jennsylvania

VCA Lake Shore Animal Hosptial, The Sharpest Stick Is For You

Technically I was ready to put up a new post a couple of days ago except it's been so long since I logged on to my site that I forgot my Typepad password. 

Which is not an excuse so much as it is an explanation.

So... where've I been for the past month? 

Judging from the (increasingly aggressive) tone of some email I've received, this is a hot topic.  I'm flattered that many of you seem to have missed me.  You're very sweet and I thank you for sticking around.  (And for those who found fit to lecture me about my "responsibilities" as a blogger/author, well, let's just say it took all my willpower not to invite you to go fuck yourself with a very sharp stick.)

Usually around this time of year I get super-busy working on the next manuscript.  Posting becomes more sparse because I try really hard not to "cross-pollinate."  I don't want to fill my blog with what's going in the next book.  As the fifth one is all about current experiences rather than old memories, there's not much happening outside of what I've been doing for it.  So, as much as I'd like to tell you all about accidentally setting the curtains on fire at the Four Seasons in New York, unintentionally buying what may or may not have been black tar heroin in Chinatown, and the whole ear-candling debacle, I'm obligated to save those stories for print. 

My hope is that it will have been worth it.

Normally I can deal with working on deadline and posting with semi-regularity but this year's been different.  When I got back from tour, I noticed my ancient calico cat Maggie was looking more frail than usual so I brought her to the vet.  (We use Cat Hospital of Chicago and LOVE them.) 

Back when I had graduated from college, my cat Savannah got sick and we only had enough money to get baseline treatment at a different facility.  We ended up losing her when she was only seven and it was awful and I vowed that I'd never let finances dictate my pet's health again, regardless of what we might have to sacrifice.  Even when we were both broke and unemployed/without healthcare coverage, we made sure we had pet insurance.  (When you don't have kids, pets' lives take on extra significance.  Not to say that they don't for parents, too, but at least for us, our guys are an enormous part of who we are.)

So, when I brought Mags in, I told them price wasn't an issue and to do whatever they had to do to fix her.  We were back and forth to the vet's office all the time and I learned how get outside of my comfort zone and administer injections.  Unfortunately, she had intestinal lymphoma on top of panceratitis and all we could do was to make her final days as comfortable as possible.

Maggie was always a master manipulator and she took me at my pledge to spoil her as much as I could.  So, despite her waning appetite and failing systems, she managed to inhale $45 worth of fresh shrimp from Whole Foods' seafood bar before she left this realm.

Fletch and I were devastated the day we had to put her down, even though she was almost seventeen and, by all counts, had lived a long and happy life.  We knew losing her would impact us, but we didn't grasp what an effect it would have on the other pets.  I never realized it before but Maggie was their leader and they looked to her for how to behave - when to eat, where to sleep, when to play, etc.  Without her, our pets drifted around the house, confused and a little lost.  And that was heartbreaking.

Fletch and I went away for the Fourth, and the whole time we were gone, we talked about the pet situation and what to do next.  We have three other cats and they're all elderly.  If we're lucky, we'll get a few more years out of each of them.  I hated thinking about how soon we might go from four cats to none.

A few weeks before we lost Maggie, I went on a Little India adventure with my friend Gina.  (Note for the new book - Indian food?  Two thumbs up.  Indian threading?  OH, HELL NO.)  Gina mentioned that she was feeding a litter of kittens in her backyard and trying to place them with a shelter, but apparently it's "kitten season" and no one could take them.  As Gina's already been suckered into bringing in two stray cats who hate each other so much that they have to live in separate areas of her home, she couldn't keep them herself.  (Another new book story - the day Gina and I thought her cat and my menagerie would enjoy a play date.)  (FYI, there's a damn good reason "kitty parks" aren't a doggie park counterpart.)

As we watched the fireworks in Las Vegas and talked, Fletch came to the conclusion that we had enough room in our home/hearts for a new kitten. 

Of course, I came to the conclusion that we had enough room in our home/hearts for THREE new kittens.

Seriously, how could I break up a set?  How could I take just one?  What would determine who got to live in luxury and who might die horribly on the mean streets of Chicago?  They were litter-mates and they'd be so helpless and weak and scared and, really, it's not like dogs where as each one is exponentially more work. 

Three is no big deal. 

Three is fine. 

Three would effectively replace all the cats we've lost over the past ten years.  Three is the new black.

We made a plan to round up our newest family members on Monday as we weren't getting back from Vegas until Sunday.

Before I even brought my suitcase up the stairs upon arrival home, I was hit with a voicemail telling my my pit bull Maisy had cancerous tumors.

Let's just say I did not take this news well.

For years Maisy's been covered with these gross lumps.  The vet always told us they were essentially big doggie zits and they weren't a problem and yeah, we could have them removed but it would be traumatic for Maisy and to not worry about them.  Finally, something dawned on me this year and I insisted they not only aspirate one of the lumps, but also get a formal lab report.

Malignant.

(BTW, thank you VCA Lake Shore Animal Hospital, for charging me $800/year for doggie wellness visits in which your care did nothing to promote their wellness.  Added kudos for refusing to forward our records to another vet for a second opinion until you spoke to us to try and persuade us to let you keep the business and do the surgery.  I sincerely hope this is the exact quality of care you receive if you're to get sick.)

We couldn't get Maisy in to see the new vet on Thursday and I figured the best thing for me would be some distraction, so we headed down to Gina's on Monday night.  Gina told us all about how cute the little guys were and said they were really, really sweet.

Which they were.

Until cornered.

Gina had been able to lure them into her gingerbread house with a can of Trader Joe's tuna.  Complications only arose when Fletch tried to move them from Gina's trap to our carrier.

Suddenly these tiny grey beings who Gina had called "The Cherubs" because they were so stinking cute turned into a tiny tank full of sharks. 

Covered in lasers.

They bit Fletch hard - and repeatedly - as he moved them from one carrier to another.  Neither Gina nor I were of any help because we were laughing so much.  When Gina offered Fletch some rubbing alcohol for his puncture wounds, he dryly remarked, "Yes.  That will certainly stop the rabies."

Gina had never been allowed a real look at the little guys and when we finally did see them up close, we noticed they were in rough shape.  Sneezy, rheumy, wheezy, itchy, and one of them had what appeared to be a giant pink balloon attached to his butt. 

That couldn't be good. 

We got them home and sequestered them in our treadmill room (it's nice to know it's useful for something) and I brought them to our cat vet first thing in the morning.  Turns out the poor little guys wouldn't have made it for more than another day or two.  They had eye infections, upper respiratory infections, dehydration, ear mites, fleas, worms, and one of them had a prolapsed rectum, which essentially means the little guy had such bad diarrhea that he blew out his o-ring.  As they were so sick, I didn't want to name them in case we lost one, so I just called them collectively The Thundercats.

Fortunately for Fletch, they didn't have rabies, nor did they have any of the fatal cat diseases so we went ahead with treatment, thus incurring the first pet surgery to repair Thundercat One's bunghole.

There was an issue with Thundercat Two's eye and the vet kept a close watch on it.  She did her best to treat it but it was too far gone due to infection so on Wednesday we were referred to a feline opthamology clinic.

Nope, I didn't know such a thing existed, either.

I found out that Thundercat Two needed an operation to sew his third eyelid over the eye if there was any chance he'd be able to keep it.  I confirmed that even with one eye Thundercat Two would have an excellent quality of life, so I authorized the surgery and named him Odin.  (Come on, it's the perfect name.  And if we ever have a three-legged dog we're going to call him Tripod.)

In the mean time, Thundercat Three had made an almost complete recovery, but he was still an asshole.  The vet's nurse said she'd hold him up in the window of his incubator so everyone could get a glimpse of his "mean face."  She said she kept intending to bring in her camera so she could take a LOLcat photo with an "I has an evil" caption.

Naturally, we named him Chuck Norris.

On Thursday we took Maisy to her new vet and got a thorough workup.  We found out that not only had VCA misdiagnosed her, but they also missed two more mast cell tumors at which point I asked Fletch to hide all stabby/shoot-y/explode-y elements in our house for fear I'd go Columbine on them. 

Our new doggie vet explained how serious this condition could be and referred us to "the Mayo Clinic for pets" in the suburbs where Maisy would be operated on by a board-certified surgeon and her follow-up treatment would be taken care of by a canine oncologist.

Yes, canine oncologist. 

Apparently they exist, too.

Maisy had surgery on Monday and she came though like a champ.  (For those of you keeping track at home, that's three pet surgeries in one week.)  Her blood, urine, xrays, and ultrasounds look clear, so at this point there's not a lot of evidence that the tumors metastasized, but we won't have a real conclusion until the pathology reports are back next week.  She'll start seeing an oncologist but hopefully more for preventative treatment than anything else.  And if her prognosis isn't as positive as we hope, we're off to the vet school in Madison where they do miraculous stuff with animals. 

In the meantime, the Thundercats (with Three now named Angus) came home this weekend. 

You might think they'd show a little bit of appreciation for the people who wrote four-figured checks on their behalf.

You would be wrong.

At one point, Fletch asked me if people couldn't get sweet, socialized, non-feral kittens for $25 at PAWS.

"Um, yeah," I replied, "but only if they don't like a challenge." 

However, we're slowly winning them over, one can of kitten food at a time.  Now their hissing and cowering is cursory at best. 

As of this moment, Odin's surgery didn't take and he's still going to need to have an eye removed, but we've got to hold off while his orbital bone grows with the rest of his face.  This has in no way stopped him from being the quintessential leaping, cavorting, frolicking kitty.  He just does it all in an e-collar.

Maisy is in fabulous spirits, too, although I have to try and keep her from leaping, cavorting, and frolicking until her stitches come out.  She acts like everything was simply like that season on Dallas where it was all Bobby's bad dream.

As for me, yesterday was the first day in a couple of weeks that I didn't have to spend hauling pets to specialty clinics or having panic attacks. 

That was nice.

Which means now I have to start concentrating on the fifth book, a task made less easy when being stared at by eight seven and a half sets of eyes.

Odin - "Tryin' to catch the deluge in a plastic paper cup."

 

Angus - "Bungholier than thou."

 

Chuck Norris - "One pounds of fury."

 

FrankenMaisy - "We has teh technolgees.  We cans rebuild her."

 

"Heaven's awesome, but please send more shrimp."

P.S. Does anyone know what Hawaii's like at Christmas?  Because we're not going to find out this year.

In Case You're Tired Of Hearing (Or Writing) About Book Stuff

After I posted my tour info today, I thought, "Hey, a bath might be nice."  So I ran a tub, grabbed my book, and settled in for a soak.

Not even one full page in, Loki joined me in the bathroom, which is sort of disconcerting what with all the staring and the n-a-k-e-d.

I ignored him and read my book.

He stared a bit more.

I kept reading.

Staring.

Reading.

Awkward.

Staring.

Reading.

Awkward.

Staring.

Reading.

Awkward.

Staring.

Reading.

Climbing in.

Apparently I've been keeping the house so cold that Loki decided taking to the water was the only way to fend off hypothermia. 

Then he sat on my lap.

It was creepy.

I got out and took a shower.

He stayed.

And here he is twenty minutes later.

 

OK, dogs.  You win.  The heat goes back up to 68 degrees.

P.S.  I brought home a pineapple yesterday and all the cats have been fighting over who gets to sit next to it.  Is it any wonder I'm excited to get out of here for a month?

We Wish You A Maisy Christmas

 

Now bring me some figgy pudding.  (And have a Loki New Year!)

I Pack, You Caption

Is there anything more majestic than the American Pit Bull Terrier?

 

Wait, don't answer that.

This is where Maisy decided to settle in while were working in the yard today, readying outside stuff to move.  We have no idea why.

Anyway, I figured while I'm busy packing the inside of the house, maybe you can have some fun captioning the shot below?

 

Am not fat.  Camera adds ten pounds.  Pot adds ten more.

Not Really Gone And Also Not Forgotten

Still busy with edits and getting ready to move at the end of the month and, ha!  Not panicking! 

Not panicking at all! 

And certainly not wasting time obsessing on how the hell I'm going to cover the SIXTY-TWO bare windows in the new place, either.  For example, here's the window situation on the stairs going to the second floor:

  

What am I supposed to do with this?  Right now the only options I've come up with are "newspaper" and "accidentally flashing my neighbors when I run from the bathroom to the bedroom in my underpants."  I'm not sure which option might cause more aesthetic distress for all involved.  (Perhaps at the holidays I'll go all festive and put up wrapping paper.) 

Also, because it may be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, here's the kitchen:

   

Please note how it is not raining in this room.  (And is anyone else nervous about the way Fletch is eyeing that stove?)

So, I have to finish my edits so I can get paid (and thus afford to move anywhere), but I won't leave you empty-handed. 

Many of you became fans in the last year, which means you never heard about the website I used to write for called Snarkywood.com.  Everyone involved went on to do other stuff both on the web and in print, but the archives still exist.  I didn't create Snarkywood and only started writing for them towards the middle, but from the very first day, this was some of the funniest shit I ever read. 

Click here to access the archives. 

My favorite is Don't Hassle the Hoff, but really, you can begin on any entry.  Enjoy!

And yeah, Maisy's sad I'm busy, too.

 

"This is what happened when the penguin saw you in your underpants." 

Mind You, This Is After An Hour Of Wrestling, Fetch, Yard Time, And Peanut Butter Filled Bones

Do you ever sit at your desk and get the feeling like you're being watched?

Yeah, sometimes I get that feeling, too.

As You Wish

Lotta ground to cover here today, so prepare yourself.

OK, here we go.

RECOMMENDED READING

First, you people want book recommendations?  You got 'em.  Here's everything I've finished in the last month:

Queen of the Road is basically what would happen if you took me, gave me a modicum of maturity and a better education, and then tricked me into living on a (very nice) bus with my husband and pets for a year.  I loved this book and I love this author.  If you want a taste of what I'm talking about, check out Doreen Orion's website; it's probably the best author's site I've ever seen.  Lots of multimedia stuff and you can read parts of the book!

A hidden bonus of going on book tour is meeting bookstore owners and employees.  Such was the case at Good Great Place for Books in Oakland.  (BTW, all of you who warned me about how murder-y Oakland is?  Yeah, my biggest fear in this 'hood was being run over by a Range Rover.)  Anyway, the owner picked out The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper and promised I'd enjoy it.  She was so right.  It's a story about an author who wrote a novel trashing the town where he grew up and what happens when he finally returns to that town years later.

Whacked by Jules Asner frustrates me, but only because as soon as I finished it I wanted to send Jules a big, squealing fangirl note and there's pretty much no way to contact her.  No website, no MySpace, no Facebook, no nothing.  (My guess it's because she's married to director Steven Soderberg and probably doesn't need ten billion aspiring screenwriters and actors using her book as an excuse to get to him.)  Regardless, Whacked is kind of dark chick lit where the heroine is a stalker, but you root for her anyway.  And love you, Jules Asner!  Call me!  Don't make me continue to stalk YOU.

Allison Winn Scotch recommended Confessions of a Contractor by Richard Murphy.  (Do you read Allison's blog?  I buy everything she recommends and I've yet to be anything less than delighted.)  What's nice is this book actually explains why the fuck it took eight weeks to finish my bathroom, but more importantly, tells a solidly-crafted story about a contractor getting too involved with the lives of his clients.

The Opposite of Love by Julie Buxbaum is another AWS suggestion.  I picked it up about a month ago and didn't put it down until I was done.  It's a great novel about loss and love and finally figuring out who you are.  Spellbinding, seriously.

And now, for what I'm about to read:

Alison Pace is one of my favorite authors, so her new novel City Dog is at the top of my stack.  She excels at creating well-defined, witty characters.  City Dog is about a serious novelist who takes a segue into writing bestselling children's books -it's sure to be a treat!  Check out her Amazon blog and you can read the beginning!

Joanne Rendell is one of my MySpace buddies and her new book The Professors' Wives' Club just came out.  It's being billed as Sex and the City for the academic set, and how can that not be interesting? 

I bought Sheer Abandon by Penny Vincenzi because I opened it to a random page in the middle of the book and totally wanted to read more.  (That's my litmus test for any book, BTW.)  From what I understand it's about a baby born and abandoned in Heathrow airport and what happens when the kid grows up and wants to know who her mom is.  I totally got a Lace vibe from it and, naturally, that spoke to my 80's-Phoebe-Cates-loving heart.  ("Which one of you bitches is my mother?)

Twilight by Stephenie Meyer - this is my reward for finishing my own book.  NO ONE TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS.  I figure anything that's inspired that much Facebook flair has to be addictive.

Sometimes I buy a book just for the cover.  Check out Assisted Loving: True Tales of Double Dating with My Dad by Bob Morris.  Because 80 is the new 70.

WHAT I'M WATCHING

First, Gossip Girl.  Duh.  But I've also been totally and completely obsessed with the CBS show Swingtown. 

You guys, this is SO GOOD. 

The story takes place in a wealthy Chicago suburb in 1976.  It's about a nice nuclear family on its way up the social ladder.  They move from their bucolic middle class neighborhood to a big house by the lake, across the street from a couple with an open marriage who suck them in to a swinger lifestyle.

Yes, all of the above sounds really cheesy and tawdry, but the writers have done an amazing job making every character complex, like the head of the swingers who secretly wishes to be a regular housewife and the old neighbor who has trouble coming to terms with her friend's family's success.  Essentially the show is a bold look at the fallout from the sexual revolution of the 60's.  And it's available on iTunes if you're interested and you may be able to see full episodes on CBS.com, free.  Watch it for no reason other than to see the role Grant Show was born to play.

WEBSITES I OBSESSIVELY CHECK

If you all aren't already reading Jenny at the Blogess then do so immediately.  Four words for you:  Angry Transvestite Lego Army.

Senior editor Josh Wolk of EW has a blog and his take on pop culture is no less than brilliant.  Enjoy!  (And the next time I hit the bookstore, I'm getting his memoir Cabin Pressure.)

BATHROOM BEFORE AND AFTERS

Here's what my house looked like for eight weeks.

This was actually taken after some of the stuff was moved to the basement.  Please note how I cannot get to my side of the bed, as well as the inch-thick drywall dust.

This is our dressing area.  Do you know how many times I worried Fletch would get up in the dark and just whiz in the available toilet? 

Why I couldn't get to my treadmill for eight weeks.

The tiling that took weeks.  Multiple weeks.

Was it worth it?

The new ceiling in the powder room (that also took this bath out of the mix for eight weeks.)

My magnificent shower.  You can't really see the detail but the little tiles are onyx and are a million different shades of beach-glass green.

You also can't see the sink detail but it's a slab of quartz with tiny slashes of sage green and brown marbling.  You also can't see where Fletch had to shove the bucket because he just discovered that the sink is leaking.  HA, HA, HA, FUCK.

FINALLY, WHAT PASSES FOR HUMOR AROUND HERE

Fletch was shaving off his goatee but insisted I get shots of him with just a mustache first.  He laughed so hard he almost wet his pants when he saw this.  I was all, "You look like a Chicago cop, what of it?"

"I haz a butt."  "I haz a butt, too."

And finally, what I like to call Nature's Own Post-It Notes

Alrighty, I'll be back when the book is done! 

(If you guys have any suggestions for good books, shows, or websites in the interim, put them in the comments.)

I Can Haz Prise?

Is there anything more brave and true than the American Pit Bull Terrier?

I mean, unless it's raining or something.

Here's Maisy, burrowing herself into Great Dirty Sheet Mountain in the basement during last night's storms. 

(Note: Why so many dirty sheets?  There was an incident with the bed in the guest room because someone was trying to juggle a book and a flaming hot cup of Chamomile and honestly, there are some places on yourself you just DO NOT WANT to scald and now I understand why all those people sued McDonalds.)

Caption this shot (in LOLspeak or other) and my favorite one wins a prize to be determined as soon as I figure out what stuff around here I have to give away.  (Am open to suggestions on prizes, too.)  Contest ends Wednesday before I go to bed and the winner will be announced on Thursday.

(Not pictured:  Me shrieking at Fletch to get his ass in the basement during the warnings.  He said we didn't have to go because the warning was for Logan Square, not for us, one block away in Bucktown.  I'm all, "WELL, MAYBE THE FUCKING TORNADO CAN'T READ A NEIGHBORHOOD MAP!")

Ahem. 

Anyway, good luck! 

Worst Tablescape Ever

First, the old business -

We're running about 85/15 anti-Secret to pro-Secret around here (bless your snarky little hearts!)  However, there's a vocal minority amongst you of the why-don't-you-fucking-read-it-before-you-judge-it variety.  Excellent point.  I'm always pissed off when people smack-talk my work when it's obvious they haven't actually seen it, so I shouldn't do the same thing. 

Tell you what - I'll read it.  And if that in any way changes my opinion, I'll post a retraction here. 

(In the words of Principal Skinner, prove me wrong, children.  Prove me wrong.)

(Also?  The dogs are already huge believers which totally explains their recent internet celebrity.)

Speaking of the ungrateful, I woke up this morning to discover one of the cats had whizzed on the kitchen table.  Again.  (This is Bones's charming way of letting me know he'd like his litter box serviced.) 

As I scrubbed, disinfected, and grumbled, it occurred to me that now would be the perfect opportunity for a breakfast cocktail.  Seriously, when you roll out of bed only to immediately start cleaning urine off the surface where you eat, the day's probably already shot.  But we only have wine in the house, and that just doesn't pair well with coffee and Pine Sol.

When I was away on my girls' weekend, we went to brunch and I discovered the ultimate breakfast martini.  Although it would have been phenomenal on its own, the fresh sweetness actually enhanced the Eggs Benedict. 

Or maybe just made me drunk and hungry. 

Regardless, I forget what it was called, but it contained:

1 part vodka

1 part St. Germain elderflower liqueur

1 part champagne

1 part white peach juice nectar

Best way to describe the taste is like a Bellini with a kick.  A delicious, delicious kick.

Anyway, since I've already got my rubber gloved hands full here today, this is a play along at home post.  Please list the recipe for your favorite adult beverage and the ideal time and/or place to drink it.

And with that, I bid you salut.

We're Totally Famous

Famous for having naughty dogs, that is.

On Report

Fletch and I have been catching up on our TiVo cache this week so last night we watched an episode of Last Comic Standing.  Even though our beloved Jay Mohr no longer hosts, we still dig the show because it's one of the few programs we can agree on - Fletch isn't subjected to a lot of amateur singing and youthful delusion, and I don't have to see in-depth analysis of the merits of the Panzer tank vs. the Sherman tank. 

Anyway, mid-way through the show, a comic did a bit about having previously been a teacher's aid.  He talked about the effort it took to find something positive to say about children who were positively horrible, e.g. telling parents their kids had "a lot of energy," which really meant, "Put Junior on Ritalin, stat!"  The bit was funny and we laughed in all the right places, particularly since we find other people's poor parenting a great source of amusement.  (FYI, this is also why we keep shopping at our local Target.)  (I've mentioned we're jerks, yes?) 

We quietly high-fived ourselves on not being responsible for having brought any demon spawn into this world.  I sat there ensconced in my smug sense of superiority until I remembered something.  Specifically, I recalled how a look of relief washed over the vet tech's face when we announced we were there to claim Maisy and Loki on Saturday after returning from a night in Indianapolis.  Now that I think of it, the tech wasn't smiling so much as she was gritting her teeth as she practically water-skied behind the tugging, leashed dogs. 

When I asked the tech how the dogs had behaved, she hesitated before she said, "They... they felt right at home." 

It just now occurs to me when the dogs are home, they ignore any attempts at discipline, they jump on our guests, they sleep on all the beds and couches, they steal the cats' food, and they pee on the rug in the front hallway.

Oh. 

Oh noes!

I then rooted around in my purse to find the paperwork the tech handed me as we were leaving.  They'd prepared a report card of our pets' behavior.  At the time, I was proud of the dogs for sailing through their stay, receiving high praise.  But upon re-reading, I see that the kennel employs the same practices as the hopeful comedian's old school district.

"Maisy and Loki LOVE to play.  They are very excitable and very active."

(You need doggie Ritalin.  Or possibly an exorcism.)

"Both dogs are always on the move.  Maisy loves the ball and Loki loves chasing Maisy around."

(Seriously, they wore our asses out.  WTF is wrong with them?  Do you feed them coffee or something?)

"They did not engage in group playtime with any other dogs."

(Your dogs share exactly the same kind of sociopathic behavior you and your husband exhibit and we kept them far the fuck away from normal people's pets.)

"They both ate well while they were here."

(Your dogs are little piggies.)

"There were no problems with elimination."

(Maisy peed on our rug.  And in our lobby.  And on our porch.  But not outside.)

So in case you were wondering?

Yet Another Cupcake Emergency

I'm seeing my friend Stacey tonight to watch Top Chef, as is our Wednesday tradition.  Her birthday was on Sunday, which I totally forgot until yesterday even though I had prominently written it in my calendar because I am the Best Friend Ever. 

To make up a little bit for being a jackass, I bought cupcakes to bring to her house yesterday.  BTW, Chicagoans, I totally gave Sweet Mandy B's another chance.  I think I just got a bad batch the first time.  Anyway, now I really appreciate their product because their cakes stay fresh, meaning I could buy cupcakes yesterday and serve them today without issue.

That is, except that sometime between when I left for the gym earlier today and now, a cat barfed all over the cupcake container which I'd left on the table.  Even though the cupcakes inside are fine, I can't in good conscience serve dessert with vomit a la mode.  What would I say to Stacey as I handed her a sullied container?  "Happy birthday!  I cared enough to hose off the chunks!"

Now I have to go out and buy more cupcakes and I'm embarrassed to go back to Sweet Mandy B's because I was just there 24 hours ago.  Normally I don't care about anyone's opinion, and I'd be all "Cupcake up, bitches," but I get the feeling if I went in there, I couldn't stop myself from trying to convince the cashier, "A cat barfed on my cupcakes so I came back for more and I totally didn't eat them all in one sitting like the last time."  I imagine I would seem as credible as when I told the pharmacist I accidentally dumped all my Xanax down the drain - totally true, FYI - and no I did not use them recreationally even though they pack a super good buzz, particularly when chased with a glass of Savignon blanc and now I need some more, yes, right now, please, and WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME WITH THAT MIX OF PITY AND FEAR? 

You know what?  I've probably said too much.  

New Year's State of the Blog Address, 2008

UPDATE:  Thank you all for thinking of my mom - she's gotten over 300 greetings so far and you guys have totally made her day!  I'm taking the link down now because I guess we have kind of overwhelmed the volunteer staff.  Thank you again!

A lot of you guys have been emailing me about what I've been up to as the site's technically been dark since last year. 

But before I get into updates, I've got a request. 

My mom's in the hospital recovering from surgery (short version is she's going to be fine, long version is when your doctor tells you to avoid certain foods for the rest of your life OR ELSE, you should maybe listen) and I found a way for people to send her a quick electronic greeting.*  She's definitely on the mend because she's getting restless, so I thought she'd get a kick out of hearing from anyone who's interested. 

*I'm hoping this hospital has some redundancy/latency built into its network and the act of you guys sending e-greeting cards doesn't cause it to crash or slow down.  I admit I'm slightly dubious because this is the same town where my 4Runner broke down back in 2002 and it took the auto repair shop almost six weeks to fix a cracked engine block.  (I sensed I was in trouble when the tow truck guy showed up and said something along the lines of, "I ain't never seen no car like that before."  Yeah, Toyotas are EXOTIC, ain't they?  Of course they charged us $1500 for a repair that would have cost $5000 up here, so it wasn't a total loss.) 

Anyway, onward and upward.

As for me, I haven't posted because the only thing I would have written was OW OW OW over and over again.  Among other assorted holiday maladies, I had the GENIUS idea to cash out the rest of my 2007 FSA by getting all my dentistry taken care of on New Years' Eve day as I was not about to let that $255 go to waste.

Again, GENIUS, right?

A bit of advice, if I may?  If you ever decide you'd like to shitcan all ten million of your silver fillings and trade them in for porcelain ones because you are vain enough to think anyone cares what the inside of your mouth looks like, keep in mind the process will HURT LIKE A BITCH and that doing them all at the same time is EXTRAORDINARILY STUPID.

Also?

NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT WHAT THE INSIDE OF YOUR MOUTH LOOKS LIKE. 

So, instead of going to any festive New Year's parties, I spent three days crying every time air hit my teeth and sucking down the Codeine Fletch had previously ferreted away from me because he figured I'd have used it recreationally.  (Strong is the force in that one.)  I have high hopes to begin chewing again this week.

What else?  Oh, yeah, I wasn't even going to address this because it kind of isn't worth it, and yet I've gotten enough email to be annoyed to the extent I have to respond.  People, I don't think New Year's resolutions are a bad thing, OK?  And if you've made resolutions, stuck to them, and found ways to improve your life, that's great!  Good on you!  The point of my post was that everywhere I'd gone that day strangers asked me about my resolutions and I thought it too personal a question to pose as a generic silence-filler.  Period.  So please cease and desist attempting to engage me in an argument about whether or not resolutions are effective and sending me detailed lists of all the things you've accomplished via resolution because I don't care, WHAT WITH YOUR RESOLUTIONS BEING NONE OF MY BUSINESS.  Aarrggh.  (And no, I didn't respond to each of these emailers suggesting they resolve to improve their reading comprehension.)  (I blame the Codeine for taking away my edge.)

Finally, the ratinmyhouse situation... two weeks ago Fletch said there was no way any rodent would still be here, what with the six hungry carnivores we keep.  He swore up and down that nothing could survive the killing fields of our house and that the second the guys caught the scent of vermin, their instincts would kick in and it would be over.  Dogs and cats would work together to circle and trap their prey, snapping and tearing and rending flesh before going all Lord of the Flies, putting the tiny rat/mouse head on a stake as a warning to any other who dared cross their paths.

Fletch sounded convincing, yet when I looked at the five furry mass murderers, all snoozing comfortably together on the guest bed, I had my doubts.  (FYI, the sixth killer was in the guest room closet, curled up on my cashmere sweaters.)  Oh, yes, he promised me again and again over the course of his Christmas vacation, that rodent was long gone, so I returned to eating my room-temperature soup and trying not to cry.

A couple of days ago, Fletch had to access a plug in his little back-porch office.  I heard him moving furniture to get to the outlet before poking his head into the kitchen to ask me, "Hey, why do you think there's a hundred pieces of dog food behind the couch?"

"Hmm," I replied.  "I guess maybe because the ratinmyhouse you promised had left?  Didn't."

The good news, and I use the term loosely, is we've definitely determined him (please, God, let it be a him) to be a mouse based on, um, what he left behind.  The bad news is he's evaded every means/person we've employed to chase/capture/kill him. 

Also, the creature in question is definitely NOT Remy from Ratatouille because he much prefers his traps loaded with plain old Wisconsin cheddar over the more nuanced flavors of artisanal Machego and smoked Gouda.  (Yet another unimportant side note?  I thought watching Ratatouille would make me less squicked out over the idea of having a ratinmyhouse and yet I swear my heart stopped beating every time I saw the vermin congregate.)

Even worse, this goddamned creature is turning me into Carl Spackler from Caddyshack as I try to get him with non-traditional means and by non-traditional means, let's just say there's been more running around the kitchen banging pot lids together than I care to mention. 

Last night I decided the reason we haven't been able to flush him out is because we don't know where he's hiding anymore... so I came up with yet another GENIUS idea.  I spread flour out in front of all the places I thought he might be, thinking he'd walk in the flour, leave little powdery footprints and I could ambush him in his home.

Again, did I mention the GENIUS part?

Here's what I learned from this little CSI: Martha Stewart exercise:

• Although they will leave a slash where their tail trails (thus confirming their continued presence) mouse-feet are too small to pick up enough flour to leave tracks.
• Cat-feet, however, are not.  Would you like a detailed account of every place each of my extraordinarily busy cats walked last night?  Because I can give it to you. 
• Stupid pit bulls named Maisy think raw flour is the most delicious treat imaginable and will lap that shit up until the combination of flour and saliva glues her jaw shut.
• Flour, particularly when having been licked to the point of adhesion, will never, ever completely come out of hardwood.  Or leather.  Or wool.

Aarrggh.

So... that's what's been happening around here.

Aren't you glad you asked?

   

For the Canucks

RATINMYHOUSE RATINMYHOUSE

OK, I'm calmer now. 

Somewhat. 

The exterminator is en route and I've finally stopped clasping my knees, rocking back and forth, muttering, "Rat in my house.  Rat in my house.  Rat in my house." 

Here's the situation - again, lest you think we're filthy - Fletch and I ordered exercise equipment and it's in the process of being installed as I type.  We love our gym (West Loop represent!) but some days it can take up to thirty minutes to get there even though it's only three miles away and I find myself skipping cardio when I'm short on time.  Which would be fine if I didn't, you know, have a book on weight loss coming out in the spring.

Anyway, we ordered a deluxe set up - there's a treadmill, an elliptical machine, an all-in-one weight machine, and a heavy bag/speedbag dealie.  (I'm not sure what my life will be like now that I have something to hit, but am interested to find out.)  Point is, it took FOREVER to clean out enough space to get it all set up.  (Yes, we measured wrong AGAIN and we're going to have to walk sideways through the basement now, but it's not like we don't do that in every other room in this place.)  We made multiple trips out to the garage and garbage over the past few days and the basement door was open for quite a while, essentially inviting the rats to come inside where it's warm and nice and happy.   

Today it took the set-up guys a couple of hours of in-and-out to get all the pieces into the basement, hence more open doors.  Again, we may as well have set out a RATS WELCOME mat.  (Technically I should be glad it was only a rat.  Maybe I should count my blessings that it wasn't a bear or a coyote or, considering where I live, a vagrant.  But I digress.) 

Because of all the comings and goings, I locked the cats in the guest bedroom and the dogs in the master.  But since it's been an all-day process, the dogs had to go outside a couple of hours ago.  Afterwards, Maisy and I were sitting on the couch and Loki was positioned by the ottoman at my feet.  Fletch was on a conference call and I was waiting to talk to him before the dogs and I went back upstairs.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement.  I turned my head to look, subconsciously expecting to see one of the cats.  Instead I saw something smaller skitter past.  My initial reaction was Oh, look, cute!  Fuzzy!  Pear shaped! until my brain fully engaged and....

RAT!

RATINMYHOUSE!

RATINMYHOUSE!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTT!

The rat, looking plump and healthy with nary a care in the world, wandered around the corner from the kitchen and had strolled halfway to the living room before he caught my eye.  With zero sense of urgency, he turned on his heel and sauntered back into the kitchen while I sat there paralyzed. 

Did the pit bull , A CARNIVORE, notice the rat five feet away?  No.

Did the German shepherd, ANOTHER CARNIVORE, notice the rat five feet away?  No.

Did any of the four cats upstairs, whose Spidey-senses really should have been tingling to the point they were compelled to hurl themselves at the door, make any sort of noise?  No.  (Related story, guess who paid $1400 yesterday for annual cat exams and now won't be able to go on vacation to the Atlantis in the Bahamas because all four cats require oral surgery?)

Anyway, when we locked eyes I inhaled so quickly and deeply that I sucked all the air out of the house and we passed out for a moment.  When we came to, I very quietly told Fletch there was a rat in the kitchen, in my house, in my house, IN MY HOUSE.  Fletch went to inspect and I mustered every bit of calmness I could and dragged the dogs back upstairs before they noticed, as I didn't want this afternoon to turn into the squirrel scene from Christmas Vacation.  Except with blood. 

Fletch went into the kitchen, found nothing, shrugged, and returned to his conference call, mouthing that it was probably a mouse and more than likely found its way back outside.

Yeah.  Like I'm going to take that chance.

Upstairs, I googled "Chicago Rat Extermination" and began to make calls.  The first place didn't believe me when I said my pit bull - part of the Terrier family, meaning they instinctively go after things that are terrestrial - didn't notice the rat who was practically whipping up a batch of gourmet soup in front of her face.  I eventually convinced them I wasn't A) crazy, and B) living in squalor, but it didn't matter because they couldn't come until Thursday.

I left out the pit bull part when I called the the second place.  However, they kept  telling me about their patented no-kill collection process which I'd normally be all about if they rats were, say, in my alley.  Sure!  Let them live!  Take them to a nice farm in the country!  But in my kitchen, the pristine place where pink and green birthday cake is served?  NOT SO MUCH. 

I talked to a guy at the third place and when I said, "Then he turned the corner," he interrupted me and said, "Hey, it could be a she." 

Really?  REALLY? 

I mean, yay for equal rights and all, but is now the very best time to play the politically-correct pronoun game?  Then he said something about HER being pregnant and I think I may have passed out again.  Clunk.  Hang up.  Dial vendor number four.  Extract promise to coming bearing poison and traps NOW NOW NOW. 

So I'm waiting for the exterminator to show up while my pulse slowly returns to normal and I attempt to unclench. 

UPDATE:  The exterminator can't come tonight.  Looks like I'm going to Home Depot to purchase 10,000 traps.  Perhaps I'll put little bows on them to make them look festive as they're strewn about the house.  BTW, who wants a cookie from my rat-infested kitchen? 

UPDATE:  The vet hospital called with lab results - one cat has early stage kidney problems and another is borderline diabetic.  Obviously we're going to do what it takes to keep them healthy... even though it's going to mean the Vegas trip is off, too.  Sigh.   

UPDATE:  The gym is done and Maisy has already claimed the treadmill for herself.  Yes.  Acquiring a treadmill for the dog.  THAT certainly merits getting rats.

UPDATE:  Fletch still says it was a mouse.