Operation Pink Herring

Corn and Apples

So, here I am in the Decatur, IL, racking up some overtime so I can get some much-needed cash in my next paycheck.  Plus, I thought it would be cool to see the Midwest on work's dime.  I need to start learning that when you're in a place for less than 30 hours, you don't see much of anything.  And also, you don't really need to pack an entire suitcase for one night away from home.  Come on, self.  Get a clue already.

Anyway. The midwest sure is... midwesterny.  I've never been anywhere officially midwestern except for Chicago, which I'd argue doesn't really count.  I mean, I've been to Chicago many times, and I've never seen a single corn stalk or heard a mention of Honest Abe.  So far, in my hour-long drive from the Springfield airport to my hotel, I've seen 198473 signs pointing to historic Lincoln-related sights and 234872342323428379234 cornstalks.  In fact, the slogan of one radio station was "Where the only thing taller than our corn stalks is the Marriott".  Huh?  There were also a few cows.  I really wish I had time to see some Lincoln stuff.   Alas, I'll be back home in time to catch the tail end of Heroes tomorrow night.

I'd like you all to know that I rented a car, at Joel's insistence, since a cab ride would have been astronomically expensive (plus, the Springfield airport turned out to have a total of 3 gates and 0 available taxis).   I drove the car myself.  And get this: I didn't get the rental insurance.  LIVING ON THE EDGE, people.

In addition to the corn and the Lincoln-frenzy, my only observation about Illinois is that the people are absolutely fantastic drivers, zero sarcasm intended.  They use their blinkers.  They drive a reasonable 10 miles over the speed limit on the highway. They stay in their lane.  They come to a complete stop at stop signs.  It's kind of disconcerting.  Maybe I've just been living in red-light running, tailgating, talking-on-the-phone-with-your-dog-on-your-lap-while-driving metropolis for too long.  Or maybe I emit some kind of Nervous Rental Car Driver sonar that warns everyone on the road around me to exercise extreme caution.

Having a car was very handy for getting me some dinner tonight, since the hotel has no room service (although it does have a minifridge and a microwave, WOOT!)  There is a nice stripmall down the street, which I thought would offer lots of dinner options; options in which I could get a good meal without having to sit alone in a restaurant, pretending not to be uncomfortable eating by myself in public.  However, I didn't take into account that I went out searching for food at 8:30pm on a Sunday night in Decatur, IL.  In other words, nothing was open.  Well, nothing but Applebee's.

Never in my life have I left an Applebee's feeling satisfied.  Nothing on their menu is the least bit appetizing, and I LOVE food.  All kinds of food.  I can only wonder at the type of effort it takes to create an entire fold-out menu on which NOTHING makes me salivate.  Just to give you a frame of reference, I am the type of person who vacillates between 2 or 3 choices every time I go to a restaurant.  Should I get the steak salad or the chicken marsala?  Or the pizza?  Oh god, pizza.  Yes, pizza.  But mmmm... steak.  And salad.  Or maybe the salmon?  That sounds good.  Hey, what are you going to get?  Maybe I should get that.  Can I have a bite of yours when it comes?    I usually just wait until the waitress arrives and then make a Gametime Decision, going with whatever comes out of my mouth when the waitress looks at me with her pen raised, ready to take my order.  But at Applebee's, they manage to put together an entire slate of offerings in which nothing induces my mouth to water.  Impressive.

On top of that, EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. they mess up your order.  (In this feat they are matched only by Ruby Tuesdays, but that's another topic for another day).  I'm not talking about bringing out a plate of fried duck liver when I ordered the grilled chicken sandwich.  It's little things, like soaking my salad in dressing when I asked for it on the side.  Putting unsolicited blue cheese on my burger (don't get me wrong, I love me some stinky cheese, but you have to be in the mood for that stuff.  Biting into a sandwich and tasting unexpected blue cheese?  Not cool).  Not bringing me a glass of water to chase my Diet Coke with, even after repeated requests.  That sort of thing.

Tonight, I ordered myself a fried chicken salad -- basically, some lettuce with a few chicken fingers thrown on top.   I contemplated going to the Micky D's across the street and just getting some nuggets, but then I decided to be all "healthy" so I can keep fitting into my skinny jeans instead.  Yes, I do consider a salad healthy, even if it has friend chicken on it. 

So, a chicken finger and some lettuce.  Pretty hard to mess up, right?  So imagine my surprise when I got back to my room with my Carside To Go bag, only to find chopped eggs and tomatoes, along with some random shredded cheese, all at the bottom of the salad bowl.  Eggs and cheese are fine in my book. Tomatoes, not so much.  I freaking hate tomatoes.  Sliced ones are easy enough to pick off and throw away, but chopped tomatoes are IMPOSSIBLE TO PICK OUT.  Just so you know.

It's good to know that no matter where you go, some things stay the same.

Happy Birthday, Baby

Today Shadow, The Best Cat In The World, turns 19 years old.

The night that my father came home from work with a tiny kitten tucked in his jacket is one of my earliest childhood memories.  I'm not really sure where he got her.  I think she might have wandered into his auto shop (this is the story I have in my head), or maybe he went and picked her up at a shelter.  I'll have to ask.  Maybe he doesn't even remember, since that was 19 years ago.

19 years ago I was 7 years old, and my brothers were 5 and 3.  My parents were still married.  It was a long, long time ago.  It feels like a different lifetime.   When my father brought her home, I don't think that anyone expected that she would be the last one to leave the nest.

Over the past few years, Shadow's age has become impossible to ignore.  Her eyes look strange in the pictures because she has cataracts and is almost completely blind.  She is stone deaf.  And a few years ago, she had some sort of accident that left her partially crippled and unable to fully extend her hind legs.  And yet, she gets around.  She still doesn't have a litterbox, and she goes outside every day to use the bathroom without fail.  We all thought that we would have to put her to sleep a few summers ago... and yet, she's still kicking.  She can still pull herself up onto the couch -- using only her front legs, like a mountain climber scaling a rock wall -- to plant herself in your lap.  She still defends her territory ferociously, even if it is only to fend off Dishwasher Cat and Oven Cat (aka, her reflection in the shiny appliance doors).  She still purrs like a lawnmower when someone -- anyone -- picks her up.

Shadow is the cat that comes into your room when you're crying and climbs into your lap.  She's the cat that sleeps on your head, whether you like it or not.  She's the cat that once ruined my Lincoln Log ranch (complete with a fenced pasture!) because she wanted to sit inside the main cabin.  But I've forgiven her for that.   

A few weeks ago, I passed this sign hanging outside one of the houses in my neighborhood.  The quality isn't great since I took the picture with my phone, but the words in the heart say "The Gentleman Cat", and around it his family has signed the poster, like a Bar Mitzvah or a wedding.   

Shads, if you make it another year, I promise to do something equally crazy and awesome for your 20th.  Crazier than writing a blog post wishing you a happy birthday, when everyone knows that you can't see the computer screen without your glasses. 

**The only pictures I have on my computer of Shads are from a Hawaiin-themed party last summer.  Shadow does not walk around wearing a lei every day, although it would be pretty cool if she did.

Miami, continued

One of the very few friends-in-real-life that reads this blog -- let's call her "Liz" since I am too tired to make up any more semi-clever fake friend names -- called me last night to tell me that she was very disappointed in me for saying that I was contemplating posting the worst picture ever taken of me, and then neglecting to actually post said portrait.  Internet, I must apologize if I misled you.  I am still going to post the picture.  We just haven't gotten to that part of the story yet -- the part where I drink an excessive amount of alcohol and bust a move with a rastafarian man on the dancefloor.   But we will.  Yes, we will.  And I'm quite sure that I will regret it, but that's what the "edit post" button is for, right? 

Right?

When we left off, my friends and I were napping/drinking/watching Pussycat Dolls: The Search for the Next Doll in our hotel room while it rained outside.  When the rain cleared, we headed out to the main strip of South Beach for our last night in Miami.  Our objectives were: 1. Find and consume Cuban food, 2. Dance, 3. Get as much Miami fla-vah as possible. 

(Side note: I haven't watched the PCD finale yet, but I did see that Asia won.  What?  Eff that.  Asia was such a passive aggressive drama queen.  I was rooting for Chelsea, but WHATEVER.  The Dolls can make it up to me in Season 2 -- which according to the CW's website, is currently auditioning)

We wandered around South Beach, and quickly settled on a place called Mango's for it's 110% Miami vibe.  The waitresses were dressed in the most horrific and yet wonderful outfits I've ever seen in.my.life.  Each one had a different version of an animal print body suit.  Some were see-through.  Some had strategic parts cut out of the fabric -- leaving their thighs covered, but their asses completely bare, for instance.  They were all wearing at least 4 inch heels, and when they weren't serving, they were dancing in the street or on the bar.  Oh, and the men?  Were all wearing leopard print vests with nothing underneath. 

Awesome.

They had the sort of drinks you'd imagine an outdoor Miami restaurant would have -- margaritas, mojitos, what have you.  As I perused the menu, one particular drink called the "South Beach Iced Tea" caught my eye.  You see, I have a sordid love affair with Long Island Iced Teas.  I'm a lady who love a bargain, and when it comes to getting the most bang for your drinking buck, LITs are the way to go.  When made well, they are delicious.  When made poorly, they taste like vodka.  Either way, they get the job done and they don't mess around.  And those are the qualities I look for in a man drink.  The description for the South Beach Iced Tea read Long Islands not strong enough for you?  Try our South Beach version!  Sign me up!

Now, when we were making the trip down, I told Jenny that I was not planning to get all-out wasted on this vacation, because I did not come to Miami to spend half the weekend hungover, wishing I were dead.  Which is what happens every time I partake in hard liquor nowadays.  My plan was to drink in moderation, have an awesome time, and then sleep it off on the beach sans headache.  That plan went out the window when I saw the words Ice Tea on the menu.  I'm in Miami!  Let's get wild!  Screw moderation!

Which is how I went from this:

to this:

in the space of an hour.

(That is my second South Beach Iced Tea, right there.  When it arrived, I knew I was in trouble, because it tasted to me like they'd forgotten to add the alcohol.  What!  Why are they trying to give me fruit punch and pretend it's a cocktail??  Does this restaurant thing I'm too drunk for a second drink or something? I had everyone else taste it to make sure I wasn't getting screwed out of my money's worth of liquor, and they confirmed that, in fact, it tasted like rubbing alcohol.  Sweet, sweet, goodness.

When we got up to leave, I realized that either there was plenty-o-alcohol in that last drink, or Miami was having a minor earthquake that no one else seemed to be noticing.   

A few minutes down the street, we spotted a restaurant with the word "Cuban" on it's awning, and in we went.  The food was great, and I'm sure my drink was too, but I can't really remember because I was mesmerized my the way Jenny and KP were killing off their 45-oz margaritas.  It was truly an amazing sight.

Wow is right.

With a little help, KP finished hers off as well, and at this point I'd say I was no longer the drunkest one of the group.

After this, we only had one thing left on our to-do list: dance.  And so we went into the first "club" we saw.  I put that in quotes because this was not the kind of club where you pay cover and bump elbows with celebrities.  It was more the type of club you find on the each in Cancun.  Which was awesome, because there was no cover.

The night deteriorated quickly from there.  I paid $7 for some kind of mixed drink that tasted mighty weak to me.  There was a guy we referred to as "scrunchy man", who was trying to seduce every woman who came within 10 feet of him with his off-white scrunchy and his flowing blonde curls.  There was an old guy who was dancing with what appeared to be his scantily clad wife and daughter... and then the two women started posing in sexual positions while the old man took pictures with a disposable camera.  There was a bachelor party of about 15 guys that were all wearing bright orange shirts with the groom-to-be's face screen printed on the front.

What I'm saying is, I think we fit right in.

Eventually, Melly and Jenny got "tired" and decided to go home, while Bethy, KP and I stayed.  Because, obviously, we hadn't gotten in enough fun yet.

We kept dancing.

And dancing.

And dancing.

And then this lovely man started trying to dance with us.  We told him "no thanks" about 27 different ways, ranging from just walking away to looking him in the eye and saying "I'm a lesbian, and these are my girlfriends, so back off", none of which worked. 

Here I am politely trying to tell him that I don't dance with men who wear rastafari hats.

And here he is not listening.

When I drink, I smile nonstop, but trust me: I was not pleased.   We tried several more times to get him to just LEAVE US ALONE, but he since he would not, we decided it was time to leave.

Honestly, it's easy to see why he was so persistent.  I mean, wouldn't you want to dance with someone who looked like this?

I cannot believe that I am allowing the internet to see this picture.  I almost died of embarrassment when I showed it to Joel, and he's seen that version of me live and in person many times.  But there's something about seeing photographic evidence of your sexiness that is a little... horrifying.  Joel's only comment?  "Your hair looks really good".  Seriously.  That's what he said.  I was too distracted by the vein popping out of my forehead, the tongue hanging out of my mouth, and the thoroughly disturbing pose THAT I WAS APPARENTLY DOING IN PUBLIC to notice my hair.  So it's a good thing he pointed that out.

And after that, we took a cab home, went to sleep, and the trip was over.   Thank goodness, because clearly Miami could not handle much more of me.

So, Lizzy, there it is.  The Worst Picture of Me Ever.  Are you happy now?  Do you promise not to mock me?   Will you still take Henry for a "vacation" when you move to your big new house?  Do you want me to never call you again?

Miami: The real deal

Here we are, another full twenty-four hours later, and I still don't have time to write a proper post about Miami.  That's what happens when you take a long weekend off to go lie on the beach and take pictures of giant, oily men in thongs: you get slammed at work when you come home.  It's the law of the universe.  Or something.

But!  In light of the fact that the picture I posted yesterday elicited a record number of comments for this site, I'm going to skip my lunch break today so I can write about Miami.  That's selflessness for you, internet.  You can thank me later.  I am partial to tulips and I take my hazelnut coffee with skim milk and splenda, just so you know.

So.  Let's begin.  I only have an hour here, and so very much to tell you (actually, not that much, as we did nothing but eat, sleep, and drink, but that doesn't sound as fun, does it?)  I suppose that I should first introduce you to the characters of this tale; the four fabulous friends that made this trip with me.  We have my friend who now lives in Richmond, Jenny, my friend who lives in NYC and has the cutest and trendiest wardrobe of anyone I know, Melly, the friend who is an Anthropology Grad Student, Bethy, and the friend who is an actual lawyer with an actual assistant in New York, KP.  God, that just took so much thinking, I'm not sure I can go on. 

But I will.  For you, internet.  Tulips, remember.

On Thursday night, Jenny drove from Richmond to Baltimore, and after spending the night listening to Henry cry at the inhumanity of his nocturnal confinement in the bathroom, we both dragged ourselves out of bed at 5:30am and drove to BWI for our 8am flight to Fort Lauderdale.  I'm not going to say the trip was easy because I am morally and ethically opposed to calling anything that involves getting up before 7am "easy", but it was not too bad.  I don't know about Jenny, because the lovely folks at Airtran Airways would not allow us to sit together, but I passed out the second we got on the plane and woke up what seemed like 5 minutes later in Florida.  After we claimed our bags, we made our way to the largest rental car facility I have ever seen in my life to pick up our Kia Rio or similar vehicle.  If you ever need to rent a car, please allow me to recommend that you NOT rent from Thrifty.  The idiocy of their counter staff was unbelievable.  They refused to let me put the car on my credit card unless I was going to be the driver (and, as we know, that wasn't going to happen).  They refused to let Jenny put it on her debit card without charging an extra fee.  They barraged us with pointless questions that were obviously for their marketing purposes only, because I don't see why they need to know what company I work for or my office phone number.  Jenny ended up yelling "I DON'T HAVE A JOB" (which is untrue, she is gainfully employed) just to get the Thrifty lady to stop asking for her company name, and finally we got the keys and sped off down 95 toward Miami.

When we arrived at the hotel, we encountered similar ineptitude.  We could not check in until 3pm (understandable), and we couldn't valet the car until we were checked in (huh?)  Since the only other option was meter parking that cost 25 cents per 15 minutes, we pooled our change, parked the car, and went to change in the lobby bathroom, only to find that it required a room key to open the door.  We didn't have a room key, of course, since we weren't allowed to check in.  At this point, Jenny's head exploded, a sympathetic employee slipped us a key card, and we put on our bathing suits and headed to the beach.  KP had arrived at the hotel at the same time as Jenny and I, and Melly was already waiting for us on the beach.

As soon as we got out there, everything was OK.

The weather was perfect and warm, the ocean was refreshing and clean, and it was joyous.  After lathering up on sunscreen (of course) we all stretched out on our towels and took a nap.  A few hours later, Bethy arrived and all was right in the world.

When we could take no more sun, we went back to the hotel, checked in (finally), showered off the sunscreen and headed out to the main drag of South Beach.  It took me about five minutes to realize that every single stereotype about South Beach is true.  We saw people walking down the street with giant snakes around their necks (I screamed), girls wearing outfits skimpier than my skimpiest underwear and shoes taller than I would have thought were humanly possible.  We saw people eating dinner at fancy restaurants in their bathing suits.  We saw 50-year-old men wearing nothing but booty shorts and big gold chains over their leathery tanned skin talking on their cell phones in thick Long Island accents about their Ferraris.  It was glorious.

The place we finally picked for dinner could not have been more perfect.  It could totally have been a set for Nip/Tuck.  In fact, I kept looking around Julian McMahon.  There was a guy playing a jazz flute walking around, club music playing in the background, flashing lights everywhere, and a girl was dressed like she was auditioning to be The Next Pussycat Doll dancing while twirling fire on a stage.  Although our dinner and drinks cost as much as I make in two weeks it was worth every penny.

Melly and Bethy with their dirty martinis.  Which, by the way, taste like rotten buttsweat.  I'll stick to my vodka and cranberry, thank you very much.

Is it totally lame to tell you that when we finished our (very long) dinner, we went home and passed out?   Because, um, what I really mean is that we went out clubbing until 7am.  Yeah.

The next day we headed out to the beach again, but we were forced to come back to the hotel around noon when it started to rain.  So instead of lying on the beach, we laid in our beds watching a marathon of The Pussycat Dolls: The Search for the Next Doll.  I suppose I should have been disappointed, but I was not.  At all.  I am embarrassed to admit this, but seeing as I think I'm going to post the most horrible picture ever taken of me ever later in this entry, here goes:  I love The Pussycat Dolls show.  It's like America's Next Top Model, but with choreographed dancing.  And I only got into it a few weeks ago, so this marathon allowed me to catch up on all the drama I'd  missed.  It was awesome. 

After several hours of napping, Pussycat Dolls reruns, and drinking in the room, we headed out for night #2.  I would like to pause for a moment here to let that ruminate: I went out two nights in a row.  I'm such a rockstar, maybe I should audition for The Pussycat Dolls!  (I seriously, really, love the show, in case you couldn't tell).

And, that's all I have time for today.  Miami: Part 2 will have to come tomorrow.  Stay tuned!

Adios, Miami

I m back from Miami.  It was awesome and fun an amazing and warm, but I have too much work to get done before I can write a real post about it.  So for now, let me just leave you with this:

Why, yes, that is a totally jacked, totally oiled man walking down the beach with his arms outstretched while wearing nothing but socks, sneakers, a black G-string and a visor.  Why do you ask? 

MIA

It stands for Missing in Action AND Miami.  Get it?  The former is where I've been the last few days, and the latter is where I'll be from 10:30am tomorrow through Sunday night.  Needless to say, I like the latter better.

I have no excuse for being MIA the past few days.  I'm lazy.  And boring.  I have nothing to talk about except cats fighting, cats being sick and general suckitude on the home front.  To add to that fun, the food I feed my cats was recalled today.  Yahoo, kidney failure for everyone! While I am a little worried (mostly because, hello, what the hell is Joel going to feed them while I'm gone now?), I am also having Erin Brocavich-esque fantasies in which it will turn out the the myriad of health issues my pets have experienced over the past few months can all be blamed on Big Evil Corporation selling poisoned food, and I'll use my multi-million dollar settlement to buy myself a mansion where my kitties can live out their wearing ruby-studded collars and scratching the crap out of their own personal persian carpet collections.

Honestly, I'm so sick of thinking about all of it that I just can't bring myself to talk about it here.  Plus, I am pretty sure that no one cares.  So that's that.

Durrr.... Miami?   

See you all in few days.

Welcome to Miami

Um, so I'm going to Miami in FOUR DAYS.  I can hardly believe it. 

My friends and I have been talking about going on a girls reunion for years, pretty much ever since we graduated from college and stopped having pre-determined Thanksgiving/Christmas/Spring Break times to see each other.  Sure, Christmas and Thanksgiving are still the same times every year, but now we've reached the stage where several of us (myself included) are coupled off and don't make it to our hometown for every holiday.  Also, we're now spread out across the eastern seaboard from Richmond to Connecticut (and for three years, one of us was living in New Mexico!  We saw her... never.  It was sad), so traffic makes the holiday schedule even more hectic.

So after years of talk about "we should plan a trip together!", we finally decided to do it, and all of a sudden we were all booked on flights from New York and Baltimore to Miami.  At the time, the trip was about eight weeks away, and I don't know what the hell happened in between, but now, all of a sudden, it's THIS WEEKEND.

And all of a sudden I also remembered that in the interest of saving a few hundred dollars, my friend Jenny and I decided to fly in to Ft. Lauderdale, thinking we'd figure out how to get from FLL airport to our hotel in South Beach later.  You know, when it got closer to the trip.

Luckily there's nothing I love better than a problem and a fast internet connection to solve it.  After spending the morning on Google and travel sites, I came to a disturbing conclusion:  we were going to have to rent a car. 

Shit. 

Well, we don't HAVE to, but it makes the most sense.  Shuttles run for $80 each way, which is about $10 short of what we paid for our flights, so that seems excessive.   Public transportation costs $1.50 each, but the estimated time is 113 minutes, it would require two bus transfers, and one travel site mentioned the stops being in "not the best areas".  Um, no thanks.  Renting an economy sized car, however, will cost us $100 total.   No waiting for shuttles at the airport, no worrying about finding a way back to the airport on Sunday afternoon.  Plus, now we'll have a way to get around if we need to leave South Beach for any reason.  Perfect, right?

Here's the thing: I am terrified of rental cars.  Actually, I am terrified of driving any car but my own.   I am so afraid that if something were to happen, whoever's car it was would never forgive me.  And/or I would never be able to pay for the damage. 

This probably stems from the fact that I have never had collision insurance on a car I've owned, and therefore every accident I've been in (three total) has resulted in a huge hit to my bank account.   Even still, it's just not worth it to pay for the insurance on a car as crappy as mine.  Don't get me wrong, I love my car.  But I only paid $5000 for it, so it doesn't make sense to pay for extra insurance on a car that was worth $5000 three years ago when I bought it, and is probably closer to $500 Kelly Blue Book value now.  So when I rear-ended a jackass taxi that TOTALLY CUT ME OFF a few years ago, my insurance happily paid for the Honda CRV in front of him to get a new spare tire cover (which cost all of $80 but still jacked up my insurance for three years), and I was left with the $1000 bill to fix my own car's smashed in front and get a new hood. 

Good times. But at least it was my own car!  And at least my car is not worth that much!  The great part of having a POS car is that you don't have to worry about it as much.  Like the time Joel was driving my car and put it into first gear instead of reverse on a giant hill and consequently smashed into the pickup in front of me?  I forgave him.  Even though it was the week after I got my brand-new hood put on.  It's a lot easier to do that when your car is a POS to begin with.  A little dent in the hood just keeps it in character with the rest of the car.

Plus, I am just not the greatest driver.  There, I'll admit it.  Driving stresses me out.  I am easily distracted.  I suck at directions and I freak out when I think I'm getting lost.   I freak out extra when I'm not used to the car I'm driving.  I know my car.  I know how far I can push it before it stalls (pretty damn far), how fast I can gun it to merge on the highway (not very fast at all, thank you v4 engine!), and that the little shaking it does when it goes over 80mph is just its way of saying "slow down, boss".  I know that the engine light coming on means nothing and that the left blinker only works every other Tuesday.   I do not know all these things about other people's cars. 

Even more scary to me than driving someone else's car is driving a rental car.  Why?  Because I fear the rental company suing the crap out of me if I wreck their car.  I always buy the optional rip-off insurance, but I"m still scared that it won't cover everything.  Come on, everyone knows insurance companies are the devil.

It probably doesn't help that back when I went to Arizona in January, my coworker and I rented a car to go to Sedona, which was hit by a freak snowstorm while we were there.  Driving back in said Freak Storm, I could not see a damn thing, missed a turn and then jumped a curb at 40mph trying to make an illegal U-turn to get back on the highway in the right direction.   Whoops!  The rental company didn't come after me.  I'm not even sure they noticed the nice dent I left in the wheel well.  So it worked out fine.  But that doesn't stop me from being afraid that next time I won't be so lucky.  God, I hate driving.

But I love going on fun trips with friends.  Here's to hoping that Jenny won't mind being the driver on this trip.  Which I'm sure she won't.  But does that make me the navigator?   How about I just man the radio instead?   Actually, I totally suck at being the DJ too.  I'll just lay down in the backseat and take a nap.  We are leaving for the airport at 6am, after all.

Crazy almost-summer

It's still 45 degrees out, and all of a sudden I feel like my summer is gone.   Some fun things are on the horizon, as well as some not so fun things.  Together, they mean that I will not a have a free weekend of sitting around all day in my pajamas for the next 6 weeks.  GASP!

Have I mentioned that next weekend I am going to Miami with 5 of my friends for an All Girls Reunion?  LOTS OF FUN.

But before I leave, I have two doctor appointments, one of them being that annual appointment that only women have the privilege of experiencing.  NOT FUN.

When I get back from Miami, I have two more doctor appointments (just dermatologist and chiropractor, much less invasive thankyouverymuch) and a vet visit for Madison.  Because it looks like the root cause of all my pet-related problems is fleas.  FLEAS!  It explains everything, as filthy as the word makes me feel... but at least it's better than the W-word.  Where did they get fleas from?  Ask Henry.  That's what I get for living in a big, dirty, rat-infested city.  And since Madison will not allow me to put the flea medication on his neck, nor will he eat the damn worm pill, I'm breaking the vet-visit moratorium to end this madness, once and for all.  Oh, all three appointments are on the same day, because doesn't that sound like a good idea?  NOT MUCH FUN AT ALL, UNLESS YOU CONSIDER CLAWS IN YOUR EYES FUN.

That next weekend, I'll be going to watch Joel's regatta in York, PA (COULD BE FUN, DEPENDING ON THE WEATHER) on Saturday, and then leaving for Decatur, IL for work on Sunday.  PROBABLY NO FUN.

The weekend after that, I'll be going to Fort Lauderdale on ANOTHER business trip. PROBABLY NO FUN, DESPITE THE LOCATION.

The weekend after that, I'll be going to Hershey, PA to visit some more friends. FUN.

And the weekend after that, I'll be going to Delaware to visit another friend and her two adorable babies.  FUN.

So there's some fun, some blah, and just a lot of stuff.  God, I'm so important.  I have so many friends.  I need a secretary.  Or a body double.  Or a nap.  I'll schedule that right in, 6 weekends from now.

Wednesday is the new Caturday (Warning: Cat blogging ahead)

When Joel came home from work yesterday, he discovered that something was strange in the house.  No cats ran downstairs to greet him at the door.  More specifically, no cats tried to 1. Slip out the door and run into the alley (ahem, Madison), 2. Bully him into putting down more food (ahem, Max), or 3. Jump into his loving arms for a hug (ahem, Henry). 

Upon investigation, he discovered that somehow, some way, the cats had managed to lock themselves -- all three of themselves -- in the bedroom.  I can imagine how and why they all got in there -- Max has developed a bad habit of chasing Henry through the house in a blur of yowling and claws, and Madison, not being one to miss out on any action, runs behind them at a safe distance, egging Max on.  But how they got the door locked on themselves, that is something we may never know.  But from the amount of hair flying around the room, I would guess that it wasn't pretty.

The hierarchy that has evolved is not at all what I expected when we introduced a third cat into the house, and it's sort of messing with everything I know about my pets.  Madison is the devil-kitty.  He is the one who has to be anesthetized during routine vet visits and who will go on a hunger strike rather than eat a damned wormer pill.   Max is the big sweetheart who just wants some belly rubs and to be left alone and will do just about anything for a treat.  When Henry entered the equation, I was concerned that Madison would hurt Henry, or that Henry would harass Max, but I never, never imagined that this little chain of command would have emerged.  Max has officially snapped, and he is now the BOSS OF DIS HOUSE. Henry is his nemesis, and Madison is a little weenie who tries to be on whatever side seems to be winning.

Madison and Henry are actually OK with each other.  Madison will give Henry a half-hearted hiss when he pushes the limits of their tentative friendship too far, but they give each other nose-kisses on a daily basis.  This weekend, Madison was sitting next to me on the couch while we were watching a movie, and Henry plopped down on my lap and proceeded to sliiiide his way over until he had both his front paws over Madison, cuddling him in a Secret Embrace.  Madison ignored this and pretended to be asleep, except he forgot to close his eyes.  He acted all violated when he "woke up", but that was after he allowed himself to be cuddled for an hour.  Then, yesterday, Madison pushed Henry out of the way to eat some of his food, and Henry obliged as Madison finished off the bowl.  That's the moment I knew they were truly friends: when one cat lets another cat steal his dinner.

Now all we have to do is get Max on board, and all Max has to say about the matter is GUNS DONT KILL PEOPLE, I KILL PEOPLE.  He will not listen to reason or be bribed with belly-rubs.  I am thinking of trying Feliway, which I've head good things about.  Has anyone out there tried it? Does it really work?  I would love some feedback before I shell out the money, and I'm not exactly sure I trust the "customer" reviews on Petco's site.   

If that doesn't work, does anyone know a good cat psychologist?  Rambo kitty needs to go back to being my big, smooshy catface.

You know what, I HOPE United reads this

I hate United Airlines.  I hate pretty much everything about them.  I hate the ugly uniforms they make their flight attendants wear and the fact that all their flights are late and overpriced, and most of all I hate their craptastic customer service.   And yet, I keep getting sucked back into their lies.

A few weeks ago, I got a notice from United about a "special" "promotion".  This came along with the bagillion credit card offers they send me per week, but luckily -- LUCKILY -- I didn't rip it up and recycle it, as I do with the card offers.  Why do I do this to myself?  Because this is the nature of abusive relationships.

This particular promotion is offering a "choice" of "awards".  On "qualifying" roundtrip flights, you can get either 5,000 bonus miles or 2 upgrades.   ALl you have to do is book and fly before May 31, 2007!

And since I have some business travel coming up and I am a sucker for "bargains", I kept the paper, in the back of my mind knowing that there probably were no "qualifying" flights in existence, and even if they were, they'd probably only be to and from some random airport in Illinois.   

What do you know?  I just happen to have to go to a random airport in Illinois.  So I went to United's site, plugged in the "special promotion code", and lo and behold: the flights I wanted were eligible for promotion.

One small problem:  The roundtrip fare was listed as $458, which was significantly more than when I compared the flights with other airlines on Orbitz earlier in the day.  Then I noticed, below, a message that said "Lower Price Options (not eligible for promotion)".  Guess what the lower priced option was?  THE EXACT SAME FLIGHTS.  Except no promotion, and the cost was only $265. 

I should have just let it go, since this is not my money or my personal travel and not getting a crappy "reward" is really not a big deal.  But I hate United.  So I decided to call them and ask why the heck they send out mail about "promotions", when by "promotion" they really mean "Pay $200 extra and we'll 'give' you 'free' miles". 

And so I just lost an hour of my life sitting on hold with United, only to be told by a person who could not speak English at all that "that is how the promotion works".

You'd really think that I'd have learned by now, wouldn't you?

Possibly the worst part is, when the guy asked me for my name and frequent flyer number at the end of the call, I gave it to him.  Why?  I don't know.  I felt bad for the guy, maybe.  I'm not very smart, maybe.  But now I am flagged in United's system as a trouble maker, if I wasn't already.  In fact, United is probably reading this right now.  If I don't come home tonight, you know what to tell the cops. 

On becoming a real person

I often refer to myself jokingly as a grandma, because I can no longer do seventeen jello shots (washed down by a water bottle filled with vodka), dance the night away, and then wake up and do a 13-mile run the next day.  My body says NO, and I'm OK with that.  I really have no desire to go to crowded smoky bars and get wasted any more.  I far prefer wearing pajamas and snuggling up on the couch with the Tivo remote.   Which is probably why Sunday was a very joyous day in our house -- not because it marked Jesus' rise from the dead and the salvation of all mankind, but because I did not leave the premises a single time.  I did not shower.  I did not change out of my pajamas all day.  We watched two movies, did taxes, slept late and went to bed early.  Lo, it was wonderful.

But aside from just being boring, I have noticed that lately -- as in over the past year or so -- I have transitioned from feeling like a college kid pretending to be a grown up, to feeling like a real, live adult.  A person who drinks coffee every day... and LIKES IT.  A person who cooks real meals, simple as they may be, rather than dining on Rice with a side of A-Roni most nights.  A person who doesn't fill her grocery cart based solely on what is marked down 50% or more.

It's weird.

I have a hairdresser that I am loyal to. I have a dry cleaner.  I have clothes that require dry cleaning.  I have gone on real vacations, paid for with real money from my own bank account (although supplemented with flight vouchers and priceline.com, come on, there's no reason to just WASTE money paying full price for hotels!).   I have a real house, with real problems, and I go to the Home Depot or Ikea (or both) on a weekly basis.  I daydream about leather couches and chic home decorations -- who am I?, the college-version of me would like to know. Who cares about that stuff -- we're out of smirnoff ice and bagels! 

I'm really not sure when the transformation happened, but somehow I went from a girl who would do anything -- pretend to be in the computer club, bring tupperware to catered lunches on campus -- for a free meal, to a person who dreads going to four-star restaurants FOR FREE because it means she'll have to dine with people from work, and she'd rather just eat grilled cheese at home with her cats.

Cats who have their litterbox lined with brand-name, full-priced litter that was purchased without even a coupon.

You know what would make this a REALLY good friday?

If I didn't have to come to work.  Seriously.  Casual day is a good start, but it would be a whole lot better if I were casually lounging in my bed right now.

In other news, the verdict is in, via a semi-cryptic message from my doctor on my home phone last night, which said "everything is fine".  As in, Ricky = not real.  I know, I know.  I KNOW.   Whee, hypochondria sure is fun!  Do you think I could use this freak-out as a bargaining chip to get a refillable for Xanax? 

No?  Just kidding, anyway.  I have thought about going on some sort of anxiety medication, especially -- don't laugh -- after seeing how much Max's kitty Paxil helped him.  After a few months of one pill a day, he went from nervously licking his own skin off to being happy as a lark.  And I use the word lark semi-literally -- he's so happy and relaxed that sometimes he can't help but sing himself a little chirp/purr/meow tune.  It's a lot more pleasant than when he used to hide under the bed for three hours days every time a truck drove by the house. 

But I'll hold off on requesting any Happy Pills for myself, because I sort of feel like this is the way I am, and medicating myself out of these panic attacks would be akin to giving myself a mini-lobotomy.  If I weren't anxiety-prone, I don't think I'd be as detailed oriented and organized as I am.  And if our magazines weren't cross-referenced by title, date and subject... well, then I just wouldn't be ME. So I'll just keep doing yoga and meditating and freaking out occasionally about intestinal parasites.  When I start chewing off my own arm, then I'll know it's time to get some Calm and Happy Pills.

Happy Zombie Jesus Day to those of you who celebrate it, and Happy Weekend to everyone!  Including you, Ricky... wherever you are.

Be quiet Ricky, Mommy's trying to type!

Janet was quite right when she noted in the comments yesterday that another of Ricky's PROs is that, real or imaginary, he's given me plenty of blog fodder this week.   Over the course of yesterday, I somehow managed to reverse (again) my thinking, and now I think I was probably overreacting after all, there probably is nothing in my digestive tract by the coffee and granola bar I just had for breakfast, and my, um, gastrointestinal "issues" are probably being caused by the fact that I like to eat things like chicken parmesan and peperoni pizza at 9:30 and then go to be at 10:00.  And then I like to wonder, as I sit up reading, why my stomach is gurgling.  OMG MUST BE AN ALIEN IN THERE.

Or, you know, as my mom suggested, maybe I'm pregnant.  Thanks mom!  That sure did help me stop obsessing about the imaginary parasite.  Maybe it's just a human child that I will have to take care of for the next 18 years and support with my paltry salary.  Phew, that sure would be a load off my mind.

(I'm not even going to bother with wasting $20 on a 3-pack of pee-sticks because I have my annual lady parts exam in two weeks, and I figure I can just ask my doctor if she can look around for any babies while she's in there.)

(Also, I still sort of think it might be Ricky.)

But!  The whole point of today's entry is not to go on and on about this rather disgusting issue again.  Instead, have some links:

This made my week when my friend emailed it to me on Tuesday.  I WISH I had been this creative in school.   Instead, I just cheated a lot.

And then there's I Can Has Cheezburger?, which will never, ever get old for me.

This here is a weekly recap of 24, which I stumbled upon when I was trying to remember Milo's name (the things that drive me crazy on a Tuesday morning).  I snarfed a little bit when they started calling that douchebag guy from Division Ricky Hitler.... and yes, that is where I got the name Ricky from.  It just sounds like a sleazy name to me now.

Back in Washington, Veep Boothe is pretty sure he’s going to lose in the Supreme Court thing, but his “assistant” offers to commit perjury to help him out, and he’s cool with it.  A few seconds later, Lennox busts in and tells him that he got the whole thing on tape (seriously, if you’re a writer, that’s your job, and all you can come up with is the old “haha I got you on tape” trick, just kill yourself now), so he’d better drop this whole 25th amendment bullshit.  His balls firmly in the tiny grasp of Lennox, Boothe complies, and Palmer remains president... just long enough to get a couple more adrenalin shots, suffer a schizophrenic break and decide to go ahead with the nuking of the Middle East!  Whatever.  Next week, Palmer yells at the Middle East president guy and collapses, Fayed escapes and Jack gets shot in the chest.

And even though I have never watched The Bachelor, I find Holly's Secret Bachelor Tuesdays recaps hysterical.   In all likelihood, they are better than actually watching the show.  It's almost like she's watching it so you don't have to.   Oh, wait.  That is exactly what she's doing:

Here is another thing, by the way: this season of The Bachelor is called “The Bachelor: An Officer and a Gentleman,” which made me think at first that there were going to be two bachelors, and one of them was going to be the officer and one of them was going to be the gentleman. But no, it turns out that Andy is both the officer and the gentleman—which must be stressful to say the least—and when host Chris Harrison says things like “join us after the break to find out whose dream of marrying an officer and a gentleman will be shattered,” he’s really not talking about polygamy at all. Which is kind of a shame. Get on that for next season, ABC.

That's all I've got today, internet.  Happy freaking Thursday.  By tomorrow I've been promised the verdict on Ricky's existence or non-existence, so tomorrow will either be full of Hi, I'm Crazy, Nice to Meet You or I WAS RIGHT, Now Excuse Me While I Vomit.  Either way, you know you're excited.

Ricky W.

As I anxiously await my test results, I've utterly convinced myself that I do, in fact have the W-word.  For convenience's sake, I have started calling my personal W-word "Ricky".  And last night, as I grabbed Joel's hand and made him feel the rumbling in my belly after dinner ("DO YOU FEEL THAT?  THAT IS NOT NORMAL!"), I started to think to myself: Self, what if Ricky does not exist at at all?  You are going to look pretty crazy, self, when you have to admit that you just made all of this up in your head.  [RUMBLE, RUMBLE, GLUG GLUG CHUUUGAGAGA] [And not a normal amount, either!]

And so, I somehow came to the point where I began making a Pros and Cons list.  About the existence of my possibly imaginary "friend".

Ricky's CONS (aka, reasons I hope Ricky is not real):

• The obvious gross-out factor
• So, I have been going to the gym pretty regularly since the beginning of the year.  I've been running 30-40 minutes, going to yoga, going for long walks... and I've been pretty damn proud of myself.  I was especially proud when I stepped on the scale a few weeks ago and realized that I had lost 5 pounds.  Since one of the symptoms of Ricky's kind is "weight loss", I am wondering if my gym-going diligence has had any effect at all.  Was it all Ricky's doing, not my own hard work?
• If that is the case, then WTF, RICKY?  COULDN'T I AT LEAST BE A SIZE 4 BY NOW? Is that really so much to ask?
• I will feel a lot less grossed out about my own hand-washing practices if it turns out I did not, in fact, contract a parasite from my cat's litterbox. 

Ricky's PROS (aka, reasons I actually find myself hoping that I do have an intestinal parasite):

• If Ricky is real, I will have been RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT.  Joel will have to admit that I'm not a total hypochondriac, and my doctor will have to apologize to me for making me feel stupid about the whole thing.  And they'll both have to send me flowers. 
• The experience of getting tested for Ricky will have been worth something, instead of just being the most humiliating experience of my entire life AND being totally unnecessary. 
• There is definitely somethin' going on in my belly lately, something that is not pleasant for me or anyone around me.  It's embarrassing at work when my guts audibly re-arrange themselves during a meeting -- and before you ask, no, it's not nerves.  The meetings I go to are nothing but B to the ORING, and a snore is the only involuntary sound they induce.  It's also very uncomfortable for me at night when I'm trying to settle into my patented belly-down sleeping position.  And it's not very fun to have to try to figure out if the litterbox really needs to be cleaned, or if that was just me, if you get my "drift".  So if I can't blame this on Ricky, then what the hell is going on?  Joel suggested that I might be lactose intolerant, and that would be a BIG problem, as that would preclude me from eating pizza three times a week, putting milk in my coffee every day, and eating grilled cheese sandwiches on a regular basis.  I would almost rather just be able to blame this all on Ricky, and then take a pill to kill him and have it all go away.
• Did I mention that I will have been RIGHT and all the nay-sayers will have been WRONG?  And that I will officially be Not Crazy?
• I ate a whole lotta different stuff this weekend, and none of it was healthy.  It might be nice if Ricky could shave some of those calories off the top for me.
• Ew, I can't believe I just said that.  I don't really mean that. 
• But at least I would have been RIGHT. 

And now I'm left here, at a point where I actually seem to have come up with more pros than cons. Which side am I actually rooting for?  Do I hope that Ricky was all a figment of my overactive, hypochondriac-prone imagination, kind of like that time in college where I started getting headaches (they were localized, very painful headaches, I'll have you know) and convinced myself that I had a brain tumor and could not stop thinking about the mass that was slowly eating away at my brain until I enrolled in a research study at the hospital just so I could get a free MRI of my brain (guess what! No tumor!)?  Or do I actually sort of hope that I do have a living organism hiding inside of me just because I like being right THAT MUCH?  I honestly don't know at this point.  I am going to feel pretty stupid for blowing this all out of proportion if it turns out that there is no Ricky, although most of the hardcore overreacting has been going on in my own head (and thus on this website). 

On the other hand, I think I'd rather be crazy than have a Ricky in my belly.

I guess I'll just stop thinking about this and get back to my day of staring at the phone, waiting for my doctor to call. 

24 and Prison Break: you could learn a lot from each other

Is it just me, or is prime time TV gearing up for the summer a little early this year.  We still have a few episodes left, but the plot has completely gone to hell on both Prison Break AND 24.  And according to Tivo, Heroes ain't comin' back anytime soon.

So, Prison Break.  What we still have going for us is that Michael Schofield is still smokin hot.  I am glad that during this long run from the law, he's managed to keep up with shaving his head, because last week on the Unit?  NOEL HAD HAIR.  And now I can't watch that show any more.  But other than Michael's HOTTness, Prison Break is fading fast.  First of all, where are we now?  I thought we were in Mexico, or at least Sucre and Teabag and Mr. Ex-Guard were, all chasing each other.  Now we're all in Panama.  I may just be confused about all that, because I do remember Teabag wearing a Panama hat a few weeks back.  Hmm. My real problem is Sucre is just going to die in the street from a measly stabwound, after everything he's gone through in this show?   I also have a problem with Sketchy Ex-FBI guy calling the cops to report that "two american men just shot a well-dressed Asian man" BEFORE THE ASIAN DUDE EVEN SHOWS UP. Muwahahahahaha, yes, now we know your evil plan to double cross Asian Dude.  But did you consider that now the police are on their way, and if something goes wrong, you're totally screwed?  Of course not.  This is the small screen equivalent of leaving the hero to die by locking him in a room filling with water with a bunch of angry carp with lasers attached to their heads.   Last but not least, are they really setting us up for Prison Break: Panama next season?   Well.... as long as they keep shaving Michael's head on a regular basis, I'm OK with that, I guess.

Moving on to 24, I just have one thing to say:  "At least you have your faith.  I'm still looking for mine."  I thought there could be no worse line than "I tripped over your ineptitude", but I stand corrected.  Poor douchbag guy from Division.  He tortures people at the drop of a hat, but it's just because he hasn't found God yet.  LAME.

Also lame?  A supersmart terrorist thinking he could survive by chopping off his arm with an axe and running.  Apparently, this nuclear scientist did not take biology.  Heck, neither did I, and I still realize that 1. That would hurt like a bitch, and 2. You'd bleed to death in about 35 seconds.  Unless, of course, your terrorist friends did a half-assed job of bandaging you up with a shirt.  You'd be fine then.

I'm also not really down with the "We're nuking Mysterious No-Name Middle Eastern Country", no, wait we'll wake up Palmer, we're not nuking anyone!  Wait, Palmer has lost is marbles, we're nuking them again.  Obviously we're going to nuke them, because that is just the worst idea in the history of ideas, and that's what Presidents do. On the show, I mean.

Last but not least, I think the Vice President's blond henchwoman is a Fembot.  Don't ask me why, I just know these things.

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

In other news, I went for my W-word test yesterday and it was the most humiliating experience of my life.  Now I have to wait THREE DAYS for the results. 

What, you thought I could go a whole day without mentioning it? 

Pleasant Weekend

More pleasant topics were requested, so that's what you'll get... today.  I can't promise that there won't be more mention on the W-word (WORMS!) after I have myself tested (TODAY), because Ms. Hypochondriac Overreactor has convinced herself that she is positively, absolutely, infected with a parasite and she will not rest until the medical profession can show her proof to the contrary.  "Extremely unlikely" is just not good enough in this case.

But!  The pleasantness! 

I went down to Richmond this weekend to celebrate my friend's birthday.  The weather was lovely, the food was delish, and the punch was... strong.  I got to pick up my friend's sister in DC, and Friend's Sister just happens to be one of the funniest people on earth, so I had great company for most of the ride, and yet they were both all grateful that I "went out of my way" to pick her up.  My map skills are notoriously bad, but I'm pretty sure that Washington was directly in my line of travel.  So either it wasn't out of my way at all, or I have been going the looong way to Richmond all these years.  It's possible.  After all, I once flew to Montreal by way of Chicago and saw nothing amiss with that.

So we ate, we drank (A LOT) (OF PUNCH), and then we passed out.  I think some people also watched some basketball game; I can't really be sure because I was too busy getting more punch.  This punch allegedly contained half a handle of Southern Comfort, but I coulnd't smell anythasing.  it taastad realasy ggood!

Ahem. 

Luckily, I managed to get drunk without making a total fool of myself in front of Jenny's friends.  I mean, I have no problem making a total fool of myself normally (hence: this website), but I try not to reflect badly on the reputation of others.  It's a hard job, but someone's gotta do it.

The last time I went to visit Jenny, and I ended up drunk and passed out in her bed, I spent the entire next day on her couch, eating various snacks that magically emerged from her cupboards and watching movie after wonderful movie on her digital cable.  I had planned, that weekend, to drive home on Sunday so I could "get things done" on Monday, which we had off from work.  Instead, we stayed planted on her couch for about 30 straight hours, until I finally  had to pry myself free and drive home for work on Tuesday.  I would have given anything to have repeated that this last weekend, but sadly Martin Luther King Day only comes around once a year.  Someone should really do something about that.

I hope that was pleasant enough for you, internet.  Now I have to go have myself tested for you-know-what now, and don't worry.  I'll let you know the verdict.  I'm hoping very very strongly for a confirmation of the fact that I can convince myself that I have any disease if I try hard enough... and if it turns out that I am right, that I'm infected, could someone please just shoot me (a-la 28 Days Later?  I DON'T WANT TO BECOME ONE OF THEM)?  Because if you thought I was freaking out before... well, just you wait.  I don't think the world has ever seen the likes of what is going to happen if I find out I'm home to the W-word. 

But I will make this promise: once the verdict is in, I will never mention anything this gross again.  Ever.