets for you."

That’s what the OTHER booking agent, the one who informed me that to fly for a mere 25,000 miles you also need to throw in a little bit of your soul and make an animal sacrifice, told me yesterday. 

But that’s not what agent #3 told me today!  No, there are “restrictions” on vouchers she said.  And oops!  There are no flights on the day you want to fly available using a voucher.  I’m so sorry about that.  Would you like a few stabs with my pitchfork?  No? How about a redeye flight, with a quick 3-hour layover in San Francisco in the middle of the night?

I can’t say what I want to say right here, because I hear you can get arrested for making bomb threats nowadays. 

But here’s the good news.  I managed to fake them out and pretend I was my mother on the phone, without slipping up once.  One time they tried to trick me, and asked me   “What’s your first name again Ms. ?” LINDA, bitch, and don’t you forget it.  Now get back to booking that ticket for my daughter and her boyfriend to go on vacation, because I am strangely able to make travel decisions without consulting them and I’m sure that they’d prefer the 2:07 flight through Denver.   

So, to make a very, VERY, long story short, I booked a ticket for myself with frequent flyers, and reserved one for Joel with the voucher.  It’s a day before we wanted.  But that’s OK.  We also had to come back a day earlier than we wanted, so it all sort of worked out. 

Except, not so much.  You know what’s possibly the best thing about this “free” voucher that can NOT get you on any United flight?  In order to use it, you have to either mail it into United, and trust them to receive and process it in a timely fashion, or you have to take it to the airport in person within 24 hours of booking the ticket on the phone.  Um, there is no way in HELL – pun very much intended – that I am going to drop this precious slip of paper (which, coincidentally looks sort of like I could have printed it on my own computer if I was a little bit better at Photoshop) into a mailbox and entrust it, first, to the United States Postal Service, and then to the friendly demons at United.  Oh, I don’t think so.   

So MY ticket is supposedly booked and all set.  I’ve been waiting for email confirmation since 11am, nothing yet.  I decided to call them, just to make sure, and I had a long conversation with a friendly robot-phone.  I got him to read the email addresses on file with relatively little trouble.  And the lady who booked it this morning?  Who CORRECTLY SPELLED MY EMAIL BACK TO ME LETTER BY LETTER? She typed it into the computer wrong. SURPRISE!!!! 

Well, I tricked them.  I got the computer to fax it to me, and now I am in possession of one very official looking slip of paper that I could DEFINITELY have printed off my home computer that suggests I have a ticket to Seattle and another home from Portland. 

So all that’s left to do is go to BWI, and officially transfer my voucher to Joel, thus booking HIS ticket.  You have to do this in the presence of a United Agent, with 2 forms of ID if you don’t mail it to them, which is reminiscent of what we went through trying to get a home loan, except I didn’t have to drive to an international airport within less than a day’s time in order to convince a bank to lend me a few hundred thousand dollars.  United has higher standards, I guess.  One can never be too vigilant in the war against free airline voucher fraud.

I’ve been assured by the latest telephone agent that Joel does not need to be present for this transfer to occur.  Which is good, since HE’S IN CHICAGO.

So, I’m off to the airport.  Anyone have a crucifix and some holy water I can borrow?

Be Kind To Spiders. But Not Snakes.

Well, since the frequent flyer miles I transferred to my Mom's account haven't posted yet (although they HAVE been debited from my account, and my credit card has been charged the $175 transfer fee), and I don't feel like starting the paper that is due on Saturday (the. last. one. EVER!), I figure I might as well bore you all with the reason I did not sleep last night: fear.  I can't promise this will be coherent, because I'm not sure if I'm really awake or not.

Last night the phone rang at 4am, and I was greeted by some delicious heavy breathing.  It also happens that Joel went to Chicago for the week, and that I'm sort of afraid of the dark.  So, I spent the rest of the night clutching the wooden oar that Joel refuses to throw away, and praising my boyfriend's packrat nature, with my eyes wide open, listening for sounds of people coming to kill me.  This gave me some time to think the irrational fears that I seem to have some problems with.  Such as?  Well, If I had to name the three things I'm most afraid of, it would be:

1. Snakes
2. High places with no railing
3. Being killed by an axe murder/serial killer/The Blair Witch

For some reason, being relatively free of all three of these beasties has only intensified my fear of all three.

Part 1: The Serpentine Creatures That Should Really Not Exist, If You Ask Me

So. Snakes.  I loathe and fear them.  I can't understand why anyone would actually LIKE snakes, and I would not be sad if the entire class of animals were wiped off the planet.  I know, I know, they do so much good, like keep the rodent population under control.  Well, you know what?  I'd rather live in a rat-infested diseased city than a clean environment with snakes slithering around.  Oh, wait. I already do live in a metropolis overrun by our furry disease-carrying friends.  AND THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE IT.   

I watched this show, called Man Vs. Wild I believe, on Sunday.  In the show, a very handsome man with an Australian accent, who allegedly was a former special ops agent for the FBI or some similar agency, is dropped off in the middle of the wilderness with a backpack of supplies and 5 days to make his way to a checkpoint many, many miles away.  At least I think that was the objective.  I sort of jumped in when it was 20 minutes in progress, and was enthralled, because: WOW.  You should have seen this guy.   As he woke up in the middle of the night, silently packed up his camp, and took off running through the woods to evade a grizzly bear on Day One, I was nervous for him.  On Day Two, when he jumped off a 70 foot cliff into a river to escape the bear and rafted down the raging rapids in nothing but his jeans and hoodie sweatshirt, clutching his backpack to his chest, I willed him on.  On Day Three, when he killed a snake with a rock, I cheered for him.  Then, when he roasted the snake over a fire and ate it, I lost interest and let Joel watch Tour de France.  Frankly, I'd rather starve.

I've determined that the reason I truly think snakes are so horrible because they are sneaky.  They slither around, and you could have no idea they're even there until BOOM! They bite you and you're dead (poisonous or not -- I would die of a heart attack either way).  The big snakes don't scare me as much as the little fuckers because it's harder for an anaconda to hide and surprise you than it is for a tiny garter snake.  I once had a dream that Madison was being crushed in the grips of a giant phython, but I killed that snake by chopping him up with my Cutco cleaver.  This was probably a direct result of the dead boa constrictor that was found in the ceiling of the house that Joel shared with the rest of my male friends in college.   Reason #1 not to have a pet snake: IT MIGHT ESCAPE AND LIVE IN YOUR DROPPED CEILINGS FOR THREE YEARS BEFORE IT DIES.   *Hmmm, have we found the root of my intense fear?*   In part, Dr. Phil.  But I'm more complex than that.  Because you want to know what's worse than small snakes and big jungle kitten-strangling snakes combined?  Water snakes.

I spent most of the summers of my impressionable youth frolicking at the idyllic Deer Lake Club, which was unfortunately home to a large population of water loving snakes, including copperheads and diamondback rattlers, among others.  Oh, and a huge snapping turtle aptly named "Chomper" who relieved fishing hooks of their curvature and prolifically procreated.  It's a miracle I survived to adolescence, really.  But I did, and when I reached the ripe age of 15, I realized my dream of becoming a lifeguard at DLC, and became charged with assuring worried parents with memorized phrases like, "The snakes are more scared of you than you are of them," and "Oh, no, those snakes you saw sunning on those rocks over there never come near the swimming area," and my personal favorite, "Of course none of the snakes here are poisonous!"  All of these statements were patently false, and I spent a large portion of my paid time throwing rocks and sand at vicious little child-biting snakes, trying to steer them out of the swimming area and back into open water.  They were fearless, and they were mean.  The worst was when they refused to leave the swimming area, and ducked their heads under the murky water, disappearing completely.  Cue the Jaws theme song, please.  Can you believe I only made like $7 an hour?  I'm billing that place for my therapy when I finally have nervous breakdown at the sight of a harmless snake on television.

Oh, and then there was this one time, when I was out running on my quiet little hometown street, blasting music over my vintage walkman, and I very nearly stepped on a snake that had been run over by a car.  It was completely flattened and baked into the roadtop, but I didn't know that when I narrowly averted stepping on it's head.   The scream that escaped my lungs must have been louder than I realized, what with the Ace of Base blaring in my ears, because when I came back along that route ten minutes later (on the other side of the road OF COURSE) there was an old man standing in his driveway, looking rather worried.  I stopped to ask him if he needed help, and he said he had heard a bloodcurdling scream a few minutes ago, and was trying to see what had happened and if he needed to call the police.  Um, oops.  Stupid snakes.  Now they're giving old people heart attacks, too.

And another time (much more recently, I'm afraid), I went on a hike with my family.  I believe it was for Mother's Day.  We hiked to this nice, cool pond on a hot, humid summer day.  My mother and brothers promptly dove in to cool off and tried to coax me into the water.  Um, let me think about that... HELL NO.  First, I hate swimming, but my hatred of all things water is another topic altogether.  Second, and more importantly, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY SNAKES ARE PROBABLY SWIMMING AROUND IN THERE?  So I contented myself sitting on a mildly uncomfortable rocky formation and attempted to make friends with the dog that a couple of European swingers had tied up under a tree while they groped each other on a rock a few feet away and talked in a foreign language about how pissed they were that we'd showed up and ruined their skinny dipping lovefest.  I was a little surprised that they hadn't even given the dog anything to drink on such a hot day, so I offered him some water cupped in my hands, and then I sort of lost my balance because I had taken off my shoes to dip my feet in the water.  I put my hand down to catch myself, and what to my wondering eyes did appear?  But A HUGE FUCKING SNAKE all coiled up, probably plotting how it could eat me and then have the dog for dessert.  Please do not think I am exaggerating when I say that this snake was AT LEAST four feet long.  I began to hyperventilate, and apparently it decided I was too nervous and stringy to make a good meal, and it slithered off INTO THE WATER.  And  then it ate my entire family, as well as the European swingers.  And you know what?  Served them right, because I told them so.

Oh.  And let's just talk about the lovely people who live less than two blocks from my house and have, at last count, three giant boa constrictors as "pets".  In typical Baltimore white trash fashion, these folks enjoy sitting out on their marble steps, smoking and drinking beer -- WITH THEIR FUCKING* SNAKES CRAWLING ALL OVER THEM.  Now, I have nothing against people who have tattoos (in fact, I've been meaning to get a cute little wing on my ankle for years now, but I have this thing about needles...) (SHIT, there's fear #4), nor do I hold any predjudice against those who ride motorcycles, whether it be for transportation or recreational purposes.  But I DO have something against people who sit on their stoops with Harley Davidson bandanas tied around their heads, a Natty Boh in one tattooed arm, and a boa constrictor sliding around the other arm, which is also covered in tattos of half-naked women.  Listen, I have a right to walk down the sidewalk without encountering a jungle snake on my way home from parking my car.  Just read the Constitution.  It's in there, right after my right to chop your snake's head off with a high-end kitchen knife if I even catch him THINKING about coming near one of my cats. 

When I was a freshman in college, there were rumors -- "urban legends" I believe people were calling them -- of snakes hiding in the dorm ceilings, living off the mice from the cafeteria (rumors which TURNED OUT TO BE TRUE, I might add, urban legend my ass), and to calm my frequent panic attacks about snakes slithering down from the ceilings in my sleep, my friend, who is a Maryland native, told me that there were no snakes in Maryland.  Nope.  They just don't like it here.   I believed him for quite a long time.  Until THE SNAKE WAS FOUND IN THE CEILING OF HIS OWN HOUSE, that is.  I would give anything to have that innocence back. 

But at least Maryland is no Thailand.  Because thanks to the "diversity" of private universities, I have a friend from Thailand, and MAN you should hear the stories he tells about the snakes there.  I used to think that no one could possibly understand my deep hatred and fear, and then I met Brooke.  And Brooke, he understood.  One time, he saw in the newspaper that a snake ate a cow, and then died because it's stomach exploded or something.  Another time, a snake ate a woman's baby.  If you don't believe me, why don't you ask this 18-year-old boy who was eaten by an anaconda?  He'll tell you it's true.  Anyway, Brooke lives in Guam now.  It's an island, and there are no snakes there.   

Snakes are horrible scary disgusting sneaky creatures and they either need to grow legs and become lizards or die.  The end.

Next time: I blame my fear of heights AND my inability to do simple math on our home renovations.  Stay tuned!

*I would like to apologize to anyone** who might, perchance, be offended by my use of profanity.  I've been trying to cut back, really I have.  However, there is absolutely nothing "ladylike" nor "educated" about snakes, so I think it's justified in this instance.  Snakes fucking suck.    

**Yes, Mother, I CAN read your mind.  Scary, isn't it?

It's my vacation and I'll cry if I want to

Alternate title:  Why I Hate United Airlines.

So, Joel and I are going on vacation.  In August.  We're not sure exactly when, because we're at the mercy of United, and it's inane "Rewards Travel" schedules. 

We want to go to Seattle and Portland, for no particular reasons.  Last year we went to Vancouver, and loved it, and from what I remember of the one time I visited Seattle (more than 10 years ago) they were sort of similar in that they both got a lot of rain and were near mountains and water.   I've also been wanting to go to Portland for the past few years, because I have convinced myself that it is the perfect compromise location for us to move to.  It's in Oregon, and thus should be woodsy enough to satisfy Joel's desire to have an actual use for his pickup truck (other than serving as transportation for our somewhat regular excursions to Sam's Club, when it is very handy for hauling cases of Diet Coke, bags of tortilla chips that are as tall as I am, and 40-lb containers of cat litter), but yet still city-ish enough to ward off my fears of being killed by the Blair Witch and my fear of being lonely.   Because even though I thoroughly enjoy spending the entire day inside the house, going outside only to water the plants if I'm feeling generous, I like to know that, should I be struck with the urge to go out and, like, do something, there would be actual things for me to do.   So, we're going on vacation.  We're going to Seattle and Portland.  And we decided that the week of August 12-20th would be the best week for us both to be off of work.  Seems simple enough so far, right?

Well, now let's get to how we're going to be financing this little jaunt.  I believe that experiences are far more valuable than material possessions, but then again, there's IKEA.   And Anne Taylor.  And when I think about spending hundreds of dollars on transportation via airplane, I can't help thinking of how many Billy bookcases we could buy with that money. 

Luckily, once upon a time, I was on my way home from a business trip, and SURPRISE!  United Airlines overbooked the flight.  By a lot.  They needed about 10 people to give up their seats, and they were offering a free round-trip ticket voucher to volunteers willing to spend another night in Chicago.   I took them up on that offer.  Suckers, I thought.   Another free night in a nice hotel with HBO and wireless internet, AND a free plane ticket?  Yea, I'll take that deal.

Also, my mother is very nice.  Not only is she letting me have a graduation party at her house and invite everyone that I know (and some people that I don't), she also said I could use her United frequent flyer miles.  Because, despite all the traveling it seems like I've done in the past few years, I don't have anywhere near enough miles for any actual reward.  It's too bad that you don't get points for how long the trip SEEMS.  Because then I'd have enough for a first class ticket to the moon.

So, how smart and frugal am I? We're going to go on an awesome vacation (did I mention that this is also in celebration of our four year anniversary?  Well, it is.) but we're going to get both our flights for FREE.  Sure, we're probably going to have to leave at something like 3am and take a flight with four connections, and sit with the baggage, but who cares?  It's free!

Let's pause for a moment to reflect on the many reasons that I hate United Airlines.  For starters, there's their horribly uncomfortable seats.  Then there's the dreadful uniforms they make their flight attendants wear.  And the fact that they do not provide any sort of in-flight entertainment, even on a 6-hour flight across the country.  And also their insistence at adding to my junk mail pile by sending me AT LEAST one credit card offer a week.  The frequency with which their flights are delayed.  The extremely long length of these delays.  The putrid smell of whatever soap they use to clean their bathrooms, which smells worse than the bathrooms could ever smell on their own.  The fact that they love to seat me next to said bathroom stench, so much so that I have now developed an overly sensitive gag reflex.  I could go on. 

But alas, United has me in their clutches, and have no choice but to keep going back to them, because those evil geniuses seem to know exactly when I would like to fly out of Baltimore to any destination, and to schedule a flight at exactly that time.  Meanwhile, the other major airlines like to make me wake up before the crack of dawn (literally -- thank you NWA and Continental!  That trip to Vancouver really was fun, wasn't it?), or they exclusively offer flights that depart from Dulles.  (Have you ever driven on the Washington Beltway?  I highly recommend it if you are trying to practice channeling your inner rage upwards in an attempt to achieve Nirvana.)  If, on the off-chance that there happens to be a non-United flight out of BWI between the hours of 9am and 5pm, it will, without fail, have a layover in an exotic location like Detroit for a minimum 19 hours.  And, the number one reason I hate United Airlines:  their website.   More likely than not, if you try to visit the united.com homepage, you'll get the dreaded 404 Page Not Found error.   How's that for inspiring customer confidence?  You can't keep your website functional, but sure!  I'll hope into a hunk of metal and screws and soar through the air at 40,000 feet with you.  Sounds like a good time for all!

Imagine my surprise when on a whim, I decided to visit www.united.com on Thursday to see if I could find a number to call to about available frequent flyer and voucher flights, and I found that not only was the site functioning, but that it was also possible to search for "Reward Travel" flights ONLINE! Without being put on hold!   I was more than willing to ignore the large box that explaining that international online bookings were temporarily unavailable, so one must memorize and repeat a nine-digit code to a telephone agent in order to have the booking fee waived, because that was not my problem.  Nope, and not only was the part of the website that I wanted to use working, but it also showed that there were a ton of available flights from BWI to Seattle!  And from Portland back home!  And that there was not even an extra fee for a multi-city flight!  United, you may just be coming around. 

Or not.

I spent about 2 hours cutting and pasting all the available flight options for eight different travel scenarios so that Joel and I could decide exactly which day we wanted to leave, which city we'd fly into, which one we'd return from, and what day we'd return on.  It took a very long time because 1) the flights were not in any sort of order that I could determine, 2) You can only search by morning, afternoon, or evening flights (no option to look at ALL flights on a particular day at once, that would be too easy), and 3) sometimes a flight at 8am would show up in the "afternoon" flights, but not in the "morning" query on the same day.  In other instances, a flight at 3pm would show up in both "morning" AND "afternoon".  These little quirks made me feel it was necessary to double check each flight on Orbitz to make sure it was real, and not just a figment of the internet's imagination.  Nevertheless, I came home with eight pages detailing all our travel options, and Joel and I spent the evening ranking our preferences so that in the event that our first choice might be unavailable, I'd be able to go down the line. 

On Friday morning I called United's Awards booking line, prepared to be put on hold for most of the day, but intent on booking the tickets before I left for the day.  To my great surprise, I got a real live person immediately.  She informed me that the flights I'd been looking at cost 40,000 miles per person.   As in, not 40,000 miles for TWO tickets, which is what I had assumed, since I had put in for TWO adult travelers when I looked at the flights, and it said 40,000 miles were required for the trip.  I assumed they were giving us a discount for booking two at the same time, since normally domestic flights cost 25,000 miles.  How could I have been so trusting and so stupid?  I'm still baffled by the power of my own desire to believe that United is not wholly evil.  As it turns out, they are.  The only 25,000 mile flights were during the middle of the week, at dreadful times, and out of Dulles.

Joel and I spent the afternoon looking up flights on Orbitz, Hotwire, Priceline, Southwest, and various other options.  We looked at just buying one ticket on United and using the voucher for the other ticket, since (supposedly) the voucher is good for any United flight with an available seat.  Unfortunately, one ticket for one adult to go to BWI-Seattle and Portland-BWI costs around $1,200.  Well, that's according to the website.  And we all know how reliable that is.  It's probably more like 13482740,000 kumquats, which I hear have a really bad exchange rate right now.

Finally we decided the best thing to do would be to transfer all of my miles to my mom's account, putting her just under the required 40,000 miles, and then I'd purchase the rest of the miles and book the ticket.

Oh, except that you can only purchase United miles in increments of 1,000.  Even if you only need, say 491.  Even if you're going to fly to LA next week ON UNITED, and will therefore have an extra 6,000 or so miles in your account.  Because those take up to a month to post, and at least a week to transfer.  You didn't want to use your miles this decade, did you?

And also, United charges a penny per mile transferred.   Isn't that thoughtful of them?

But I'm not bitter or anything.  At least, I'm not as bitter as I am at the church down the street that feels the need to ring its very LOUD bells every Sunday morning at 6am, and then again at 8:30am, right when you've fallen back to sleep.  I'm not quite that bitter at United.  YET. 

It's my party and I'll be an asshole if I want to

Guys, I am so proud of myself.  I'm about 100 pages short of finishing the last book for my summer class (just take a look at the sidebar!  That's the most reading I've done in one month since the days when I used to read one Sweet Valley Twins installment a day!).  I will have Tracks finished by tonight, or tomorrow at the latest.  And, when I read the last sentence and shed a little tear for the plight of Native Americans, I will have read every single word of assigned reading for this class.  Which will be a first in my academic career. It's quite fitting, as this is, in all likelihood, the last for-credit class I'll ever take. 

So what other course of action do I have but to throw a party for myself?  None.  And thanks to my mother's generous offer to let me use her house for my "I graduated from part-time fake graduate school now lets get drunk whoo!" party, that's exactly what I'll be doing in 8 weeks, 2 days, and 19 hours. 

The truth is, this is out of character for me.  I sort of hate to be the center of attention.  All of my real life friends are laughing right now, because in high school and college I was sort of known for dressing up in costumes, getting wildly intoxicated, dancing like Shakira while accompanying myself with vocals, forcing others to become wildly intoxicated, and above all -- being a "picture nazi".  As in "take my picture while I'm shaking my ass to Wherever, Whenever!" "Now take a picture of us posing pretending like we're drinking directly out of the vodka bottle!"  "OMG, now take a picture while I REALLY drink right out of the vodka bottle!"

However, that was all the alcohol.  And what happens in college stays in college, right?  (Or does that only apply to Vegas?)  And while I've organized a party or two in my day, I've never thrown one for myself.   That's all about to change.

The thing is, part-time graduate school is horribly anti-climactic.  I'll get so stressed out (as evidenced by just about every single post from the month of May), and then I'll finish my huge paper, hand it in, and ... go to work the next day.  And now, because my last class finishes in July, and diplomas are only printed once a year IN MAY, I won't even have a piece of paper to show for the past two and a half years.   Since having a Master of Liberal Arts degree is gong to do absolutely nothing for my "career", this is basically what's going to happen when I "graduate": I will print out my final portfolio, put it in an envelope, and drop it into a mailbox.  If I don't get any emails saying it was horribly bad within a few weeks, I'll just assume that I've graduated, and I'll start considering how douche-y it would be to change my email signature block to Jennifer , MA.   The end.  Kind of pales in comparison to counting down the days, hours, and minutes until your last final, spending 16 hours a day in the library for the week prior in an attempt to learn a semester's worth of knowledge, and then celebrating freedom with your entire class in a crazy drunken manner, using the entire winter/summer break to recover. 

So, I'm throwing myself a party.   And let me tell you -- I'm excited.   Possibly a little TOO excited.

If you know me in real life and I have your email address, you should have gotten an evite.   If you didn't, or if you don't know me in real life but you'd like to celebrate the addition of another completely useless degree to my resume anyway, send me an email.   Seriously.  Right now.

In the meantime, I guess I should get back to reading that book I have due for Saturday.  Because somehow having an "I flunked out of part-time grad school" party just doesn't sound like as much fun.

Happy Freakin Fourth of July

I'm proud to report that I was not bitten by one mosquito during our viewings of the fireworks from our rooftop deck.  Joel was bitten, however, which only adds to his nasty-ass rash all over his leg that STILL has not gone away.   Max ran around the house all wild-eyed from the minute the show started, but I'm also happy to say that no peeing was done on the rug... at least not that I've found yet.  That makes for one happy Fourth in my book.  Except that I have to go to work tomorrow.  I hate America sometimes.  I'll I'm saying, is Europe has some things figured out.  Like, say, vacation time.  If I don't post for awhile, I've been arrested by the FBI or NSA or whatever agency is arresting people for hating on America nowadays.

Speaking of Europe, I would like to give a tip of the hat to the Google searcherers in Italy and France who found this site by searching for "Julian McMahon naked".  Unfortunately, I'm afraid you were you probably didn't find what you were looking for, but oh, how I wish.   Can you believe the new season of Nip/Tuck doesn't start until SEPTEMBER?  Neither can I, man.  Neither can I.  But there's always the Charmed reruns on TNT.  Do you get TNT in Italy?  I hope so.  If not, how about Netflix?  You should really look into Neflix.  I'm just saying... Season 2, dude. 

Eulogy

When I got home from work on Friday, my heart was pounding.  It was too quiet.  I just knew the cats had somehow busted open the bathroom door and eaten Charlie.  My suspicions were confirmed when I called Madison, and he didn't pop his head through the railing in the stairs to see who it was.  It is Madison's God-given duty to inspect all who pass through our threshold, and he takes this responsibility very seriously.

When I went upstairs, I found the bathroom door still firmly closed, and both cats lolling belly-up on the bedroom floor in some sort of feline heat-protest.  I nudged Max to make sure he was still breathing, and he snorted, did a massive stretch, and rolled over onto his other side.  I shut them in the bedroom and went to check on Charlie.

Although I could see that there was bird poop all over the bathroom, I didn't see Charlie right away. I shut the bathroom door behind me so he couldn't escape and tried to find a poop-free spot to kneel down.   And that's when I saw him, lying on his side under the same shelf I'd left him hiding under the night before.  I knew he was dead from the way he was lying, but I poked him a few times anyway, just in case.   Then I picked him up with a piece of toilet paper, placed him back in the cardboard box, and called my mommy.  When Joel got home, we buried him in the basement.  "Goodbye Charlie.  I'm sorry you died," was all I could think of to say, and we put a piece of metal on the ground to mark his grave.

I don't know what killed him.  He was alive and chirping away just eight hours before.  Maybe it was the bread I gave him.  Maybe it was the panting cats waiting outside the bathroom door all day.  Maybe it was the stress of riding around in the car with me, trying to find the rescue place.  I don't know.  I do feel guilty though, like I should have just left him alone.  My mom assured me that dying a quiet death on a cool tile floor is better than being ripped apart by the stray cats, and I guess I believe her.  Parents never lie to make their children feel better, right?

Goodbye, Charlie.  I'm sorry you died.