jennsylvania

(Not) Trapped in the Closet

Apparently you can't tell 50,000 Facebook followers about getting locked in the garage without providing the back story, so here goes:

A few years ago I received a silver key ring for making the best seller list.  I love this key ring, A) because of what it symbolizes and, B) shiny!  However, not long after I started using it, I learned that it's quirky.  You see, one of the silver balls screws off and that's how you add and remove keys.  Unless you're blessed with a patented GI Joe Kung-Fu grip, the ball will occasionally loosen.  The more times you toss your key ring in your bag, the looser it gets.

So, about once a month I have to remember to tighten the ball or all my keys will fall off and drown in the sea of lipstick, cough drops, antique Kleenex, and free range antacids rolling around the bottom of my bag, thus defeating the entire purpose of the key ring, shiny though it may be.

Last weekend my friend Joanna and I went to the opera.  She found a hotel downtown for less than a hundred bucks a night, so we decided we'd stay instead of waiting in the cold for a half an hour for the opera valet or taking the late train home. 

(The train is fine at that time of night; the Chicago train station, however, freaks me the hell out.) 

(Truly I am suburban now.)

(Also?  The Magic Flute?  With no murders, torrid affairs, OR swordfights?  Come on.  The production was fabulous, but going forward, I prefer my opera PG-13, at a minimum.) 

ANYWAY, being the hyper-paranoid douchebag that I am, I don't ever give my house key to the valet because I saw an episode of Fastlane once where Jamie Pressley was a high end thief who worked for a valet service and, using the house key, would steal jewels and art while the car owner was at dinner.  Mind you, I have no jewels or art, so I'm afraid these high end thieves would take my dogs out of spite and they wouldn't know when to give Maisy her heartburn medicine.

Point? 

I forgot to remove the key from the ring before I got into the car, so I had to do it en route.  I was able to secure the ball back on without incident, but as I had one hand on the wheel, I didn't get it very tight.

When I arrived home on Sunday, I forgot to reattach my car key to the ring.  Then, I used Fletch's car all week because it's more gas-efficient. 

Okay.  That's a lie.

I usually opt for Fletch's car because I'm lazy.  You see, you don't have to use the key to unlock or start it.  All you have to do is have the fob on your person somewhere, which is the greatest post-manicure feature in the world and which means I never have to dig it out from the swamp of wrappers and receipts and spent Starbucks gift cards that I lug around every day.  Because I only went out when he was home, I never had to reach for my house key because the garage door was unlocked.

(By the way, I'm providing this granular level of detail to prove to Fletch that I am not, in fact, a dingbat and this could have happened to anyone.)

So.  Yesterday.  I had to drop some stuff off so I took my car because it's bigger.  While I was driving I made a mental note that I had to tighten the stupid ball but never quite got to it.  I was in and out of the car a few times and eventually, my car key slid off the ring completely, not a big deal because it happens all the damn time.

When I arrived home and pulled into the garage, Fletch's car was gone, meaning I'd have to unlock the garage door myself.  I dug around in my bag for the key and kept coming up with handfuls of stuff such as three pair of Wayfarers, two chewy granola bars, a sewing kit, my lucky yellow binder clip, a variety of products from the Apple Corporation, and portable versions of the Declaration of Independence and U.S. Constitution.  (Hey, sometimes a gal wants to check on the 18 enumerated powers on the go.)

After much pawing, I finally dumped out my bag and noticed that both the silver ball and the key were missing, and... then I had a small temper tantrum and threw my purse across the garage, not realizing my car key was still inside, ergo locking myself in the garage and out of my car and precipitating an unpleasant Easter egg hunt.

Eventually I found my car key, which was nice but not necessary because for reasons too stupid to explain (yes, even I have my limits) we have a couch in there.  But the car was warmer, so I climbed in and started calling people.  Fletch was in the middle of an errand and couldn't get home for about 45 minutes, so I dialed my friend Angie.  While we were on the phone, I noticed that we had raccoon paw prints on the wall, leading from where the top of the window slid open last week to a shelf and down to Fletch's workbench, all of which neatly explains what I've been hearing in the attic.  I told her I was relieved to scratch "ghosts" off my possible list of explanations.  Then Angie asked me how I ever made to to adulthood and I replied that I didn't know.

Within the hour, Fletch came home and all is well, except that I still don't have a way to let myself into the house.  He was worried that we'd have to change the locks but considering I lost the key somewhere between here and the Mag Mile, I suspect whomever finds it will have to spend many years trying locks before he or she hits upon this particular house.  What's a shame is that the valet didn't steal my key because at least I know where to find him. 

Now what's puzzling is when I was changing into my jammies last night, something fell out of my shirt.  I thought I lost an earring, but instead it was the errant silver ball that caps the keyring. 

WTF?? 

Then I poked around in my bra to see if I somehow lost the key in there (like when I find popcorn after going to the movies) but no luck.

In summary?

I lost a key but gained a raccoon.

And THAT is why Fletch wants to buy me a helmet for Christmas.

Distinguish Yourself? Right.

A timeline leading up to my Purdue University College of Liberal Arts Distinguished Alumna award.

Five Months Ago - Me?  They want to honor me?  But they know I flunked out, right?  No, really?  Me?  Huh.  Cool.  Guess I have to write a speech.

Four Months Ago - I should get a head start on that speech.

Three Months Ago -Maybe I should jot a few thoughts down before it's April and I'm slammed with pre-pub deadlines.

Two Months Ago - Ooh, snow!  I'm not going to write a speech.  Instead, I'm going to watch SO MUCH TELEVISION!

One Month Ago - I should think about that speech.

One Week Ago - I should work on that speech, but my desk is so messy and I have all these dog pictures to post...

10:30 AM, Thursday, Day Before the Award Ceremony - Well, shit.

Time to write this damn thing.  Since I'm not the only one getting this award, I Google the other recipients in order to mention them, because the night is about US and not just me. 

So, there's me... there's a Sociology Professor/Department Chair who's devoted his life to the social justice surrounding capital punishment... there's an Ambassador... and there's the Pulitzer Prize winning Washington Bureau Chief for the New York Times.

Hmm.  I wonder if any of them read my most recent think-piece on Card Sharks.

Panic ensues, but I get my speech done due to the burst of failure-based adrenaline.  It's not bad.

2:00 PM - Manicure and pedicure, essential for all the important hands I'll be shaking.

3:00 PM - Palm Beach Tanning Co.  Earlier, noticed a bunch of NASA guys are getting the same award in the engineering department.  Wonder if any astronauts are getting ready for the big day with a spray tan.

7:00 PM - Pack neatly and efficiently.  If anyone were to give me an award, this is where I deserve it.  When it comes to traveling, I'm a Viking.  Unless I don't get my upgrade and then I'm kind of very much an asshole.  But we're driving, so it's no problem.  Fletch packs his bags but doesn't put his suit in because he thinks it will get wrinkled.  He says he'll remember to grab it in the morning.  I insist he put it in the car NOW NOW NOW because I'm not about to receive my major award with him in a Donkey Punch t-shirt.

11:00 AM, Friday -Incident-free trip down to West Lafayette.  Fletch breaks his cardinal rule of no food in the car because I was so busy not writing my speech that I didn't go to the grocery store and we had nothing to eat in the house.  We stop at Arby's!  Oh, forbidden potato cakes, you're the sweetest potato cakes of all.

4:30 PM -I arrive at the fancy pre-banquet reception in a pretty dress with a snappy Burberry scarf.  I do not mention to anyone that this what I call my "good eatin' scarf" which I wear all the time less as a fashion accessory and more as kind of a bib.  (Seriously!  Have saved hundreds in not ruining shirts with salad dressing and mayo and scarf rinses easily!)

Meet all the VIPs behind my getting the award and I apologize about my lack of Pulitzer Prize.  They seem to be okay with this.  But my next column is about TLC's Extreme Couponing, so the dream remains alive! 

I may or may not suggest to the other award recipients that we pose in a human pyramid when we get our photos taken, but I'm pretty sure they know I'm joking.  (But if I weren't, I'd be a base.  Am very sturdy.)

At no point do I swear, stammer, or sweat Chardonnay. 

#WINNING!

6:30 PM - I give my keynote address and it is well-received.  People laugh in the right places, everyone smiles, and the applause seems real.  What a fine, fine way to cap off an eleven year academic career!

7:00 PM - Other honorees give their speeches and the emcee lists all their other awards and community projects before they speak.  Their achievements and community involvement is daunting.  My only involvement is being a Charter Member of the Official Barbies Collectors Club.  (I have a membership card and everything!) 

8:45 PM - The ceremony ends and I get to chat with Brian Lamb who thinks my Bitter Congressshhh story is hilarious.

 

And I told him not to worry, even though I didn't get the C-SPAN internship, everything worked out.

A great end to a spectacular evening.

This is where I wish the story ended.

It doesn't.

9:00 PM - We change into regular clothes and run across the street to Harry's, the scene of so many of my college crimes.  We're with my freshman roommate Joanna and her husband.  Joanna and I make a beeline for the back to see if our names are still carved in the side of a table.  There they are, twenty years later!!  Harry's world famous Long Islands for everyone! 

9:15 PM -More Long Islands for everyone!  And how is it possible that this bar hasn't changed one song on the jukebox since 1993?  I thought we'd hear nothing but Ke$sha and Pink, but instead it's all Billy Joel, Journey, and Jimmy Buffet.  Woo!

9:30 PM - What time is it?  Why, it's Long Island time!

9:45 PM -Pace myself?  You want me to pace myself because I rarely drink and when I do, it's two glasses of wine?  Pfft!  I'm fine!  No, I'm more than fine!  I'm DISTINGUISHED.

10:00 PM - It's Mom's weekend at Purdue and I'm a tad dismayed to realize that all those ladies who look like me are there with their kids.

10:30 PM - Hey, I don't look like one of those moms.  I look young!  Ask me about my Botox!  I bet those kids thinks I go here!  Yes!  Drinks for me and all my undergrad friends!

11:30 PM - JUST A SMALL TOWN BOY, BORN AND RAISED IN SOUTH DETROOOOOOOOIT! 

11:45 PM - Why did I punch you?  Becaushe that's the game!   STEEEEEEVE PERRRY!  Now get me another drink!  Itsch my birthday!  Oh.  Well then it FEEEEEELS like my birschday!

12:00 AM - Mike Alstott walks by.  He's in town with a whole bunch of NFL dudes who've been standing next to us all night.  I introduce myself, figuring he would like to know that I'm the distingui distinggush dtring I won a major award!  Then I tell him he made out with my friend.  He can't recall.  "Oh, itsch all right," I assure him.  "She made out with a lot of people."

12:30 AM -HOLD ON TO THAT FEEEEEEEEEELIIIIIIN'

1:00 AM -Letsch throw gang symbhols so everyone will thinksh we're tough! 

 

"Lake Forest Represent!!  Our colors are pink and spray tan!"

1:30 AM -STREEEEEET LIGHTS!  PEEEEEOPLE!  OOOOOOOOOOOH!

2:00 AM - Thus begins the random Hugging of the Strangers. 

2:15 AM - And the Handing out of the Business Cards while instructing recipients to "move to Lakesh Forry 'cuase we don't know anybody."

2:30 AM - Form a human toll bridge and stop all undergrads trying to leave to explain what makes me a distinguished alumni.  They are less "impressed" and more "fucking terrified."

2:35 AM -DON'T STOP BEEEEEEEEEELIVIN'!!

2:40 AM - Fletch notices I'm eating stray pieces of popcorn off the table and bench and decides it's time to wrestle me back to where we're staying at the Union.  Joanna decides we both must smuggle out beer pitchers to commemorate this momentous night.  As we both carry Mom-purses, this proves very, very easy.

2:45 AM -I leave, but not before announcing to the population at large that I'm returning to my sorority house where I totally live because I'm only 21!  WOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!  STEEEEVE PERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRY!

* * *

I wake up to discover that I am not, in fact, 21 and neither is my liver. 

As we have things to do at home, there's no time for a hangover-curing biscuits and gravy breakfast at the Triple X.  On the way to get the car, I pass the Pulitzer Prize winner and note that she does not smell like a fraternity party.

I do not distinguish myself in a parking garage trash can.  But it was touch and go there for a minute.

Now THAT is the true and fitting end to my illustrious college career.

And if I suddenly feel queasy the next time I hear a Journey song, this is why.

The Drawer of Shame and Other Assorted Oddities

Fletch and I have a love/hate relationship with infomercials – he hates them and I love them. 

For me, I pretty much want whatever product they’re pitching.  When I used to roll home after the bar closed in college, I’d watch infomercials until dawn because I was powerless to turn them off.  A special paint brush that reaches those hard to reach corners?  The fruit dehydrator?  Susan Powter urging me to stop the insanity?  A tonic used to straighten black women’s hair that's so non-toxic you can actually taste it without dying?  The Principal Secret?  OMG, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes!!

I imagine that because I was young, drunk, and more than a tad stupid, I was the target market for these infomercial makers.  Unfortunately I’d maxed my credit cards years previous, so I was never liquid enough to actually purchase treasures such as the Roli Poli storage containers.  (Storage containers!  That ROLL!!)

As for Fletch, between the terrible acting and the exaggerated incompetence, he feels infomercials are an insult to everyone’s intelligence.  So now I love infomercials even more because watching Fletch get mad is always funny. 

“Who can’t crack an egg?” he’ll fume. 

“Blankets aren’t that complicated!  And it's just a backwards robe, you idiot!” 

“Seriously?  They can’t peel a cucumber without stabbing themselves?  Seriously?” 

“Oh, noes!  I can’t work this Saran Wrap!  Look at my butter–fingers!  Somebody help me!”

This leads us to Tuesday night where we’ve just finished a lovely dinner of flank steaks wrapped with spinach, prosciutto, and provolone cheese.  The kitchen TV is on and we’re both mesmerized by the Chef’s Basket.  Fletch is busy barking at the people who can’t boil a potato without incident while I’m busy imagining all the potatoes I’ll finally be able to boil without incident. 

At no point do either of us notice that our eighteen year old cat Jordan has climbed onto the dinner table.  I hear a quiet om-nom-nom in the near vicinity, but it doesn’t really register because the dogs’ dishes are right behind us and, my God!  The Chef’s Basket handles stay cool to the touch!  Finally I’ll stop burning my hands whenever I go near the stove!

So it’s not until the commercial ends that we realize the cat’s not only on the table, but she’s also just ingested the nine inch loop of butcher’s string that had held my flank steak together while cooking.

Son of a bitch.

“Did she…” I gasp, lifting my plate to find evidence of the string.  “She couldn’t…”

But she had and she did and she was currently smacking her smug, self-satisfied feline chops as though the string were particularly tasty.

Mind you, I’ve spent the last eighteen years trying to keep this stupid cat from eating string knowing the havoc it would play on her delicate digestive system.  I’m so careful that I don’t even throw dental floss in the trash.  I wait until I’m ready to take the garbage out and then I collect the used bits I'd stashed in my nightstand. 

(Sidenote:  I almost always forget to do this and Fletch won’t go near my nightstand because it’s a huge tangled knot of old floss, headbands, uncapped lip balms, free range antacids, and those tiny silica packets found in shoe boxes for some odd reason.  Fletch calls it my Drawer of Shame.)

Fletch is a quicker thinker than I am, so while I pace and try to convince the cat to barf, he consults the emergency vet and the internet.

“Good news,” he tells me, hanging up the phone.  “This isn’t such a big deal.  We don’t have to bring her to the ER.  All we need is a tablespoon of Vaseline.”

I run to the medicine cabinet to locate a tub.  I grab a handful of goo and return to the kitchen. 

“Okay, so what end do I put this in?” I ask.

Fletch scowls while I wrestle Jordan into position.  “Her mouth, you ninny.  You put it in her mouth.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” I scoff.  “I’ve never lubed a cat before.”

“You think I have??”

Noted.

And that's when Fletch and I learn a valuable lesson about mass – whereas you might think two hundred pounds of husband could control six pounds of ancient cat, you would be wrong.

So very wrong. 

We continue to struggle with her, but I can’t get the Vaseline anywhere near her mouth.  I do, however, get it in my mouth, as well as my hair and my ear and all over the counter, all of which blends nicely with the blood gushing from our fresh clawmarks.

“Shit, now what?” I ask.

“Well, according to the doc, if we can’t get it in her mouth, we put tiny dabs on her paws and she’ll ingest it when she cleans her feet.”

So I slather my handfuls on her front feet.  Jordan bolts away from us, but not before splattering every cabinet in the kitchen with Vaseline when she shakes her paws before escaping to the laundry room.

“That didn’t work,” I wail.

“What part of ‘dabs’ did you not understand?” he replies.

At this point, Jordan is beyond upset, but for her own good, we have to get this stuff in her.  So I rub her whole front down with Vaseline and to make it more appetizing, follow it up with some delicious Danish butter.  Then, for good measure, I apply some of the pan drippings from our dinner.  Her fur stands up in glistening chunks and spikes, giving her the appearance of Pauly D. before an evening of fist-pumping at Karma. 

But Jordan, unlike the rest of the Jersey Shore crew, is not up for GTL nor is she DTF.  Instead, takes off for my closet and spends the rest of the evening RAMCLS (Rubbing Against My Clean Lacoste Shirts.)

Fletch brings her to the vet for an X-ray and a bath the next morning.  I have him go because the last time I visited this particular vet, I’d brought in our other elderly cat Tucker to determine whether or not he was a date rapist.  (He is.)

Long story short, our efforts worked and Jordan’s fine.  Due to our diligent efforts at greasing her up, things… passed smoothly and without incident. 

However, the vet says the kind of bath he’d have to give her would be too traumatic so we have to rely on a combination of time and pet wipes to get her fur back to normal.  For now, she’s our little Exxon Valdez, leaving an angry trail of oil slicks wherever she goes.

So I guess what I’m saying is that if anyone knows of a good infomercial product to degrease the cat, I’m all ears.

(Also?  This is why we don’t have kids.)

It's Not Officially Christmas...

... until I overestimate the size of the room where the tree will go.

 

This year's famous last words?  "Of course we have 12' ceilings!"

We haven't yet cut the twine binding it together. 

I'm afraid to see what happens when we do.

We Interrupt This Short Break

Hey!  Look at me!  Typing on the internet! 

Haven't seen THAT in a while, eh?

So, before I can get to the story of my prolonged absence, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that my friend Stacey's new book Good Enough to Eat comes out today.

Here's the thing - this book is certainly Good Enough to Buy on its own merits in terms of plot, characters, and dialogue.  Stacey is an accomplished writer and her stories never cease to hold my attention. 

What you may not know is that she's my best friend and outside of Fletch, my most trusted adviser.  There are very few decisions I make without consulting her and I absolutely didn't choose a house until she saw all the options. 

Stacey is my better, more rational me.  She's been responsible for talking me off the ledge more times than I care to mention in regard to my writing career.  (Stacey, please make note that this year's "I don't want to be a writer anymore" meltdown is scheduled the week before Thanksgiving.)  And the few times she's not around, she's the voice inside my head keeping me from doing stupid things, meaning if I DON'T have food poisoning, thank Stacey.

This weekend after diagnosing myself with walking pneumonia, I got the following note from her:

"Dr. Lancaster, step away from the WebMD.  You don't have pneumonia.  You have a cold." 

(FYI, I have an 0 for 100 record of properly diagnosing my symptoms on WebMD.) 

Then she went on to tell me if I was a dead woman if I put a tanning bed in my basement after I mentioned I was looking a bit pale.

The way she can connect the dots to the conclusion I hadn't even yet reached is a bit scary. 

Or comforting. 

Mostly comforting.

Point?  Not all of you will be lucky enough to have Stacey in your lives, but you can have a piece of her through her books. 

Available at fine booksellers everywhere!

P.S.  If you're around at noon today, tune in to see Stacey making her famous Roasty Tomato Soup on WGN's noon broadcast!   

Anyway, as I mentioned, here I am on the internet.  Although our move took longer than I thought (anticipated, budgeted for, could have ever possibly imagined, etc.) it eventually ended.  In theory, I should have been happily banging away in the Word Factory weeks ago.  I had my office all set up two weeks ago and I was ready to get to writing, what with my new book being due at the end of the month.

The, um, network fairy had different ideas.

For some reason, Fletch got our internet connectivity to function in every room except the one where I actually work.  This sounds like a minor sticking point, but I always write on a desktop because I loathe how all of our laptops have the hypersensitive touchpad instead of the tracking point in the middle of it.  Apparently I have lazy thumbs because I'll be in the middle of a paragraph and then I'll accidentally touch the stupid square and suddenly my text is flying all over the page.

This may or may not have resulted in a thrown laptop on three previous occasions.

Anyway, as my due date loomed, my agitation grew as I can't write without an internet connection.  I need constant access to an online dictionary, thesaurus, Wikipedia, Perez Hilton, etc.  On top of that, the book I was writing wasn't ready to be written. 

I've never struggled DURING the writing process before - it's always either in the time leading up to write or after I've finished writing when the niggling self-doubt begins.  (See:  Annual Late Fall Freak Out, Stacey Fixes.) 

I've spent months working on a memoir about doing charitable work.  The premise is funny in that I intentionally put myself in situations I know I won't like in the hopes that hilarity would ensue.  And in many cases it has, but the thing about volunteering is that the more you do, the more you realize needs to be done.  And as I put my stories together, it became increasingly clear that I needed more time to give this book its proper due.

Fortunately, I'm with a publisher who trusts my instincts so we decided to swap some due dates.  Now Involuntary will come out late next year and Apocalypse House debuts in May.  Somehow writing (thinly veiled) fiction about two city-idiots moving to the suburbs to fix up a house currently makes the most sense.

And I will do that.

As soon as Fletch fixes my goddamned network connection.

The good news is that Fletch now has ordered all the tools to make everything work.

The bad news is said fix precipitated a visit from the irony fairy on Friday morning.

"Listen, I'm really sorry it took so long to get this figured out," he said, standing in the doorway of the dining room.

"Here's the thing, Fletch," I replied.  "I think the problem has been that you're too theoretical."  I was seated at the big table, waiting to go over a friend's book proposal.  Wind started to ruffle the stacks of paper we'd worked all morning to print on our assed-up network so I rose to close the window.

"How so?" he asked. 

"You spent your whole career designing networks, but you never had to - Jesus, why is this window sticking so much? - actually build one yourself.  See, the problem is you know how everything works on a macro level, but on the micro level?  No so much.  And, argh.  What. Is. Wrong. With. This. Window? Still. Stuck. Argh.  In this case, you're like one of those guys who - ARGH - is so convinced that he knows where he's going - OOF- that he refuses to ask for directions and-"

And... then this.

"What just... how did that... Shit!  Fletch!  Come help me!"

He moseyed over to inspect the damages.

"I don't know what happened!" I cried.  "Can you get this damn thing back in?"

He poked his head out the window.  "Well," he started.  "Theoretically I understand why the window fell out, but in practice I may simply not know what I'm doing.  You see, on a macro level I have an idea of where you went wrong, but on a micro level..."

This is the face of smug.

And yes, it took me fifteen minutes of apologizing to get him to fix the damn thing.

Today, should all the parts arrive, he'll do the same for our network and I can go back to work on my computer proper.

Until then, please enjoy Staceys' book... and Fletch's possible upcoming blog post titled Good Enough to Say I Told You So.
 

Worst Intervention Ever - UPDATED

Yesterday emails bounced back and forth between my group of close girlfriends.  In the course of coordinating lunches and general catching up, my pal Gina mentioned that she just spotted the Thundercats' mom.  (Gina's the one who originally rescued the Thundercats.  Apparently Chuck Norris, Gus, and Odin's mother is the epitome of alley cat and gets pregnant around this time every year.)  Gina described how she's been trying to catch her so she can take her to the vet and be spayed before moving on to other business in her portion of the email chain.

My friend Stacey is part of this group.  Her email response?

Okay, first of all…Jen….NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  You may not.  Don’t even think about it. 
 
I’m not saying, I’m just saying. 

Weekend in NYC with Bill was amazing, so much fun.  And I am delighted to have my month of crazy over and done with.  
 
(Um, Jen, I can hear you thinking from here, and just NO.)
 
Of course, this week have Passover tonight, Saturday Bill and I are…Jen..N-Freaking-O…hosting our first dinner party for his friends, so that should be fun.  I am looking forward to next week and getting back to normal.  Including lunch with my posse!

Then yesterday while I was out, I got the following voicemail from my friend Angie:

"Hey, it's Ang.  Where are you?  Are you out buying pansies?  Do not buy pansies yet!  They will die!  We're still due for one more big freeze and you're going to lose them all.  Don't buy them.  I mean it.  (long pause)  You're buying pansies right now, aren't you?  Stop!  Put the pansies back!  No pansies!"

I'd say something disparaging here about how my friends naturally assume I'm going to go for the stupidest possible outcome, except yesterday I spent a good deal of time A) debating the merits of finding/rescuing the Thundercats' potential siblings, and B) driving past the outdoor part of Home Depot reaaallll slooooow.

So if you hear of them staging a kitten-and-container-garden-based intervention soon, you'll know they were right.

UPDATE:

What can I say?  I'm weak.

Please note how there's no caption here saying "Suck it, Angie," despite having received a text stating "Step away from the potting soil, everything will die a frosty death, you annual assassin."

Anyway, I decided to split the difference.  I got a few flowers, but they'll go in containers I can move into the garage if need be.  Which they won't because IT'S SEVENTY-FIVE DEGREES OUT, DAMN IT, IT'S NOT GOING TO FREEZE.

On a related note, I couldn't BUY tons and tons of flats of pansies because Home Depot hasn't set them out yet.  I'm not sure how she managed to swing it, but I suspect this has Angie's hand-print all over it.

And no, I didn't go looking for the pregnant cat.


(Yet.)

You Realize I'm Not Actually Going To Live Outside, Yes?

Okay first, I have links to a couple of interviews I just did...

Here's the article on Suite 101

and here's the link for Pajamas and Coffee 

In other old business, your emails to Living editors are working and the response to the Humor Hotel columns has been great!  (I suspect emails from subscribers hold more weight than non-subscribers, just FYI.)  My first column comes out on March 23 and if you think I won't mention that a million more times between now and then, well, you'd be wrong.

In keeping with old business, we do net yet have a purchase or a rental home secured.  Ha, ha!  No panic here!  But it's getting warm out and Fletch and talked about finding a place with more outdoor living space.  And what has more outdoor living space that the actual outdoors?

In new business, it would appear that I've given myself pink eye.  Double barrel.  Because apparently I am both twelve years old and dirty.  My eyes started to get irritated a few weeks ago due to a combination of house stress and allergies.  Because I couldn't keep my filthy fingers out of them, hello conjunctivitis!

I made a relatively mortifying call to my physician to get eye drops.  My doctor sounded distressed, employing a shotgun line of questioning on exactly what had been going on with me lately.  I thought her concern was odd and a bit intrusive until I remembered the reason for my last visit. 

Earlier this winter, one of the kittens horked up a small worm.  If you recall when we rescued the guys this summer, they were about a day away from dying due to massive dehydration and infestation.  (Luckily, their problems were nothing three surgeries, seven thousand dollars, and a canceled Hawaiian vacation couldn't fix.)  My vet told me that no matter how thoroughly the kittens were treated, there's always the possibility of a straggler.  Also, if one kitten has worms, they all have worms.  And if the kittens have worms, the dogs probably have worms, so I took them to the vet, too.  After treatment, my dogs' vet mentioned if my pets have worms, then there's the slightest possibility I might have worms.

Awesome.

So I went to see my doctor.  In order for her to diagnose me, she needed a sample.  I sat there in my drafty paper gown, waiting for her to get out a needle and draw my blood.  Instead, she came back with what looked like an enormous white plastic top hat and instructed me to place it on my toilet seat and "go to town."  Then she gave me some little spatulas so that I could divide up said sample for various tests.

When I got home, I stared long and hard at my white plastic top hat and spatula collection.

And I decided I'd rather have worms.

And then I spent two weeks dodging my doctor's follow up calls.

So it makes sense that when I've presented twice with symptoms more commonly seen in the homeless, it stands to reason that she was worried.  I assured her that all was well, she didn't need to call Adult Protective Services, and that I wasn't living outside.

Yet.