Operation Pink Herring

Pet Kidnapper

This morning I was 2/3 of the way to work when I spotted two dogs rooting through the trash out on the sidewalk across the street. There was no one around and they were obviously roaming free, so I crossed the street to see if they were lost or hurt.  They were two young, friendly pit bulls with no collars or tags, happily sniffing the garbage bags.  I stood back a bit to avoid scaring them, but one immediately trotted over and started licking my leg. 

I debated what to do as the first dog happily slobbered all over my feet and begged me to play with him and the other continued his methodical inspection of the trash.  Just as I was getting out my phone to call the police non-emergency hotline to report them to animal control, a door opened up the block and a man came out with his recycling.  I asked if he knew who the dogs belonged to and he said they lived a few houses down and he'd knock on the door and get the owner. I left, looking over my shoulder after a block to see the first dog sitting down, head cocked, watching me.  His companion never stopped digging through the trash, which, by the way, was placed illegally on the sidewalk without a trash can. Five days before trash pickup.

I'm happy that I didn't have to be responsible for sending these dogs to the city shelter where they'd likely be put down.  They were friendly, they seemed to be well-treated, they have a home.  But this kind of blatant irresponsibility makes me fume.  You cannot let your dogs roam unattended on a very busy street with no identification!  They could run off, be hit by a car, be antagonized by the hoodlums that roam that neighborhood, bite someone who threatens them.  If you're too busy to put a collar and a leash on your dog and take it for a walk in the morning, then maybe you shouldn't have a dog in the city.  In fact, you know why I don't have a dog?  Because I live in the city, I travel too much,  and I don't have time to take it for walks. If I didn't have a cat who spooks at the sound of a truck driving by and if I didn't live in the world's smallest house, I would have rounded up those dogs and taken them home. Take note, people who live on that block.  Your dogs are cute and next time I might just steal them.

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

Other than my feelings of hostility towards irresponsible city pet owners, life is good.  I spent the last two weekends celebrating: first, a friend's bachelorette-hood at the Jersey shore, and then our wedding anniversary in Colorado.  Both included copious amounts of sunscreen, one ended with me vomiting in a Wendy's restroom.  We returned home on very late on Monday night and found a killer parking space right on our block.  As much as I love traveling and friends and fun, man, it's good to be home.  What have you been up to, internet? 

Oh, give me a home

The last time we visited Joel's family in Vermont the conversation turned to potential places we'd all like to move.  This is something Joel and I think about an awful lot, as we'd like to make an exodus from the Mid-Atlantic some day.  Someone suggested Kansas, which Joel's mom shot down immediately.  "Too many tornadoes" was her reasoning.  The rest of the family thought this was a silly reason to not like an otherwise fine place -- I mean, how many people DIE in Kansas tornadoes?  Probably fewer than perish in Vermont blizzards every year, right? -- but I understand what she means completely. 

Tornadoes don't scare me.  That's not to say I wouldn't run shrieking to the nearest cement-fortified bomb shelter if I was ever in the immediate vicinity of a tornado; I assure you, I would.  But I don't get nervous just thinking about tornadoes.  Alligators, now that's a different story.  I am terrified of alligators and I will never consent to live anywhere in the real south for fear of someday coming across one.  Even though I know, rationally, that the likelihood of my ever being killed or maimed personally by an alligator is pretty low, I just can't even think about it.  I hate alligators.  I can't live where they live. 

Nor will I ever be able to live in a deserty climate: too many snakes. I could never put the possibility of seeing a snake, poisonous or not, out of my head.  And don't even get me started on scorpions. The one and only time I was in Arizona, I hardly slept for fear that I hadn't checked the sheets well enough for scorpions.  I developed a minor case of OCD over checking and re-checking my shoes before I'd put them on my feet. 

So, no Southwest and no Everglades for us.  And apparently, no New Zealand.  My little brother is on his latest adventure there and posted some pictures on Facebook earlier this week.  Among stunning mountain vistas and idyllic country roads was this photo:

It's a little hard to see what's going on here at first, but the caption is "Feeding Freshwater Eels".

EELS, YOU GUYS.

And then there's THIS...

I commented on this photo, writing that I was going to have nightmares; to which he responded: "Jerry kept saying, "don't worry they don't have teeth," but he was bleeding after one bit him so maybe they do."

Well!  There's one less place to consider for our next vacation!

I'm curious if other people have certain things that just freak them out completely.  I'm not scared of animals, or even of legitimately dangerous animals.  Here's a photo I took of a bear on our honeymoon.  And here's a moose.  I want to kidnap these baby tigers from Chile and keep them in my living room.  But alligators, snakes and water-borne critters, in general, scare the daylights out of me.  Oh, and parasites.  I get squicked out just thinking of a hostile organism living in my body, without me even knowing, chewing away -- ahem.  So what about you?  Irrational fear of frogs?  Two-toed sloths?  Ocean riptides? What else should I be afraid of?

Oma

On my way to work yesterday, I pull out my phone to text my coworker and let her I'm on my way to the office.  When I fish the phone out of my bag, I realize it's been off since Saturday, when we went to see District Nine.  Oops.  I turn it on and see that there are two voicemails.   The first is from my friend Jenny, checking in to make sure she can still stay at our house this week before her flight out of BWI.  I make a mental note to email her as soon as I get to the office.

The next message is from my dad.  I just wanted to let you know that Oma died this morning, it says.

This has been a long time coming, so I shouldn't be surprised -- but I am.  I guess that no matter how long you have to prepare for something, no matter how long you've waited for it, you never think it's going to be today.  This morning. 

I call my dad back and leave a rambling message.  I don't know what to say.  I keep walking at a brisk pace, late for work.

I don't want to announce hey everyone, my grandma just died, so I don't tell anyone at work.  My day goes on as normal.  I call my mom, I email my brother.  I call Joel to tell him the news.  There's nothing I need to do.  There's nothing I can do.

I feel like an event like this, a death in the family, should have an impact on my daily life.  But everything's business as usual.  There will be no funeral or formal service.  We'll have some sort of memorial -- a dinner, my dad suggests -- sometime in October.  I call my dad after work and we talk for a little while.  I wish there was something I could do to make him feel better. 

I feel so sad when I think of what my dad is going through.  And I feel guilty; maybe I should have tried harder, called more.  I should certainly have paid the extra five bucks for expedited shipping on the wedding photos my dad wanted to show them to her.  I hope they go there in time for her to see them.

I don't know what to do, but I need to tell someone: my grandmother died yesterday. 

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The internet + crafting + mail = awesome

One of the things I love best about Google Reader is its shared items feature.  I certainly have plenty of reading material on my own (currently 202 unread items in my reader... and I've already cleared out all the junk. Yikes.), but the shared items makes me feel like I never have to worry about missing something awesome.  If there's a big announcement like an engagement or a new baby in the blogosphere, someone's sure to share it.  If there's some exciting Twilight/New Moon/Harry Potter news, I know someone will share it.  And lots of times, I come across super cool or interesting things that I never would have seen on my own via shared items. 

Yesterday Zoot shared this post by Secret Agent Josephine.  She took her junk mail and chopped it up to make postcards.    I love, love, love this concept.  It's fun, it's free, it's recycling!  I wanted to try my hand on it first thing when I got home (uh, I'm in a post-wedding, back-to-the-five-day-full-time workweek slump.  This passes for excitement, don't judge), but -- amazingly enough -- we didn't get any junk mail yesterday.

But then I saw Joel's stack of magazines sitting on the counter and secured his permission to hack up his Outside magazine and made this postcard for my brother, who just got a new job.  (My crafting impulses, they will not be denied.)

It took me about 20 minutes, while watching TV.  It's not a money-saver, for sure, since I could have bought a card for a few dollars, but it was fun and I'm posting about it and SHUT UP.  (Have I mentioned that I sort of love the post-wedding freedom?  No more meetings!  No more three-page to-do lists! Bring on the Tivo cache and the craft supplies!)

Materials (front):

• A piece of cardstock (leftover wedding supplies), cut to postcard size.

• Some scraps of this cool paper I bought at a stationary store's going out of business sale (I used the rest crafting this cool window project, which I totally meant to post pictures of but never did because maybe I mentioned this BUT OMG I GOT MARRIED)

• Cuttings of Mike Rowe's Outside Magazine cover and an old wedding magazine (the article was: Which Coffee Pot Should You Register For?  LET'S COMPARE) (I do sort of miss wedding magazines, a little.  Just the pretty pictures.  The insane articles, not so much.)

• Double sided tape (I had this in my box of scrapbooking supplies.  Hi, I scrapbook sometimes and I also enjoy owning three cats and reading vampire romance novels.  I am Very Cool.)

Materials (back):

• Black sharpie marker

• Mad doodling skills (uh, not really.  I TOTALLY need one of these.  In ever color.)

  

So, congratulations to my brother on his new job, congratulations to me for my ability to mention my wedding seven hundred times in a post that is not even remotely wedding-related, and congratulations to everyone in my address book: you've all won a free postcard.

The beginning of the end

I've owned three cars in my life.  The first was a 1988 baby blue Jetta that I loved with all my heart.  It was covered in butterfly decals and Dave Matthews Band stickers.  I love it for the freedom it represented to a 17-year-old trapped in suburban/rural area with no public transportation and I loved it because it was me.  It was absolutely perfect.... until I got rear-ended by a truck on my way to school one morning.  We only had a few short months together, me and that car.  I still remember, with gut-wrenching clarity, watching her being pulled up onto the tow truck that would take her to her final resting place.   God, I loved that Jetta.   

I suffered no delusions that the Jetta could be fixed, so I set my mechanic father immediately upon the task of finding me a new chariot.  He quickly found me a bright red, boxy 1989 VW Fox.  It wasn't my baby blue Jetta, but it was still beautiful.  Still me.  And best of all, it cost less than the insurance settlement I received for my poor, crushed Jetta.  I spent three days practicing stalling it out with my dad before we made our first venture to school, lurching and sputtering all the way.  But we made it, that Fox and me.  I came to love that car like a pet, quirks and all.  There was always some blinker or light out.  Sometimes it wouldn't start, but it always performed perfectly the minute my dad would arrive to rescue me.  I drove that car hundreds of miles with absolutely no oil in it (no one told me you needed to put oil in a car!), and it still lasted me from my senior year of high school right through my junior year of college.  I sold it when I went abroad to Spain because I could no longer justify paying the New Jersey insurance premiums on a car I was only using during school breaks.  For years afterwards, my mom would spot it from time to time, being driven around the neighboring towns by its new owner.  She left all my stickers on the back.  I think they were happy together, that girl and my car.

I was car-less for my last year and a half of college, until finally I couldn't stand having to ride the erratically scheduled University shuttle to the grocery store anymore.  Once again, I tasked my father to find me a new car.  I authorized him to use my full life savings at the time, about $5,000.  It was more money than I'd spent on the previous two cars combined.  I told him I wanted another Volkswagen, preferably blue or red. Maybe another Jetta, or a cute Corrado an old Rabbit.  But most importantly, I wanted something that was me. 

I went home for a weekend in March to meet my new car.  My mom had told me I'd be pleasantly surprised; although it was already five years old and had 100,000 miles on it, it looked almost new.  It was a huge upgrade from my first Jetta and my Fox.  It was beautiful, my new black 1998 Jetta.  I loved it from first sight.

There's something about being a Volkswagen owner.  We like to joke that my car has a gremlin living inside the engine; he feeds on money and oil and chews up wires and lets the air out of tires.  But for all the quirky problems my car has, it's always worked.  Blinkers and brake lights go out, the airbag warning light is permanently illuminated.  One of the tires leaks air (although the shop has tested it and found no leaks), the am radio has never worked.  The only truly unbearable inconvenience is that the air conditioning doesn't work, and that can only be blamed on me... and the taxi that stopped short in front of me in the rain, forcing me to rear-end gently tap him and crack my radiator.  My dad told me right off the bat that it was fixable, if I felt like shelling out $1000 for a new radiator.  No way, I said immediately, no way I was putting $1000 into a car that only cost $5,000 to start with.  I've regretted that decision every summer, but I can't blame the car. 

Over the past year, the car has started to slide downhill.  First, it was the parking brake, which froze into the "on" position whenever it was cold out.  Then it was the battery.  Then the starter, which my dad nearly managed to fix for me until he realized he didn't have the tool to remove the steering column on the newer VWs.  For a few weeks, until I got around to taking the car to the shop, I used a flathead screwdriver to turn the starter, which hung from the steering column by a wire.  I still keep that green-handled screwdriver in my car.  It's just where it belongs. 

Then the battery died inexplicably.  Later, the radio connection fritzed out and drained the battery, requiring a jump start.  Then the radio stopped working altogether.  My dad fixed that by disconnecting and re-connecting the battery. 

I took my car in for its first ever preventative maintenance last week because I just knew something was wrong.  I know next to nothing about cars and how they work, but I know my car.  I know it like I know a pet, and something was just off.  For $300, the shop tested everything, replaced the air filter and the spark plugs and the oil, and I hoped that would be enough.  But when I pulled over next to the car wash on Friday to clean out the interior, I wasn't shocked when the car refused to start back up.  I knew it, I knew something was wrong.   It was almost a relief to have it the inevitable breakdown over with.  There's never exactly a convenient time to have your car break down, but this could have been far worse.  I wasn't in a rush, I was pulled off the road.  It wasn't pouring rain, I didn't have a trunk full of perishable groceries.   I had a book with me.  I knew this was coming.

I turned the key again, and then a third time.  Nothing.  I waited ten minutes and tried the ignition again.  Nothing.   I could have moaned about Murphy's law, since this happened the one week of the year when Joel is out of town, and the same week that my dad was on vacation.  But this is why I pay AAA $65 a year.  They came out and tried to jump the car.  The portable jump kit had no effect, and neither did a direct jump from the battery of AAA's Ford F350.  It must be the battery and something else, the AAA guy said, and I just nodded along as he called the tow truck, muttering about how he's never seen anything like this before.  I have, I thought.  I've seen this.  I knew this was coming.

Watching my car being pulled up onto the tow bed was still gut-wrenching.  I wanted to pat the old girl and tell her everything was going to be OK.  But three hours and another $350 later, we had a new starter installed and my car was back in business.  If this lasts me another year I'll be happy, I thought.   That's all I need: one more year. 

This morning the driver's door wouldn't unlock.  I pulled and I budged, but it would just not open.  I finally climbed over from the passenger side, hoping it would unstick itself by the time I got to the vet's office (to drop off what I suspect to be a roundworm, found on the carpet in a pile of cat-barf, OH MY GOD WHY IS THIS HAPPENING AGAIN), but no dice.  I think my poor car is trying to tell me something; I think she's trying to say it's time to let her go.  She's had a good run, this car, and I know that after 150,000 miles and 11 years I can't really be surprised that she's nearing the end of her days.  But I don't want a new car.  I like this one.   Just the way she is.

Sunday night blues

The scene: house on the Jersey shore belonging to Jenny's retired parents.  Jenny and I are still in bed at 1pm on Friday (happy "just because" day off from work for us!) and we place bets on whether Beth, who was supposed to leave Ithaca at noon, has departed yet.

Jenny [calling Beth on the phone]: How far away are you?  We just woke up.  Actually, we are still in bed.
Beth:  How late did you guys stay up?
Jenny:  Like, 11:30pm. 
Beth: Wow, and you slept until 1?  how much did you guys have to drink?
Jenny:  Um... nothing.
[brief pause, in which we wonder if we should have tried to pretend we didn't just sleep for nearly fourteen hours]
Beth:  I cannot wait to get there.

We spent the entire weekend doing nothing but sleeping, eating, drinking, laughing, and watching girly movies.  At one point we were all sitting silently at the kitchen table, washing down homemade guacamole with an endless supply of Diet Cokes from Jenny's parents' fridge and reading (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix for me, Eclipse for Jenny, and a stack of InStyle magazines for Beth), and it occurred to me that life just doesn't get any better than that.

The only bad part about wonderful weekends is that they make crashing back into reality that much more painful.   Sunday nights are always tinged with the sadness of another weekend gone by, and tonight that's compounded by the facts that 1) the only thing on TV is this stupid-ass awards show, and 2) I only went to work two days last week, so the pile of Emergencies in my inbox is likely to be larger than normal.   Sigh.

Thanksgiving, observed

I'm not sure how it began, but over the past few years my family has developed a tradition of moving the traditional Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.  I think it sprung originally from my brother's angst at trying to find a way to make it to two Thanksgiving dinners on the same day - one at our mom's house, and the other with his fiance's family - but honestly, I can't remember.  It's possible that I just couldn't deal with the thought of battling holiday traffic on the NJ Turnpike and demanded we rearrange the calendar.  

I know that a lot of people would have trouble celebrating Thanksgiving on any date other than the "real" one, but I think moving the holidays is a stroke of sheer genius.  There's no seven-hour backup at the Delaware bridge toll.  There are no hurt feelings over missed holiday visits. And I get to celebrate the holidays with my family AND spend the long holiday weekends at home with my Tivo.

The first instance I can remember of us moving a holiday to suit our needs was Christmas of 2001.  I'd just returned from my semester abroad in Spain and my mom had booked us a family vacation to Hawaii.  The only catch: we were flying on Christmas Day.   Now, it's pretty hard to be upset about going to Hawaii in December, but we all felt a little bit sad about "missing" Christmas while we were stuck on a 12-hour flight.  That is, until my mom declared that we wouldn't be missing Christmas after all - we'd just be celebrating it a day late, on December 26th.  In  Honolulu.  

That was an emergency solution, but it's worked out so well that we've now started scheduling our own dates for Thanksgiving and Christmas whether there's a conflict or not.   We usually keep it pretty close to the real holiday (except for the time my mom moved her birthday from February to June so we could go hiking in Mohonk for her "birthday").  This year, the weekend before Thanksgiving seemed like a logical date to hold our own personal Turkey Day... until I remembered that, uh, I sort of already had plans on November 21st.   So... Thanksgiving is tomorrow for the OPH clan!   I've spent the week baking pies, and tomorrow we'll make what will hopefully be a short and traffic-free drive to my brother's house in NJ for a true holiday feast.   I can't wait.   At best, the holiday lovers among us get to celebrate Thanksgiving twice.  And at worst, those of us who are lacking a bit in the holiday spirit department will get to enjoy a four-day weekend at the end of November at home with nothing to do but watch an ungodly amount of television.  Win-win, if you ask me.

How to pretty much guarantee you're never asked to give a toast at a wedding again

A Step-by-Step Guide

Step 1: Start off with some sentimental stories about all the good times you've shared.

Step 2: Break into a choreographed dance based (very) loosely on your friendship.  

Step 3: Have a grand finale that involves displaying the bride and groom's names on your asses.

Step 4:Try to wrap up with a quick, sentimental statement about how happy you are for the bride and groom.  This may be difficult because you will be extremely out of breath from all that Running Man.

Step 5: Proceed immediately to the bar. 

Well, hello

Intuitively, it seems that a vacation should always seem shorter than it actually was - the weekends always fly by, so why do I feel like I've been gone for more like six months than a measly ten days? 

I have a million pictures to upload from our week in Vermont and about a hundred thousand from the scary and awesome bachelorette weekend at the Jersey shore.  

I missed you internet, but not as much as my 185 unread work emails missed me, it seems.   Fill me in - what did I miss? 

Whip THIS

I have officially hit The Breaking Point.  I knew this was coming, but it still sucks.  A lot. 

I feel like our house is falling apart at the seams.  Somehow we have no food (again), even though we got up extra-early on Saturday and went to the Farmer's Market.  There is cat litter everywhere and a layer of dust an inch thick on every surface.  I put in a load of laundry last night, and when I went to put it in the dryer I discovered it was full.  So that's where all my underwear has been.

Nothing major has happened, but we're leaving for our trip to Vermont on Saturday and I just feel like I don't have time to breathe.  I have to get the house cleaned, get a haircut, decide how I want my hair cut,  do the laundry, book my work trip to Chicago later this month, get ready for my BFF's bridal shower, and book a trip to Scotland.  Yes, Scotland.  As in, land of kilts and bagpipes and the Loch Ness Monster.  And Ewan McGregor. 

So, I'm a little bit stressed out.  And I also feel like a hugely hypocritical asshole, because the reason I "haven't had time to breathe"?  Is because I was at Penn State all weekend with my friends, drinking $1 Long Island Iced Teas and getting milkshakes at the Creamery and doing things like this:

Because I need something fun to focus on (and I'm still too busy feeling like I"m going to puke about Scotland, does anyone else get queasy when they click "book ticket"?), let me tell you what I am going to make for this week's Whip It Up challenge.  My little brother (remember the one who drove cross country by himself?) is off on his latest adventure: biking across the country with two of his friends. 

They left northern New Jersey on Monday morning, and if all goes to plan, they will arrive at my house in Baltimore sometime on Thursday.   I will then provide them with showers, a place to sleep that has four walls and a roof, and cram them as full of vegetables and protein as I can before they get back on the road and return to eating pasta at a campsite every night.

My menu, so far:

• Salad crammed full of veggies
• Blade Steaks with Mushrooms
• Roasted Red Potatoes with Rosemary
• Grilled Portobello Mushrooms (I was going to make grilled corn on the cob, with fresh corn from the Farmer's Market, but Joel very wisely pointed out that corn on the cob + riding a bike all day with very limited bathroom access = an uncomfortable situation)
• Homemade Iced Tea
• Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies

I think that should hold them over for four thousand miles or so, don't you?  At the very  least, it will keep me occupied with something other than having a nervous breakdown until we board our plane to Vermont on Saturday.

A midsummer night's breakdown

If it's not too late to post about the weekend, perhaps you'd like to know that mine was fabulous.   We drove to New Jersey to celebrate my mom's birthday (which is actually in February, but that's how we roll in in my family), and spent Saturday hiking in New Paltz, NY.  When I remarked, after seeing a bride being photographed in the formal gardens at Lake Mohonk, that this would be a beautiful place to get married, my mom's jaw hit the floor.  "What! Don't you remember, the last time we were here, I said this would be a great place to get married, and you said 'Sure, maybe if you're old"", she asked. 

Um, no I did not remember saying that at all.  And I take it back, the place is lovely.

Throughout the day we had several more exchanges in which my mom recalled how scared I was of a cliff, how I cried on a hike (more cliffs), how I generally just had a terrible time.  Still, no recollection from me.  I was a bit unsettled that I could completely block out an entire experience like that, but I chalked it up to the fact that I must have been really, really terrified of all those cliffs.  (My fear of heights (without a railing; if there's some sort of protective rail, they don't bother me) is eclipsed only by my fear of constrictor-type snakes.)  (The fact that all my irrational fears have specific criteria is a topic we'll have to discuss another day). 

Finally, after about the fifth time that my mom asked if I really, seriously did not remember saying what a horrible old person place this mountain paradise was, I thought to ask when exactly this alleged previous visit took place.  Turns out it was when I was somewhere between the ages of twelve and fifteen. 

I'd like to make a rule right now: all snotty statements about old people places and horrible times should have an expiration date, after which no one can hold them against you.  Five years, perhaps?  Ten years?  Maybe we could say that upon graduation from high school, all previous bratty behavior is expunged from our records, and the same thing would go for college graduation and other milestone achievements.  Any of you lawyer-types out there, feel free to get started drafting up some legislation to that effect.

I feel much better knowing that my memory hasn't been completely erased by all those alien abductions -- I just, understandably, don't have crystal-clearn memories of every single hike and every remark about old people places that I made fifteen years ago.  And besides, by the standards of my twelve year old self, I AM old.  Don't mind if I do add yet another venue to the ever-growing list of  Places We Should Get Married.  

So, throw in some torrential downpours on the ride home and some great BBQ, and that was my weekend.  How was yours?  OK, great, now that I've politely pretended to be interested, I can move on to The Complaining.

Internet, this past weekend marked the beginning of my summer marathon of being out of town.  This coming weekend we have Bridal Shower/Bachelorette Party #1 in New Jersey.  After that, I'll be spending the 4th of July in State College, PA visiting some college friends.  The weekend after that, we leave for a week-long trip to Vermont to visit Joel's family.  When we return from that, I'll be driving straight up to NJ for Bridal Shower/Bachelorette Party #2.   The weekend after that, I'll be helping Sister-Wife Jenny move from Williamsburg to Richmond.  For those of you keeping track, that's six consecutive weekends that will not be spent on my couch at home.

True, most of these out of town activities are for fun.  But, still.  I'm the type of girl who needs enough quality time with my Tivo and a good half-day each week spend organizing and compulsively cleaning the house to feel balanced.  When are we going to look at the remaining wedding venues on our list?  When am I going to do laundry? Go grocery shopping?  More importantly, when am I am going to watch that new ABC Family show with Molly Ringwald and lie in my new magical bed?

I am really, really going to try not to let all of this stuff stress me out, and to remember that most of this IS FOR FUN.  SO IT SHOULD ACTUALLY BE ENJOYED AT THE TIME.  But honestly, I'm not sure I can make any promises that I won't be curled up in a corner sucking my thumb when August rolls around. 

Weekend bullet points, Jersey shore wedding edition

Things I learned this weekend while attending my first wedding of the season:

• Just because I grew up in New Jersey does not mean my horrible sense of direction gets any better once we cross into the Garden State.
• Compared to the NJ Turnpike, the thirty-five cent tolls on the Parkway are so cheap they're cute. 
• The four-dollar Delaware toll is a tad pricey, yes.  But that's not reason to stop your cars in the middle of 95.  Move along, people.  And if you don't have EZPass, get out of the freaking EZPass lane. 
• Don't cut off a car that's worth far, far less than yours.  If I hit you because you weave in front of me to jump in the EZ Pass lane EVEN THOUGH YOU DON'T HAVE AN EZPASS, I promise, you'll be sorrier than I am.  My Jetta is going on 11 years old.  Your fancy SUV looks new.
• Who doesn't have EZPass?  Seriously?  I mean, I still don't have in iPod and I use dial-up internet at home.  Even I have an EZPass.
• The Parkway and the Turnpike do not, in fact, run parallel to each other.  They get farther apart the further south you drive.   Thus, you cannot just take the Parkway south for 35 miles and then hop over to the Turnpike. 
• If I had a dollar for every time I found myself hopelessly lost and wishing for a GPS system for the car, well... I'd have enough for a GPS system.   
• It's very possible to turn a 2.5 hour drive into a 6 hour drive if you just try.
• Hey, the Pine Barrens are kind of pretty.
• There's a beautiful irony in the fact that 14-year olds can work at a gas station, but they can't drive a car for another 4 years.  Conversely, most adults in NJ have no idea how to pump gas.
• People who aren't from NJ will mock the "Jersey Fresh" produce signs along country roads and refuse to believe that we really do have great corn and tomatoes in the Garden State. 

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

Soooo... hi.

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

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

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

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

BACK TO THE WEDDING STUFF.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nine states in four days

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

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

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

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

And now, on to more pleasant topics

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

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

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

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

Goodbye, baby

There was one family member who was palpably absent this Thanksgiving.   Shadow, our family cat, was put to sleep last month after nearly 20 years with our family. 

Tell me this isn't the cutest picture you've ever seen.   I dare you.

We'd prepared ourselves for the end several times over the past few years, but each time Shadow pulled through.   She disappeared for nearly two weeks in 2001, returning just when we'd given up hope of ever seeing her again.   In the summer of 2004 when things weren't looking good, we actually had an appointment to have her put to have her put to sleep, which we canceled at the last minute.   Periodically over the past few years my mom would send emails saying Shadow wasn't eating, Shadow finally had to get a litterbox because she couldn't wait to be let outside, Shadow all of a sudden started drinking a ton of water.  Each time, we thought the end was coming.  Each time, Shadow shook it off and pulled through.

Shadow is obviously extremely terrified of my brother's Darth Vadar shirt.

But last month, it became apparent that this time was different.  Shadow stopped eating and drinking.  She peed on the carpet for the first time in nineteen years.  She started to have trouble breathing and fluid started to drip out of her nose.   It was obvious to all of us that the end had come, and my mom found a vet who would let us bring her in.

OK, maybe THIS is actually the cutest picture you've ever seen.  Michael's adorably pitiful "I'm sick" face kills me.

I wasn't there when it happened, and for that I'm terribly sorry.  That Saturday also happened to be the day that my friend was getting married in Connecticut.  I know that it would have been selfish and unreasonable to have asked Shadow to hang on for another week, when she was obviously in pain and probably would not have made it another seven days.  Both my brothers and my mom were with her at the end.   At the time, I was walking down the aisle in my bridesmaid dress.  I put what was happening at home out of my mind completely, because I couldn't think about it without crying.   I still can't.

My mom couldn't locate picture of Shadow sitting amidst the wreckage of the kick-ass Lincoln Logs ranch I built, which Shadow destroyed by trying to sit down in the living room of the farm house.  Instead, this photo of her obstructing Michael's very important coloring will have to do. 

The day after the wedding in Connecticut, I flew to San Francisco for work.  I talked to my mom while I was waiting in the airport.  Some part of me was hoping that she'd say that Shadow had perked up at the last minute, that she'd looked so great on Saturday morning that they'd canceled the appointment and Shadow was sitting on her lap right now, happily purring. 

 

Do you like my Care Bear Sheets?  On my WATERBED?  Those are the feet of my Rainbow Brite doll up there in the corner.

She didn't say that, of course.  After nineteen and a half years, Shadow was gone.   I cried a little bit in the airport, and then I had to pull myself together for a six hour flight, a long day of work, and then another long flight home to Baltimore.  Even when I got home and I could finally cry about it in the privacy of my own living room, I didn't.  It didn't really seem real.  It didn't hit me until two days later, just as I was getting into bed.   I spent that night sitting on my bathroom floor, crying and writing in my journal and feeling sort of stupid for being so upset over a cat.

Pinwheel, pinwheel, spinning around... look in my pinwheel and see what I found.

But Shadow was not just a cat to us.  Shadow was a member of our family, from the moment she marched into my dad's autoshop in Orange, NJ in 1988. 

She's been at every holiday and birthday celebration for as long as I can remember. 

She was always incredibly tolerant of everything we put her through as kids (and adults, since I was 25 in the picture above), and she was never happier than when she was sitting in a lap.  Even when she was forced to wear a homemade birthday hat (made by yours truly, in case you couldn't tell). 

Actually, there was one place she liked better than a warm lap.  A warm head.

Shadow's absence really hit me this past weekend.  It was the first time that I walked into the house in New Jersey and Shadow wasn't there.  Of course, I knew that this would be the case, but I kept looking for her and then remembering - oh yeah.  Shadow's not here anymore.  It was really, really sad.  Even with the whole family around, there was an emptiness to a pet-free house.

Since I wasn't there for Shadow's last day and the burial that my brothers gave her, my mom had the idea that I could make a gravestone for Shadow using a leftover paving stone and extra tiles from the wall.   That way, I could contribute to her goodbye. 

It was a great idea.  I picked up the stone from my brother's apartment a few weeks ago and worked on it in my kitchen.  On Saturday we placed it together and said goodbye one last time.

I know that everyone thinks that their family pet is the best in the world, but Shadow really was.  Period.  I say this meaning to no offense to the three cats that currently reside with me.  Much as I love them, they are nowhere near as awesome as Shadow.  (For one thing, Max doesn't want to wear the Santa suit I got him.  TOO BAD.  HOHOHO!) 

As much as we all laugh at my mom's requests for "specific pictures", I am really glad she made us take this parallel shot.  I'm not sure what the date on the first photo is, but I'd guess early nineties.  The second one is from September.  It's the last picture we have of the three of us with Shadow.   We were really lucky to have her in our family for nearly twenty years.  And we will all really, really miss her.   

*(A giant thank you to Steve for scanning all those old pictures!)

Bon Jovi, the Big Easy and gray hairs

The Bon Jovi concert was pretty cool.  I'm not exactly "into" Bon Jon... don't get me wrong.  I like his music.  I just don't have REALLY STRONG FEELINGS like some people (ahem, my friends) do.  I think the problem is that I wasn't cool enough in the 80s to be into the popular music.   Jon's songs don't so much remind me of the good ole eighties as they do frat parties freshman year of college.   The only new songs of his that I know are the ones on the radio.  I really do love the "Who says... you can't go back" song that is the theme song of the NJ Tourism commercials.  Now that makes me feel nostalgic.

I had been led to believe Daughtry was opening, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I had never heard of Mr. Daughtry and his self-named band before.  My coworker asked me if Daughtry was opening last week and I said "uh... yeah" because I didn't want to admit that 1. I had no idea who was opening, and 2. I had no idea who Daughtry was.   After a quick Google search and the help of my brother's CD, I realized I knew a few of the songs from the radio.  OK.

Then Joel looked up the concert and told me that in actuality, the All American Rejects were opening.  AWESOME.   Is it weird that I love them?  Like, a lot?  And that I was sort of more excited to see them than Mr. Bon Jovi?

Is it also weird that I just depend on other people to organize things and I have no idea what is actually going to happen until I show up?  That's just how I roll.

Unfortunately, we got distracted by the sangria and tapas we were having pre-concert and we missed nearly all of the opening act.  I got to hear Move Along while we were waiting in line for beer, so it was OK.  That's really the song I love them for.  In fact, I'm not sure that I know any of their other songs.  And our seats were so far up that I wouldn't have been able to see anything anyway, so hearing the song in the beer line = good enough for moi.

Here's a picture of Jon.

That's him, I promise. 

Unfortunately, even when I zoomed in all the way, I still couldn't see how white his teeth were.  Sorry, guys.

And here's a picture of what I saw during the ENTIRE CONCERT.

These ladies DID NOT SIT DOWN AT ALL.  I have a problem with this.  My friends tell me that I'm the one that's in the wrong here, but I really don't see how standing up during a show demonstrates your superior love for the performer.  Sure, stand up and clap when he comes out.  Jump up and dance during your favorite song.  But for the majority of the show, SIT YOUR ASS DOWN.  People pay for seats at a concert, not a square foot of cement to stand on.   But because they decided to stand up, I had to stand up.  For three hours. 

(You know what else pisses me off in the exactly same manner?  People who put their seats back on airplanes.  I know that, again, I'm in the minority here, but I think it's just RUDE. If one person puts their seat back, that means that the person behind them has to either suffer in a teepee-like formation for the duration of the flight, or put their seat back as well.  And then the person behind THEM is faced with the same dilemma.  RUDE.)

(It's possible I've been traveling a bit too much lately.  Ya think?)

Jon puts on a great show.  He played the new album from start to finish, which I guess would have been awesome if I were more familiar with his new stuff.   Then he played the old favorites.  Then he played some more.  And more.  For three hours.  (My feet really, really hurt).

And then it took us two hours to get to my friend's apartment in Harlem because the subway line wasn't running and the Path was late and blah blah blah I didn't get to sleep until 4am.  It's possible I'm still a teensy bit cranky from lack of sleep.  I took two naps today.  Enough said.

Yesterday I flew directly from Newark to New Orleans for work.  I actually got to see a bit of the city (unlike last time) on this trip, and that was really nice.  The 75-degree weather was also pretty awesome.   

I am not at all impressed with the Sheraton for a bevy of reasons that would be very boring to list out (wireless internet is spotty!  Ozarka brand bottled water tastes funny!  No shower cap in the bathroom!  See?  BORING), but I did get a room with a kick ass view. 

I'm going to have to get up at dawn, seeing the sun rise over the  Mississippi while I groggily try to find the shoes packed at the bottom of my suitcase is a pretty good consolation prize.

The view straight down was not at pleasant for someone with a teensy fear of heights, so let's not talk about that.

(32 floors up, window DIRECTLY on the side of the building, in case you were wondering)

We went to the Orleans Grapevine for dinner last night, and it was great.  The food was delicious and the atmosphere was adorable.  Tin ceilings, chandeliers, and stuffed flounder.  Yum.   Today I had a lot of free time, so I did a lot of walking around and had lunch at a cute little coffee shop whose name I can't remember.  I was going to treat myself to some beignets, but I am feeling particularly unhealthy after all this travel (which automatically means less-than-healthy eating, for me at least) and I thought I might not fit into my pants if I stuffed three giant donuts down my piehole.  Of course, I don't think that the turkey and bacon wrap sandwich I got instead was exactly Weight Watchers approved, but at least I can tell myself that some actually nutrition was included in those calories.  (Just not in the bacon.  Or the ranch dressing.  Both of which were delicious.)

I finished reading Water for Elephants (which I really liked), and then walked along the riverwalk.

When I came back to the hotel (oh God, I just accidentally typed "home" instead of "hotel"), I was taking a picture to document Operation Grow Out Brassy Highlights, I found this bad boy:

That is a bona fide gray hair, people.  So much for being 23 at heart.

I think that is enough links and pictures for one day, dear internet, so I'm off to pack up my hundred pounds of crap and get some sleep before my 8:25am flight tomorrow.    Happy Veteran's Day to all, and to all a good night.

A king sized bed to myself has never looked so good

Friday

6am: Jenny and I begrudgingly get out of bed, shower, and zip up our suitcases.

7am: We leave for the airport

9am: Fly from BWI to Hartford, CT

10:30am: Get picked up at Hartford

11am: Screw up the crafty bridal scrapbook we were asked to help on. 

11:30am: Run out of double-sided tape.

12noon: Run to crafts store.  Give up and go to bride's house for lunch.

2pm: Nails (note to self: get a freaking manicure every once in awhile, if only for the kick ass shoulder massage!)

5:30pm: Rehearsal

6pm: Rehearsal dinner

10pm: Karaoke in the hotel bar.  Drinks.  Shots.  Singing.  Until 3am.

Saturday

7am: Wake up, forced to shower by Jenny even though I just showered yesterday (and I washed my hair!) 

8am: Dunkin Donuts run

8:30am: Arrive at salon.  Beg hair and makeup stylists to be gentle with me.  Requests for a bobby-pinless 'do and foundation-less makeup are honored.  All is good.  Take a mini-nap in one of the hair washing station chairs to avoid messing up hair.

11:30am: Change into dresses

12noon: pictures in hotel, pictures in lobby, pictures picture pictures

2pm: arrive at church.  Realize we haven't eaten since 8am.  Shove a mangled South Beach Diet bar down my throat before walking down the aisle.  Manage not to trip.

2:30pm: Witness Clippy's MARRIAGE!! Make it through the ceremony without crying!

4pm: More pictures

6pm: Reception.  Much eating.  Much drinking.  More eating.  More drinking.  Dancing.  More eating and drinking. Some crying. 

1:30am: Fall into bed.

Sunday

7am: Wake up.  Shower, pack bags.  Meet car driver in the lobby, just as he is about to leave because he didn't find your name on the hotel registry.  Um, sir?   Maybe you were going to call my cell phone WHICH I GAVE YOU MYSELF before assuming I'd just up and left?  Because sometimes people stay with other people, and only give one name to the hotel?   It happens sometimes.  And you almost seriously screwed me.

7:30am: Drive to Boston Logan airport.

9:30am: Check in for flight.

10am: Go through security.

10:01am: Vomit in Logan bathroom. 

10:02: Vomit again.

10:05: More puking.

10:10: Purchase altoids, gum, and vitamin water.

10:15: Feeling much, much better.

10:55: Board plane.  Fly to San Francisco.

2:30pm (Pacific Time): Arrive in SFO.  Buy burrito.  Devour burrito.

3:30pm: Arrive at hotel.  Make out with king sized bed.  French kiss gigantic flatscreen TV.  Shove Bliss products in my toiletries bag.

4:00pm: Work meeting.  Many jokes about why I am not wearing my bridesmaid dress are made (har har, that's the last time I tell people about my recurring nightmares about forgetting to pack a work outfit)

6pm: Reacquaint myself with the internet after two and a half days of being completely offline.

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So, hello, internet!  I've missed you.  I'm so exhausted that I've moved from "tired" to "completely delirious" and I am looking forward to Tuesday, which will be devoted entirely to recovering from the Longest Weekend Ever, more than I can put into words.

Did I miss anything?

Weekend Recap, posted midweek. Leave me alone, it's been a rough couple of days.

This past weekend was a fun-filled extravaganza filled with bridal showers, bachelorette parties, drag queens, a whole lot of alcohol, kick-ass friends, freaky near-encounters with people from The Internet, and very little sleep.  My calendar says it's Wednesday, but my brain says DURRRRRR.

So, let's just pretend it's cool to post a weekend recap on a Wednesday, and while we're at it, let's also just pretend that I've been posting more often than twice a week.  Thanks, that would be great.

Anyway!  Weekend recap!  It was crazy, let me tell you.

On Friday night, my friend Jenny (there was a time when I decided to use fake names for all of my real life friends, but now I can't remember what all those names were, so... yeah) arrived at my house so that we could wake up in the pre-dawn hours on Saturday and drive to a SURPRISE bridal shower for our mutual friend's bridal shower.  In New Jersey.  I thought we should leave at 6am, but Jenny thought it would be fine to leave at 6:45 or later.  I reminded her that we would need to be stopping somewhere for breakfast and we should budget in some time for that, and she responded NOT TO WORRY, I brought granola bars.  I clarified that for me, breakfast means COFFEE and we would need to be stopping for my COFFEE.  The moral of the story is, we stopped for COFFEE and we still made it to NJ in time to stop at our friend's house to change out of our pajamas (PLEASE, as if we were going to drive 3.5 hours in the wee hours of the morning in our cute little dresses), and run my trusty flat iron that I've only used two other times through our hair.  We arrived at the shower, we stayed awake at the shower (thanks to more COFFEE) and then we headed into NYC to prepare for the real fun: the surprise bachelorette party.

This is my first time being a bridesmaid, and this was my first real bachelorette party (I have been to one other bachelorette party, technically, but since it involved going to crappy bars in PowerPlantLive! that even college sophomores are too cool for, I don't really think that counts).  There was a full agenda for the evening, and since we'd gotten up at 5:30am, we did the only sensible thing: started pounding back Mike's Hard Iced Teas while we decorated the hotel room with giant inflatable penises and pin-the-macho-on-the-man and waited for the Bride-to-Be to arrive.  Oh, and we changed into our matching tank tops, because everyone knows that it's not a real bachelorette party without matching tank tops.

Have I mentioned that I don't drink much anymore?  And that I had three Mike's Hard Lemonades before we left the hotel room?  And that I hadn't slept much the night before?  By the time we were ready to leave the hotel, I was feeling mighty good about life.

We ventured out into the city at large, and I had almost forgotten how much I love New York. 

There's just something magical about it. 

I mean, where else can you find sidewalk art like this:

Artist: Me, Medium: Broken pieces of a candy necklace and my foot, Text: "Clippy" (Bride-to-Be's nickname), as if you couldn't tell, Inspiration: Many, many Mike's Hard Iced Teas on an empty stomach.

We soldiered through a drag show that left me horrified and delighted, five bars, skeeball, a video game where I proved to be a kick-ass duck shooter (thanks to hundreds of hours of Nintendo Duck Hunt in my youth, I'm guessing).  During the evening, we ran into an old friend that one of the other bridesmaids used to work with AND a random person from high school.  New York is a big city, but it's a small world. 

And as if that weren't enough, on Monday I got a comment from LSass joking that she'd seen a crew of bachelorettes at the corner of Avenue B and 6th wearing matching tank tops on Saturday night, hahaha, maybe it was you.  I immediately pulled up the Google Map I'd made of our pub-crawling route and saw that we had been exactly at that corner, and I emailed Laurel a picture of our outfits, because NO WAY.  That's just not possible, right?

Oh, it's possible.  NYC is one freaky place sometimes.

The night and the weekend overall were just a blast.  I loved every sleep-deprived minute of laughing hysterically with the best friends in the world over a Chili's commercial for honey-dipped chicken (you had to be there), cheering our bachelorette to victory in a lap dance contest (again... sort of had to be there), ordering pizza at 3am and then sending it back because it was mangled, and driving on the New Jersey Turnpike the next morning suffering the effects of having been awake for nearly 48 hours and having consumed a wee bit of alcohol. 

Yes, I just said I enjoyed driving on the Turnpike.  Obviously there were a few brain cell casualties this weekend as well.

Edited to add: No offense intended toward the fine citizens of Delaware

As we were driving to New Jersey on Saturday morning to attend an engagement party, I had the occasion to take special notice of the road signs along the way.  I'd like to thank the massive traffic on Route 95 for this rare opportunity.  Really, 95 went out of its way to make this trip memorable by first planting a massive traffic jam just south of the Maryland border and then following up with the requisite senseless Delaware backups.  When we finally got to the party, after FIVE AND A HALF hours of driving, we learned that someone else coming from Baltimore had just turned around and gone home after two hours.  That at least made Joel feel less bad for asking if it was possible to un-RSVP to a party.

On the way up, I surprised at how nice some of the signage was.  I'd never noticed this before, but is there a new school of thought relating to the psychology of road signs?  There was a sign that said "Please do not discard litter", and another saying "Buckle up!  We CARE!"  When we exited the NJ Turnpike, there was a sign asking us very politely to obey posted local speed limits.

Um, hello?  Isn't that sort of common sense?  I think the sign makers are thinking way too much about this.  I have designed a new sign that could replace all of these.  Enough with the "Please don't speed," "Keep a safe following distance", and "Don't throw your crap on the road".  Let's just get right down to it:

And while I'm doing the sign-makers' jobs for them, I'd like to suggest a few revisions to the iconic Delaware sign, too.  I mean, this does not really capture the true spirit of The First State:

This would be much more useful to travelers:

   

*Edited to add:  I mean no offense to the state of Delaware, its residents, or their pets.  Seriously.  I know that when people say "no offense," it usually just means "I'm about to say something really offensive", but I have no hard feelings for anyone or anything in Delaware, except for that particular 15-mile stretch of 95. 

**In fact, I've almost become fond of the Delaware traffic: it's dependable and reliable, and those are good qualities to have.  And by calling it "Delaware traffic", I just meant the traffic in Delaware, not the traffic caused by Delawarians. 

***You know who I am not fond of?  The guy in front of me who got in the EZPASS lane but did not have an EZPASS.  And instead of just running the damn toll like a normal person, he GOT OUT OF HIS CAR, crossed two lanes of traffic, and tried to pay the attendant at another booth.  He was an idiot, but I think he had Kentucky plates. 

****Nothing against Kentucky, either!  I've never even been there!  I'm sure it's very nice!  I hear they make great fried chicken!

*****Please don't kill me.

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For those of you who inquired about the cookie recipe, it's right here.

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I really do plan on posting about our vacation soon.  Seriously.   Right after I get back from spray painting that Delaware sign.

Fake Weekend

Salutations from New Jersey!  I have to attend a meeting in Northern, NJ tomorrow, and I had the day off today to hang out with my momma.  My mom, in case I haven't mentioned, is an avid hiker.  Oh, and also an avid biker (cyclist, I mean), kyaker, skiier, paddle tennis player.  We have a ping pong table in our living room.  She has a pair of snow shoes.  Do you get the idea?  I believe the scientific term for how I feel right now is "pooped".  Pooped is good, though.  It's better than "drained", "exhausted", and "walking dead", for instance.

What's tough about being pooped on a Thursday is that I have to get up at 7 and go to an all-day meeting tomorrow.  In a suit .  Huh?  But I just went hiking!  Isn't it the weekend?

Fake Weekend, apparently, is pretty rough.

Fake Vacation begins on Sunday.  WOOT!

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.

Happy Traffic Day

Well, I've read (some of) the Tivo manual, and played around with it a bit, and I have to say: This thing fucking rocks.  You can pause live TV.  And then fast forward through the commercials.  You can watch one show you've recorded while recording another.  It's just absolutely fabulous.

Except, we've already had our first fight about it, when I looked in the "To Do" list, and noted that Joel had nine more hours than I did lined up to record.  And I wanted to gently remind him that just because we have the ability to record television now, which I agree is fan-fucking-tastic, there are still only 24 hours in the day, and only 37.5 hours in the Tivo memory unless you want to reduce the quality more, and I don't think you want to do t hat.  So you can't record every episode of every show you've ever thought about watching, because then there's going to be an incredible backlog and no room for the shows we actually do want to watch, and it's going to turn into another Netflix, where there are over 180 movies in the queue, and all we have at home is Dark Blue and Fat Albert, and I've never heard of the former, and I'd rather stab my own eyes out than watch the latter.   

So how long until someone comes out with a "how to use your Tivo and still love each other" manual?  Because if my Nip/Tuck gets overridden for some cartoon, I think it will be over between us.

Ut oh, it must be the holidays, someone is getting cranky.

I cannot believe that Thanksgiving is already upon us.  I'm still sitting here thinking, what?  How can August be over already?  But time marches on, I guess, and I'm more than happy to have half the week off of work.  I am looking forward to seeing my family and my high school friends and eating lots of good food. 

I am not looking forward to the drive up to New Jersey tomorrow.  I haven't done this drive in the past two years, because it's so traumatic that I needed that long of a break to forget how horrible it really is, and convince myself that oh, it's not that bad, I mean how much traffic can there really be?  We'll just leave on Thursday instead of Wednesday, and I'm sure there won't be much traffic on Thursday because everyone will be sitting down to dinner at 2pm while we're speeding along an empty Turnpike. God, I'm brilliant sometimes.

Except then Joel read this article, which says I'm not brilliant at all:

If you have the notion that you might as well travel Thanksgiving morning, think twice. Williams said that's when some of the worst backups occur -- starting as early as daybreak. Baltimore travelers should leave before 5 a.m. Since other drivers just read that sentence, leave even earlier.

Um, shit?

I'm still deluding myself into thinking it won't be that bad, I'm prepared for traffic, and if we make the 200 miles in 5 hours, I'm going to consider that a success.  I'm not thinking about the possibility that it might take more like 7-8 hours, as it has in the past.  At least I won't be driving alone.  In fact, I won't even be driving, since we're taking Joel's vehicle.  See, it's going to be fine.  You'll see.  Why are you shaking your head like that?

Happy Thanksgiving, internet.  May your turkeys be fat, your traffic be light, and the Delaware Memorial Bridge be construction-free.

Want to hear about how I got my lock popped?

Hello internet, how are you?  I'm fine, thanks for asking. 

Today I got the annual email saying "request your holiday days off NOW, before they're gone!"  Which got me to thinking about the holidays and what we're going to do... but mostly, about how much traffic there is going to be on the New Jersey Turnpike.

But, whatever, I told myself.  Nothing can be as bad as two years ago.   

Twas the morning before the night before Christmas of 2004, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. 

Joel had departed early in the morn, off to Vermont to sit by the fire and eat popped corn. 

I was nestled all snug in my bed, with visions of sugar overdoses dancing in my head.

When out in the hall there arose such a clatter, I knew in my sleep exactly what what the matter. 

It was the sound that Max makes when he's not feeling quite well, the warning he gives before all goes to hell. 

Into the hall I flew like a flash, thinking "Not on the rug, Max!  Don't be such an ass!" 

Hack, hack, cough cough, the fat kitty said, and before I could reach out, vomit sprang from his head.

Off he ran down the stairs and into the bathroom, while I spotted up cat puke with my face filled with gloom.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear, just as I'd found the carpet cleaner and was in the clear?

Another pile here and yet another there, Max had even puked on my neatly folded underwear.

As I stood bewildered in my rumpled nightgown, I heard more hacking commence, two floors down.

Max was very sick, of that much I was sure, and I could only wonder what on earth could be the cure?

As I closed him in the bathroom with a towel and bowl of water, I marched off to work, feeling as if I were on my way to a slaughter.

I'll just call the vet, it will all be all right, a Merry Christmas indeed, but we'll have a fine night.

Two years ago, Joel and I decided to do holidays with our separate families.  Joel left for the high hills of Vermont early in the morning of December 23rd, but I was scheduled to work a half day, since I had just started my job three weeks before and totally got screwed with holiday time off. 

Max is not a healthy cat, and him throwing up is nothing new.  But the way he was acting on this morning, I knew that something was seriously wrong.  He wouldn't stop barfing, and in between he was lying in the bathtub, panting.  He was hot to the touch and looked about as miserable as a cat can look.  He was not exactly in the shape I'd like to make a 200-mile drive home to New Jersey, but I had to go to work, since I was the only one scheduled in that day.  I locked Max in the bathroom and went off to work, where I immediately called the vet and scheduled an emergency appointment.  They told me it would cost $50 extra since it was such short notice, but they didn't say anything about it being Christmas Eve-eve, and for that I was grateful.  Four hours later, I trudged back home in the pouring rain and started loading up the car for the trip home for the holidays.

I was not particularly looking forward to getting Max into his carrier.  Have you ever seen footage of people who are, for whatever reason, trying to wrangle a greased pig?  They're diving on to the pig, the pig is squealing and running as fast as his pig legs can carry him, then they manage to grab him and he flails and squirms and breaks free, and it starts all over again?  That's what it's like trying to get Max into his carrier.  It doesn't help that, most of the time, Madison is sitting in the carrier because HE never gets to go ANYWHERE, insert whining here.  Oh, and have I mentioned that Max was vomiting quite a bit?  Good times!  So I did what anyone would do in this situation, and I made myself a sandwich for the road.  Then I ate some chips and had a Diet Coke and looked out the window to see if it was still raining.  It was.  I decided to save the best for last, leaving Max in the bathroom while I packed up the last few bags.

As I walked out of the house with my purse and my sandwich, I instinctively turned the lock on the inside of the door and slammed it behind me.  As it was closing, my stomach sank and I turned in slow motion... but it was too late.  I had my lunch in one hand, and my purse in the other, and I'd left my keys on the kitchen table.

Thankfully, the little baby Jesus* was feeling gracious (or I was just stupid) and I hadn't locked my car.  So, I got into the passenger seat and began digging through my purse, praying that I had my cell phone somewhere in there.

Have I mentioned that I am a nervous traveler?  Well, I am.  I get irrationally nervous whenever I'm traveling, especially by plane.  It's really quite counterproductive, because my nerves cause me to forget things (like cell phones, wallets, cell phone chargers, the address of the hotel I'm staying at, KEYS TO THE HOUSE I LIVE IN), which in turn makes me even more nervous. 

(Don't you just want to take a trip with me now? )

Luckily, I had my cell phone on me.  I called Joel, who had been driving north for approximately 6 hours at this point.

Joel: Hello?

Me: OMG I locked myself out of teh house!!!1  Where r u??  Can u come let me in??

Joel: I am in New Hampshire.

Me: Oh, $@%&.  I was hoping maybe you hit a lot of traffic or something and were still close by.

So I did the next logical thing that a person would do, I knocked on the door of our neighbor two doors down, who we'll call Mr. Old Man, or MOM.  MOM is the prototype for a certain Baltimore breed, he is always home, except for when he's carted away in an ambulance, which happens approximately every other week.  He has lived in his house since he was born, which is a long time, since he is approximately 177 years old.  He has a handicapped parking spot, which makes me angry at him, even though I should probably be sympathetic or something instead.  MOM's favorite hobbies include watching TV with his door open, standing in front of his open door spying on the neighborhood, going to the hospital, and gabbing with anyone who will talk to him.

Since the house next to us was vacant at the time, and I knew the neighbors on the other side were already gone for the holidays, and the rest of our block is made up of white trash folks of varying degrees of Scary (the Scariest kicked out one of their residents, who I think is the brother of one of the other residents on the block, and then he proceeded to sleep on their front steps for over a week.  And then he got tired of them kicking him every time they came in or out, and he moved to sleeping on the church steps across the street... that is, until he was arrested for Something Mysterious in a big to-do in front of said church and was never seen again), I decided MOM was probably my safest bet. 

For what?  I don't know.  But I knocked on his door.  And sure enough, he was home.

Me: Um, hi.  I live two houses down.  I think we met when I moved in or something.  Um, I like sort of locked myself out of the house.

MOM: OK. 

Me: Do you have a phone I can use?  And maybe a phone book?  Do you know a locksmith?  Can you pick a lock?  Can you make it stop raining?  Do you want half of this sandwich I made myself before I got locked out?

MOM: OK.

[pause]

[pause]

MOM: I'll go get a phone book.

While he was gone, I got a good look around his living room, which was exactly what you would expect: shag brown carpeting, a TV from the 60s playing Jeopardy, and LOTS of brick-a-brack.  I quickly realized that waiting alone and wet in my car would be much preferable to waiting in awkward silence with MOM, so I shut his door, got into my car, called 411, and got the number for a locksmith.  Why did I not do this in the first place?  Your guess is as good as mine.  I'm going with Travel Nerves.

When I called 411, they wanted to know which listing I needed, and the only locksmith I could think of was this company called Pop-A-Lock, who have a van that I often see parked nearby.  Their slogan is "Free if Child Locked in Car!"  So, I called them.  Hey, maybe they were also "Free If Barfing Cat Locked in House!" 

The Pop-A-Lock operator said they would be there in approximately 30 minutes.  THIRTY MINUTES!  But I have to be at my emergency vet appointment in 15 minutes!  Dios mio.  But I said OK, because really?  Was I going to argue?

Just then, I saw MOM's face appear in his window.  He had a phone book in his hand.  I rolled down the window and yelled "Oh, thanks!  But I got someone!  I'm fine!"  He gave me a look that said he was sick and tired of all the damn crazy people on this block, and shut his door.

I sat in my car and called every person I knew in an attempt to pass the time, and take my mind of the fact that I really had to pee.  You know how you always wait until right before you leave on a long trip to pee, so that you won't have to pee again 15 minutes after you leave?  BAD IDEA.

Then I ate my sandwich. 

And drank my Diet Coke.

And REALLY had to pee.  But not quite enough to go back to MOM's house and ask to use the bathroom. 

I called Joel again.  He was still in New Hampshire. 

I called the vet and told them I wasn't going to make it to my 1pm Emergency Appointment. 

I looked at Madison sitting in the window, and wished I had trained him to pass me my keys through the mail slot, instead of wasting all my time training Max to stand on his hind legs for a treat.

I called Pop-A-Lock again to see where the hell they were.  They told me that someone would be there in 45 minutes to an hour. 

I still really had to pee.

Two hours after I'd first called them, Pop-A-Lock showed up.  But they refused to pop my damn lock**, because it was "raining" too hard.  So I sat in my car some more. 

The rain didn't let up. 

Finally, they popped the lock.  It took less than thirty seconds, but yet it cost me $55.  MOM watched through his screen window.   I wrote a check and ran to the bathroom.  I shoved Max into his carrier, grabbed the last two bags, and sped to the vet.

When I got to the vet's office, I was informed that the vet has just started a surgery.  I would have to wait for her to be done. 

I waited.  Max slept.  Madison cried.

An hour and a half later, the vet saw us.  She poked and prodded Max, and told me she thought he might have ingested something that was making him sick.  I told her that was highly probable, as I found him snuggled up with a half-eaten purple string that he had pulled out of my hoodie sweatshirt last night.  She said that was bad, and I said that I knew... that was one of my favorite sweatshirts, and now Max had ruined it.   

The vet said there were two options:

1. Wait and see what happens (Cost: Free)
2. Do an xray to see if there IS a foreign object in Max's intestines, and then do surgery to remove it (Cost: $98,233,487,234.99)

Since I didn't actually have $98,233,487,234.99, and they weren't accepting IOU's for first-born children, I chose option number 1.  I was sent off with some nausea pills, and Max got a shot of fluids since he'd been barfing all day and was dehydrated.  For these, and the emergency visit, the cost was a mere $400, which seemed like a bargain.  Except for that my cat was still sick. 

I collected my cats, who were none to pleased after spending over two hours in the vet's office, and my much  lighter wallet, and we got in the car to start on our way to New Jersey.

I had originally planned to be on the road no later than 1pm, in order to avoid the worst of the holiday traffic.  At this point, it was 4:45.  I got to the freeway at exactly 5pm, and hit rush hour traffic.

The drive to my mom's house is just over 200 miles, and takes about 3 hours and 15 minutes on a good day, with no major traffic and one stop to pee/get gas.  On this day, it took just over six hours.  Max cried for every single second of those six hours.  I cried for a few of them, too.

But we made it, and now I can rest easy knowing that no matter how bad the traffic and how stressful the holiday, nothing can be worse than that day. 

I hope.

__________________________________________________

*I just like the little baby Jesus best. 

**This is not a euphamism for ANYTHING, you sick, sick people.

It's my party, and Shadow will wear a lei if she wants to

Burgers, hot dogs, sausages, veggie burgers, chicken, and various other assorted food for Hawaiian-themed graduation party: One Hundred and Eighty Dollars.

A keg of Yuengling, a handle each of rum and vodka, and several cases of girlie drinks for Hawaiian- themed graduation party: Two Hundred and Forty Dollars.

Seeing your 19-year-old cat happily wearing a lei for duration of Hawaiian-themed graduation party: Priceless.

No, seriously: she wore it all day and night.  See, here she is a good 8 hours later, "observing" an intense beerpong match.

I say "observing" in quotes, because Shadow doesn't observe much these days.  She is mostly blind, stone deaf, and partially crippled.  And yet, she parties on. 

We humans had a pretty good time, too.  Joel and I drove up to New Jersey in the lovely inclement weather on Saturday morning, and it only took us 5 hours.  Which is less than I had feared, what with the deadly combination of holiday Turnpike traffic and rain, which was blinding and sheet-like at times.  But, we made it up, and after a quick stop, we headed out to BJ's to shop for the food for the party.  I think it is safe to say that we went a little overboard, but you can never have too much food, can you?  On the other hand, it is certainly possible to have too little food.  It's always better to err on the side of caution, that's my motto.

After we loaded all of our purchases into the car and drove back to my mom's house (still in the pouring rain), we tackled the task of marinating chicken, defrosting burgers, et cetera.  It's a lot of work having a party, you know?  Luckily my mother had already gone wild at Party City during the week, procuring more than enough Hawaiian-themed merchandise to guarantee that a good time would be had by all. 

And after all that, we still managed to have time to go out to dinner with my dad and both brothers on Saturday night.  We went to Charlie Brown's.  I had chicken.  It was delicious.  And yes, it is a steak place.  I just don't like steak that much, OK?  Get over it.  If I was the only one who felt that way, they wouldn't have chicken on the menu, now would they?

Sunday morning was spent running around, picking up tables and chairs from various family friends, and, of course, making a stop at the Liquor Outlet.  Again, it is safe to say I overdid things.  In addition to the half-keg of Yuengling I'd pre-ordered, I also picked up a few large bottles of rum and vodka (to go with all the cranberry juice and soda we'd bought at BJ's!  You can't have one with out the other!), a case of Smirnoff Ices (for myself) and a case of Twisted Teas (for my brother).  What can I say, the love of girlie drinks runs in the family.

Food was grilled.   Drinks were consumed.  Friends and family were present.  It was a good time.

And the sun reappeared for the first time in days, to give us a lovely late summer day.

In a word, perfect.

Reason #1 for having the party in New Jersey (rather than Baltimore): Y.A.R.D.

These are a few pre-party pictures (OMG! Pictures!  Who would want to see pictures of an ugly douchebag like me!!) before people started to arrive.

(My "littlest" brother, Michael, my "little" brother, Kristopher, my dad, myself... and my brother's sense of humor, which no family picture would be complete without.)

Reason #2 for having the party in NJ: Family.  It is hard to get my whole family down to Baltimore at the same time.  And let's face it:  no one else throws the finger into a picture with such finesse.

And then the people started to arrive.  These are some of my friends from college.  They were the first to get there, and therefore got dibs on the best chicken.   

We ate, drank, and were merry.

Two of my best friends from high school.

I love these girls more than words can describe.  That kid on the right is alright, too.

Cheesy, I know.  But true.  I feel incredibly lucky to have the family and friends that I do. And there you have it.  We will now return you to your regularly scheduled program of bitterness and complaining.

Joel and I helped clean up on Monday morning, packed up the car, and then drove back to Baltimore.  The drive back was slightly better than the drive up, and it only took us 4 hours to get back.  It would have been 3, if it were not for Delaware, and the constant reality of traffic in the Small Wonder State.  Who closes two lanes of traffic on I-95 on Labor Day weekend ("for construction") (there was no construction going on)?  Who does that?  Delaware does, baby.

The summer is now officially over.  No more weekends filled with classes, road trips to visit friends, and parties.  No more vacations.  No more casual Friday.  It's back to the grind.

I'm not as disappointed as I would have expected.  I'm looking forward to going back to the gym regularly, and hopefully getting back into some semblance of physical fitness.  I'm excited to spend the weekends working on painting the house and doing various other home improvement projects that have fallen by the wayside (HELLO!  Holes in the walls!  They are not technically holes anymore, but I can't say that fresh-drywalled look is the decor we're going for, either).  I can't wait to go back to yoga on Saturday mornings.   I'm even looking forward to cooking real meals again, which will doubtlessly lead to more cooking disasters... but they're great learning experiences, right?  I must also admit that I'm looking forward to the fall TV lineup.  24, Lost, Nip/Tuck... how I've missed you, my old friends.  I am especially looking forward to enjoying television without the built-in "I should be studying/reading/writing a paper" guilt.

Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be able to find something else to feel guilty about.  Soon enough. 

Weekend in NJ, Part Two

I had grand plans for the post I was going to write about Sunday, since Sunday was actually really sort of interesting for a change and filled with parties and even some drama.  But then Monday came and I had to drive all the way back to Maryland.  And I got a little lost, which stressed me out.  And then I was almost late for my academic advising appointment, in which I needed to be granted permission to graduate this summer.  And then it started to hail.  And then I walked into the house and noticed that Max had peed on the rug because Joel didn't clean out the literbox once while I was away.  Then I was informed that Madison ran away not once, but twice this weekend.

But that was all OK, luckily I have a nice mat with rubber backing down on Max's favorite pee spot, so it didn't leak through to the rug.  And Joel managed to recover Madison after both escapes.  We went to the grocery store and watched 24, and then I collapsed into bed....  and started worrying about all the homework and papers that are now one more week closer to being due.  And all the emails that came in on Monday that I need to respond to.  And the next thing I know, it's 2am and I'm watching some horrendous movie with JLo and Vince Vaughn, where Jennifer is this psychologist who uses this machine that looked suspiciously like the one that the Pre-Cogs used in Minority Report, and then all of a sudden a horse is getting chopped up. 

So at this point I have given up on writing the great post I had planned, with backstory on growing up in New Jersey and playing games like No Brake Neutral and Captains Breaking Training Rules.  That will have to wait for another time.

Let's flash back for a moment to Saturday night.  I've safely arrived at home in New Jersey, eaten my fifth meal of the day, and am relaxing on the couch with my geriatric cat, watching New York's finest on USA.  My mom asks if I wanted to go hiking in the morning, before the shower (which was the actual reason that I came to NJ this weekend, which somehow has escaped mention up to now).  I said sure, and we agreed to go at 9am.  An hour later, an argument ensues about whether going hiking at 9am meant leaving the house at 9am, or waking up at 9am (my position was the latter).  We agreed that I would wake up at 9am and we'd leave the house no later than 9:30. 

Saturday was Daylight Savings Day, which I forgot about, despite the fact that it is my favorite non-holiday holiday of the year and I've been counting down to it for months.  Mother conspicuously "forgot" to remind me about it, so when I agreed to wake up at 9am, I was really agreeing to wake up at 8am.  As our family friend Dr. Phil would say, "this is not OK."

I also forgot that my room in NJ has no door, so I wake up whenever the first person in the house wakes up and starts banging around in the kitchen, loudly resetting all the clocks. So I ended up waking up at 7:30am.  NOT OK.

After the hike, my mom convinced me to shower (as in bathe) and we got ready for Joke's bridal shower (as in party), which was lovely.  I ate lots of delicious vegetarian food and chatted with people I hadn't seen in ages.  Everything was wonderful, and I'll leave Joke to write a properly detailed synopsis of the event.  I have only been to one bachelorette party/bridal shower before, and that one involved putting condoms on bananas and drinking out of plastic straws shaped like penises.  There were no prophylactics or plasticwear shaped like reproductive organs at this shower. 

Me and my best-friend-since pre-K (and sister of the bride), Kirsten.  Kirsten is such a great friend that she instinctively bends down in pictures so I don't look like a midget. 

A little closer to our true height difference.  I may or may not be standing on a stack of phone books. (Note: please do not click for the full sized image, and if you do, please do not look at my one half-opened eye and its intense red color.  My eyes are blue.  I am not possessed by the devil, just an OCD need to organze things.)

After the shower, to continue my weekend of eating, I went out to dinner with my Dad.  In a bold and dangerous move, we went to TGIFriday's.  What could be dangerous out Friday's, you're wondering.  Well, clearly you did not grow up in a New Jersey town where Friday's holds one of the two town bars, and so on any given night about half of the people from your high school that have ended up living with their parents (a high percentage) will be there and force you to engage in meaningless chit chat.  By pure luck, we ate our chicken quesadillas (me) and plain hamburger (Daddy) in peace, and made our escape without being trapped into any impromptu high school reunions.

Feeling lucky after this uneventful and pleasant dinner, I proposed that my lone friend living in Boonton Township at the moment come to Starbucks with me so we could catch up.  I picked her up and we drove to the Starbucks -- as in the ONLY Starbucks within 20 miles.  And here my luck ran out. 

As we walked in, I thought I spotted a girl that we used to work with in our glory days of lifeguarding at the Deer Lake Club.  I put my hand in front of my face and prepared to run back to the car and speed away, but upon closer inspection, it was just someone who bore a mild resemblance to her.  We ordered our caffeinated overpriced beverages and sat down to discuss how godawful it would have been to have run into this girl, who was once a close friend, but who we now hate because of multiple transgressions committed by her and my ex-boyfriend during the Days of Drama at DLC.  Phew!  That was a close one.

Five minutes later, in walks you-know-who.  Awkward chit-chat through clenched teeth ensues, with "it's so great to see yous" interspersed.  She begrudginly introduces us to her boyfriend.  I repress the urge to say something snide like, "Oh, how nice that you have a boyfriend of your very own now.  Does that mean that you won't be having sex with mine anymore?" 

Wow, that makes me sound bitter.  And really, I'm not.  I WAS, but it was such a long time ago and honestly, I don't care anymore.  But that's what returning to New Jersey can do to you -- make you feel like you never left and you're still in high school, being a bitchy drama queen.  Not to say that I was a bitchy drama queen in high school.  I wasn't.  But you know what I mean.  Right?

After what seems like hours, the Starbucks employees finally finish making her frappachino, and she runs out of there faster than we ever ran to save a child pretending to drown.

Ten minutes after that, a Random High School Acquaintance walks in and begins milling about by the sugars.   I accidentally exceed the staring time limit and am forced to say "Hey, Random High School Acquaintance, is that you?"  "Oh my god!  Casey!  You look so great, he replies."  More awkward chit-chat ensues after I tell him that while Casey is a very nice name, it is not mine. We briefly tell him what we are doing with our lives.  He reciprocates by telling us an extremely sketchy story about living with his parents and "running a couple of businesses out of the house."  He asks for our phone numbers and emails so that he can catch up with us later, because he has to run right now.  He leaves without buying anything and the Starbucks employees glare at him.

I realize that I must leave New Jersey immediately.

So, bright and early (10:30am) on Monday morning, I get in my car and begin my exodus.  I was planning to stop by Brother #2's apartment to get lunch on the way, and I even had directions.  His directions failed to mention a triple traffic circle in the middle of ghetto South Jerz, but since every true NJ-native is born knowing how to successfully navigate traffic circles, I arrive at his apartment at the planned time.  I get a tour of his apartment, which is pretty much what you'd expect from an all-male college apartment.  Empty beer cans, dirty dishes, a finger painted mural, and multiple holes in the walls.  I begin to feel better about the horrid state of my own house.

After we have lunch (in a nice clean restaurant nearby) I set off for Baltimore.   I've been lost in this area before (I've been lost in just about every area I've ever been to at one time or another), so I knew that getting home was going to be tricky.  The last time I was at his school, I was trying to continue North, and foolishly got on 295 North for this purpose.  Then 295 North all of a sudden changed into 95 South and I was shocked to find myself back in Delaware an hour later.  I was hoping this trick would work again, so I took 295 North, and viola!  An hour later I was in Delaware.  There is a wrinkle in the space-time continuum in South Jersey.

I made it back to Baltimore without incident.  I was 20 minutes early to my Academic Advising appointment, and now I think that I have permission to graduate this summer.  That is, if I don't worry myself to death before then.  July 15th (my projected graduation date) is seeming mighty far away right now.   

Weekend in NJ, Part One

Hello from Boonton Township!

What, you've never seen a llama crossing sign before?

Saturday: the trip home.

9:15am: In a display of love and support, I arrive at Joel's crew regatta.  Joel is already out on the water. 

Vroom.

I spend approximately three hours trying to determine which boats are his and who is winning, to no avail.  I am again amazed that people do this sport for fun.  Besides the waking up at ungodly hours of the morning, crew also involves carrying (what seem like heavy) boats to and from the water, washing said boats when the race is over, and coming dangerously close to the brackish waters of Baltimore, and wearing spandex unitards.  On any given day, I would be equally unsurprised to see a beer can, a hypodermic needle, a dead human body , or a used condom floating in the Baltimore harbor. 

Ew.

I suspect that the same strange addiction that compelled me to run 50 miles a week until my hamstring gave out forces these people to engage in this hellish behavior.  To each his own.

10:30am: I befriend some nice mallard ducks by sharing my vanilla Powerbar Protein Plus (lunch #1).  Ducks need their protein too. 

Quack.

12:00 pm: It comes to my attention that I have contracted a nice sunburn, as I am the whitest little Irish/German girl to ever see the light of day.

12:15pm: Regatta ends and I observe the medal ceremony, another strange rowing practice. Joel's team gets a lot of medals.  I experience a moment of panic when I wonder if the winning coach is also awarded medals, which would be a clear violation of my No More Junk Policy.  Thankfully, Joel does not receive any medals.  We all eat Panera bread sandwiches (lunch #2)

1:00pm: I depart.

1:10pm: I arrive at WashWorks to have my car washed and vacuumed before my dad sees it.   Approximately 30 Hispanic men storm my vehicle.  Fifteen minutes later, my car is sparkling clean, looking not a mile over 100,000.  I depart for New Jersey. 

1:15pm: I reach for my water bottle and realize that the overzealous cleaning gentlemen took the liberty of throwing it away.  I begin to hyperventilate at the idea of not having any water on a three hour car ride. 

1:35pm: I screech to a halt at the Maryland House rest stop and purchase a 1.5 liter bottle of water, a 20oz Diet Sprite, and a tall Frappachino.  One can never have too many drinks on a solo car ride.

3:30pm: I meet my brother Kristopher at Vito's Pizza in Vorhees.  I eat lunch #3 with K and his girlfriend.  We discuss the tragedies of working for a living, and commiserate over our collective job situations.

4:00pm: I continue on my way.

6:00pm:  I arrive in Boonton Township, and realize that I never got around to taking off the long expired NJ registration sticker on my windshield, despite the fact that I have already been pulled over by the ever-vigilant BTPD once to explain that, yes, my registration is current, and no, it's no longer registered in New Jersey, and yes, I have been meaning to take that sticker off for three years. 

6:10 pm: I arrive in my mother's driveway without incident.  I am greeted by my 19-year-old semi-paralyzed cat's yowls. 

Meow.

It's good to be home.

To be continued....