Banana Pancakes

I say Sean is one spoiled boy. Who else woke up this morning to a heapin' helpin' of whole wheat-banana-walnut-brown sugar pancakes? And sausage???

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Tell him how jealous you are.

Now, That's a Big Cat!

We had been having some troubles with Tivy (who answers to Tivy, Septivious Kittious, Mr. C., Mr. Cat, Mr. Large, Mr. Large Cat, Cat, You Are A Cat, Large; and finally, You Are A Large Cat) peeing on the bathroom floor. Not this-is-my-motherfucking-bathroom spraying, but more of a I-have-to-PEE-NOW puddling. The entire thing was a bit baffling, frankly, because the cat litter box is not 4 feet from the chosen pee-puddling locale. So clearly, it was not a matter of having to PEE NOW. Otherwise, I like to think that Mr. Large Cat would take the extra 12 cat-steps and pee IN THE LITTER BOX.

Well, we mused, perhaps we are not changing the litter often enough. We began scooping a couple times a day, practically waiting behind the cats with a scoop when they disappeared into the Booda Dome.

This did not improve matters any.

Ok, we further mused, perhaps he has decided he no longer is a fan of the Feline Pine litter. Maybe we should go back to scoopable stuff? So we bought a special recycled scoopable flushable litter.

Again, the pee puddle fairy kept leaving gifts.

Fine, we mused. Our cat is an asshole. But what if we try the scoopable clay litter? Could that help matters?

We were at PetSmart, perusing the contents of the Cat Poo Defense department, when Sean raised his finger in the manner of a mad scientist and said "Egads!" (Well, no, he really didn't say that. But I've always wanted to be around someone who said "Egads!".) "Do you suppose that he is too bigfor the litter box?"

"Nah. No way!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "We have a Booda Dome. It's freakin' HUGE!"

"He's a big cat, honey." Sean replied dubiously.

This was an assertion I couldn't find fault with. We selected a litter box roughly the size of a 1984 Buick, a covered model with a plastic door flap; and made our way to the front of the store.

Cut to present times. We have not, (*knocking on any and all available wood-like substances*) as of yet, experienced any more floor puddling incidents. All pee seems to now be safely contained within the litter box.

And last night, when I went into the bathroom to wash my face, I spied something I had never seen before. A bit of black and white fur that could only be Tivy was visible within the litter box, the door flap propped up against him because he was so big it stayed on top of him rather than fall back down.

Now, that's a big cat.

Good Things

There just aren't enough good things in the world. Or maybe I'm just greedy for 'em.

Sean and I have been getting organic produce delivered to us for the last couple of months! Boston Organics delivers to your home or office, every week or every other week. You select if you would like a $25 or $35 box (we find the $25 to be an abundance), what percentage of fruits v/s veggies you would like, and anything you DON'T want in your box. Then you sit back and wait. Ahh. They have taught me that roasted beets can be yummy. Who knew?

The Boston Film Festival starts this weekend. I'm a mad sucker for those shorts presentations. Check 'em out!

I bought some lovely glass rings for myself and a couple of near and dear friends recently. I love mine, the smoothness and weight against my finger. I loved theirs, too, almost to the point where I had some trouble sending them off. Luckily, I managed to do so. Props to the Carrot Box!

Barbados is still there, as far as I know. I'll let you know for sure (*knocking furtively against all available wood*) when we head out there in 24 days. Leave it to me to plan a Caribbean vacation in the WORST hurricane season EVER. Bah.

The Problem With Furrowing

I am one of those expressively-faced people. This is a good thing, in that it makes me endlessly amusing and endearing. But it's a bad thing in that it can A) Get me into Trouble, and B) Give me Permanent Brow Furrows.

The getting into Trouble has been an issue all my life, but I'm only recently becoming aware of the Permanent Brow Furrows. I fear that they will only deepen and deepen until I resemble a Neanderthal (the "h" is silent, people!) woman. Especially if they get to be so deep that I can no longer fit any pair of tweezers in existence into the vast gaping cleft that will have taken up residence on my forehead. The sweetly shaped eyebrows that I am currently in possession of will become singular in nature, and I will begin to grunt, wear animal skins, and celebrate the burial of my dead with primitive religious ceremonies.

I fear that this is imminent.

The expressions getting me into trouble thing just waxes and wanes seemingly of its own volition. I can remember getting a "check" next to my name in grade school with my teacher's explanation written beside it in neat, flowing cursive: Rolled eyes at me. Yeah, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, bitch. It was totally worth it. Even though I didn't get to watch The Golden Child with my class that month because of the fateful check.

In grad school, we were taking a break from class (the classes were, like, FOUR. HOURS. LONG.) when one of my friends pointed at me and laughed maniacly. "You look SOOO pissed off during class! And I was like, I know she's happy, why does she look so mad? I know she's not mad. She's happy! I was, indeed, "happy". It was then that I came to a realization--my "thoughtful" look, complete with deep brow furrowing, translates as pissed-offed-ness. Oops. Now when I'm doing things like sitting in boring-ass meetings or going on job interviews, I make a concerted effort to hold my eyebrows aloft in perfectly groomed little St. Louis Arches, all the while nodding thoughtfully.

After one of those aforementioned boring-ass meetings last week, a co-worker-slash-friend informed me that she was no longer going to be able to sit either anywhere near me or anywhere it was possible to see my facial expressions. (This, I think, limits her meeting seating choices quite severely.) Apparently, unbeknownst to me, when something stupid is said or done, my right eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly in a miniscule expression of aghast disdain. Oops.

(In my defense, at the last boring-ass meeting, my boss's boss unveiled our "department's New Mascot!" that she "couldn't leave in the store!" because "he was too cute!!!". This was a bug. A stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug in a rainbow of garish neon colors. A giant stuffed but in a rainbow of garish neon colors that makes me feel like I'm working at a freaking CARNIVAL. Now, can one's eyebrow really be expected to remain in a position of non-disdain when faced with events such as this?)

The bug is really deserving of a blog all his own, but at this point I don't think I have the energy to get into how there can possibly be a giant stuffed bug flopped atop a cubicle in the middle of the room. Really, it's just too much.

But, back to the brow furrowing. I can combat the encroachment of Neanderthal-dom with Burt's Bees slathered liberally across my already greasy T-zone, but I'm not really sure how to combat the disdain. Most especially the aghast disdain, which is the worst kind of disdain of all.

Perhaps there's a lotion.

Bloodletting #2

I was scheduled to give blood again today, so I once again found myself questioning every little item on the questionnaire When was that acupuncture treatment? How close is "close relationship"?.

It takes soooo very long to get through the whole process. You have to be called up by number and counseled countless times, by the end of which you are so frazzled you're likely to accidentally stick the For the Love of God Don't Use My Blood sticker on the form instead of its Please Use My Healthy Delicious Blood cousin. This has happened to me before.

While you wait, people wheel Igloo brand coolers full of blood past. This is endlessly creepy.

After I was bled today, (and can we talk about how fast I bled? I am the Fastest! Bleeder! Ever!) a different nurse from the one who had put the bloodsucking tube into my arm came over to staunch the bleeding. She is my new best friend. This is because when I sat up, she gave me a backrub and told me I should have "double food for the rest of the week" and "no heavy lifting or strenuous activities, like doing dishes, cleaning, or laundry".

At this last tidbit of information, the very joy within my being thrust me up and airborne, so I floated gracefully over to the folding table where Famous Amos cookies and cranberry juice were being handed out. Two times one is TWO!!! TWO COOKIES FOR MEEEEEE!!!!!!

So, Sean and I Took Turns Paddling Each Other for Three Hours Straight

It was a hot, muggy afternoon--the asphalt melting down the rubber on the soles of my shoes, sticking to me with gummy determination. I trudged up the stairs, still achingly sore from hauling Forrest's stuff down 38 flights of stairs (at least, it felt that way...). Now he's off to broil his snake and cat somewhere in the desert of the American West, and I'm the new owner of many of his canned goods. Frijoles Negros, anyone?

Sean shifted the items he was carrying around and reached for my hand. I closed my hand around his two middle fingers, the way we always "hold hands", and picked up my pace to keep in step with his brisk stride. "Do you think that that one's ours?", I asked, looking dubiously at an immense, sleek, white vessel that curved under gracefully like a reverse Cheshire Cat.

Sean laughed. "I don't think so. God, that thing's huge!"

I nodded agreement. "It looks like something from a Charlie Brown cartoon."

We picked our way down what appeared to be the path, watching as workers in Tevas and splattered t-shirts cleaned up for the night. "Here. You need to sign a release form.", I stated, handing one to Sean. The legal eqivalent of I will not sue you if I die. Love, Sean

It took some time before all the takers were assembled, then a brief introduction to the art of paddling was given for those who had never paddled before. Sean and I are both experienced paddlers to some degree, although we hadn't yet paddled each other. We spent the time the unneeded introduction provided us with discussing who would be behind who. Even though I personally like it in the back, I conceded that since Sean was larger and heavier than I (not to mention Strong Like Bull), he should be the one in the rear.

That decided, we lined up and readied ourselves for an intense bout of paddling. I had a few butterflies in my stomach, but they were the sweetly nervous kind, not the Holy Fucking Shit Nervous kind. (Much preferable.)

Finally, they called us over, and we quickly readied ourselves for what was to be an enlightening excursion. Our canoe was a red one, so it matched my life jacket.

The Moonlight Canoe Tour was to take about 3 hours (Yes, a "Three Hour Tour". That already occurred to me, thank you.) and go at a leisurely pace down the Charles from Newton to Waltham and back again. "Leisurely pace", I will have you know, is a fairly relative term.

My nerves were already frazzled before we had pulled too far from the dock. The canoe was leaning, quite obviously, to the right. I was convinced that this was a sign that one of three things were true:
1. Sean Has Really Bad Posture and Leans to the Right;
2. I Am Too Damn Fat to be In a Canoe; or
3. Sean Has Really Bad Posture and Leans to the Right and I Am Too Damn Fat to be In a Canoe.

I wasn't really sure which one of those was preferable, probably #1 because, truth be known, I would rather be pitched screaming into the polluted Charles and forced to have a tetanus shot after being half-consumed by leeches than have someone tell me I was Too Fat to be In a Canoe. In fact, there are very few things I would not prefer to the Too Fat scenario.

Luckily, I stayed in the canoe. For all that Sean tried to pitch me out by not only leaning obsessively to the right, but also repeatedly standing up and sitting down with almost enough force to send me to the very moon we were supposed to be enjoying during our trip, I stayed in the canoe. Sean's Gatorade did not, but that is another story entirely.

Gatorade bottles float, by the way. Even if they are full of blue Gatorade. In case you ever need to know that.

We saw numerous birds, from your standard mallards to pairs of swans to different kinds of herons and cranes. Several small annoying dogs yapped at us from houses on the shore that we will never be able to afford, even though we are more deserving of them than the current owners simply by virtue of not being the kind of people who would keep annoying yappy dogs.

The moon rose, a splendid vivid orange gumdrop in the sky, when we were first beginning our excursion. With the reduced light, the water shown an oily, inky black (although in retrospect, perhaps it was both oily and inky), rippling like a thousand garter snakes when I dipped my paddle into it.

The highlight of the trip was being rammed by the Asian Canoers from Hell from anywhere between 10-56 times. Each time included the same series of events:
1. ACFH's canoe is heading straight for ours!
2. Redpanda dips paddle into river and tries to slow canoe.
3. After slowing canoe, Redpanda begins paddling away from ACFH's canoe.
4. ACFH's canoe continues heading right for ours, even though ours has changed direction.
5. ACFH's inhabitants seem to be paddling canoe directly at us.
6. Redpanda says "Look out!"
7. ACFH canoe rams our canoe.
8. ACFH's inhabitants smile glibly and say "Sorry!" in an amusing, heavily-accented way.
9. Redpanda laughs and thinks about how much fun she and Sean will have making fun of them later.
10. Redpanda runs into another canoe.

It should be noted that the running into other canoes was mostly the fault of Sean, the All-Time Worst Canoe Steer-er Ever in the History of the World. His steering was so bad, in fact, that I was forced to think that perhaps he was the captain of both the Titanic and the Edmund Fitzgerald in previous lives. Compounding his Monumentally Terrible Steering was the fact that he is a proponent of "Frequent Breaks". This is a good thing when one is a cubicle monkey like me or Sean, spending endless hours pressing stupid little keyboard keys while hunched over a crappy monitor. However, when canoeing, this can be translated into Does not do much of the actual paddling. Sean, god love him, kept saying "Take a break, honey! Take a break!". Unfortunately, for all his thoughtfulness and concern for my well-being, Sean did not seem to realize that someone needs to be paddling the canoe at all times, or the canoe will not go. I came to realize this was an issue when the canoe kept coming to a tentative halt, wavelets slapping merrily against her hull as she rested against a lily pad we would not have been anywhere near if the canoe was being properly steered. A look over my shoulder would reveal that yes, indeed, Sean was taking a Frequent Break. "Take a Break, honey!" he would insist, as I dug my paddle into the river with a degree of determination only one who is afraid of being left behind on the Charles can muster.

We did the circuit, easily 6 miles of calm warm river, without event (save for the loss of the blue Gatorade). I'm comfortably sore today, well-exerted but still able to move. And yes, I'd love to do it again. And no, next time I won't be steering, because I recognize that doing so may lead to a new nomination for All-Time Worst Canoe Steer-er in the History of the World. And we can't have that.

My Boss Called Me Boho and Other Quick Musings

Yeah, she called me "boho". Something about an article in the Globe that talked about different "looks" women choose. She said that it was So me! Because of my vintage clothes and neverending supply of Mary Janes. I don't know that I'd pigeonhole myself that way, but I think it's cool that my boss is reading articles in the Globe and thinking of me. Even if it is mostly just my clothes she's thinking of.

A good excuse if you get pulled over for "weaving" and "crossing the yellow line" is not: "Gee officer, I was twisting the tops off of my Oreo Double Stufs and putting them together to make a Quadruple Stuf." Even if it is true.

Origami is harder than it looks.

Doubling the number of cat litter boxes available for cat elimination (that's what it said on the box--"elimination". As if my cats are in the lightning round of a game show or something...) may halve the chances of said cats eliminating on the bathroom rug, but it also quadruples the amount of annoying litter granules scattered about the floor.

The secret ingrediant in my pulled chicken is almost always Jack Daniels.

That is all.