Wawa's World

Romeo & Juliet

2009-09-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

I'm Lady Capulet! (and the Apothecary)

New Gate Celtic Theatre presents Romeo & Juliet

New Gate Celtic Theatre Company announces their latest production of Romeo & Juliet, which runs Sept. 18 – Sept. 26 at Lakota West Freshman Campus.

The veteran theatre company puts a new spin on “the greatest love story ever told,” placing the Shakespearean classic in an Eastern setting, trading tights and rapiers for samurais and kimonos.
The Eastern vision comes from New Gate's founder, Karen Vanover, who enlisted the help of Five White Tigers Martial Arts to choreograph fights and teach the cast the behaviors and traditions of the Eastern culture.

A select demo team of Five White Tigers students will also be featured in the production as citizens of Verona.

Another unique aspect of this production is the return to the roots of Shakespeare, or “original practices,” as directors Francis and Angie Boyle refer to it. Also the creators of Good Grief Shakespeare, they have worked to erase the modern aspects of theatre from the show, including the idea that the audience are mere bystanders of the story.

Local actors, from Milford to Florence to Fairfield, comprise the cast.

It features Rachel Christianson as the Nurse and Montague; Dan Cohen as Capulet and Friar John; Rebecca Coots as Tybalt and Friar Lawrence; Christopher Dooley as Romeo and Abraham; Hannah Goodman as Juliet and Gregory; Nate Netzley as Sampson, Peter and the Prince; Kasmira Oar as Lady Capulet and the Apothecary; Jennifer Ortiz as Lady Montague and Paris; Amanda Schmidt as Benvolio; and Colette Thomas as Mercutio and Balthazar.

About this production:
ROMEO & JULIET
by William Shakespeare
Directed by Francis and Angela Boyle
Sept. 18-19, 25-26 @ 7:30 p.m.
Sept. 20 @ 2:30 p.m.
General Admission: $18
Seniors and Students with ID: $16
Group rates available
Tickets may be purchased online at www.sellingticket.com/newgate. For more information, contact New Gate at 513.617.0784 or info@newgateceltictheatre.org.

Presented at Lakota West Freshman Campus, 5050 Tylersville Rd, West Chester, OH, 45069.

New Gate Celtic Theatre Company is a semi-professional theatre group focused on producing and presenting all art forms, especially those by and about the diverse world of the Celtic people. Classic, contemporary, global, local. Our vision is to inspire, educate and engage all people regardless of age, race, gender and ability. Our goal is to provide employment opportunities for local theatre artists, on and back stage.

My New Assistant

2009-09-01T06:32:00.000-07:00

So…I work from home on Mondays now.

I was going to blog about what I wear to work at home on my other blog, but my outfit was just too boring and I couldn’t bring myself to post it. Besides, I put up some good content this weekend to tide everyone over until Tuesday’s business casual post.

I was planning to use the below picture in the “what I wear to work from home” post, but, as that post is not to be, I had to stick it here instead.

Without further ado, the #1 reason to work from home:

KITTIES!
P.S. This is not my kitty. I would like to steal it, though.

Toon-toons

2009-03-03T20:51:00.000-08:00

One can of tuna and five cats.

Oh, wait. Missing a cat...here comes Orangey now!

The clamor rises as I begin to portion out the dishes. Smunchy is the loudest.

I push the last dish to the orange cat. He likes to pretend he isn’t interested.

Ah, the happy sound of five tongues lapping.

Invisalign: Tray 10 (lower)

2009-02-05T19:26:00.000-08:00

I was glad to move to Tray 10. Tray 9 didn’t seem to snap onto the “nubbins” very firmly, so I was worried that Tray 8 hadn’t moved my teeth enough. Tray 10, though, fits well, aligns over the attachments, and isn’t unduly uncomfortable. One more tray left on the bottom!

The last photo doesn’t really show off my progress, but it was too funny not to post

Invisalign: Tray 9 (lower)

2009-01-22T05:32:00.000-08:00

Today, I swapped out the bottom tray only. While it’s exciting to have finished the tray progression on the top, I’m dreading the thought of wearing this tray for six more weeks, until I see the orthodontist again. Despite brushing, the trays yellow after a couple of weeks and no amount of scubbing really gets them clean. I grimace a little each time I put the “old” tray back on my upper teeth.

Zoro is a Bigun

2009-01-20T06:38:00.000-08:00

I seem to have a knack for growing big cats. Take Zoro, for instance. He was a small, timid thing when we got him. He developed into a long, lean yearling. His coat was long and silky, but not terribly thick. When he was about a year and half, a terrible fight with Bear left him sickly for many months. When he finally recovered, he put on bulk and grew double the coat. He’s now the biggest of our kitties, but still as timid as if he were the runt.

If Mr Tibbs were still alive, they certainly could both no longer fit on top this table!

Invisalgin: Tray 8

2009-01-08T23:16:00.001-08:00

I visited the orthodontist today and was quite surprised to receive my FINAL upper tray. Yes, Tray 8 is the last tray for my upper teeth. I was also surprised to find that my lowers will be done after Tray 11. I was anticipating a treatment time of 15 months (60 weeks). Instead, I only have trays for 22 weeks.

This isn’t to say I’ll necessarily be finished after 22 weeks! I may need some more “slenderizing” - on the bottom this time. In my opinion, the bottom teeth are just too crowded to move into alignment. The orthodontist will make a decision on filing my bottom teeth when I visit in March.

Also in March, he’ll probably do another set of impressions and send those off in case of I need refinements and additional trays. Even if I don’t need a few more sets of Invisalign trays, I’ll definitely be getting a retainer.

I left his office quite pleased with my moveable teeth. (Although, if they hadn’t been so moveable, I might not have needed orthodontics in the first place!) My pleasure was rather short-lived because Tray 8 was the most uncomfortable tray yet. By the evening, my whole head ached from the pressure on my teeth. I cringed every time I had to snap the trays in or out to eat. Thankfully, the pain subsided by the next day.

Painful or not, I’m so pleased with Invisalign!

Invisalign: Trays 6 and 7

2008-12-25T15:36:00.000-08:00

Tray 6

Tray 7

Whoops! Got a little behind on the picture posting.

I see the orthodontist again before Tray 8. I think everything is going well and, hopefully, he’ll confirm that.

Clown Car of Backpacks

2008-12-06T06:24:00.000-08:00

My car is done broke, so I’ve been grocery shopping on the bus or my bike. Saturday was far too snowy for bike riding and I didn't feel like waiting for the bus, so I pulled on my galoshes and warm layers and walked to the grocery store. And the library and the thrift store and the dollar store. After about five miles, I wasn’t footsore, but my back was killing me. And no wonder… I had all this inside the backpack:

Turkey Neck

2008-11-27T08:16:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving isn’t just a people holiday. The kitties celebrate, too. They get some of the brined, roasted turkey and fried giblets. I also boiled the turkey neck, intending to shave the meat off and feed it to the cats. I quickly discovered that turkey necks are awfully tough. I let the cats remove the meat from the bone themselves. Only Smunchy seemed up to the task.

I think that last picture is Smunchy lapsing into a tryptophan coma

Invisalign: Tray 5

2008-11-27T07:55:00.000-08:00

Just in time for Thanksgiving: a new tray to make my teeth ache. Thank goodness Thanksgiving food is soft.

Until you don’t have access to your teeth, you don’t realize how many things you use them for, besides eating. With my trays in, I can’t nibble on my cuticles, remove my gloves, or stretch out a rubber hair band with my teeth. I won’t say that I SHOULD use my teeth for any of these things, but not having the option leaves me feeling a little handicapped.

I also didn’t realize how sharp teeth are. I’ve grown used to my dulled, plastic-covered chompers. When I remove the trays and brush the edges of my teeth with my tongue, I’m always surprised at just how sharp and dangerous they are. It’s a wonder we don’t accidently bite our tongues and cheeks more often.

Invisalign: Tray 4

2008-11-15T06:44:00.000-08:00

As of Thursday, I moved on to tray 4 and submitted to the last of the “slenderizing.” The orthodontist waited until my teeth had moved a bit before he created space between my two front teeth with a drill. You can’t see it with the aligners on, but I now have a small gap between my two upper teeth.

Burn Victim

2008-11-11T06:35:00.000-08:00

I spilled some v. hot tea on myself yesterday afternoon. These two pictures are from Monday evening, at about 6 p.m. An hour or two later, the incipient blisters below had developed into something truly horrific. <-- (click if you dare)

Where's Bear?

2008-11-09T19:51:00.000-08:00

Bear is doing his best “E.T.” impression. There aren’t enough toys in the house for him to pose as one, but he could pass for a fur collar among the assorted clothing in this pile.

Cat Chores

2008-11-09T07:48:00.000-08:00

This is how we clean the George Foreman Grill in the Oar household. Now who wants to come over for hamburgers?

Invisalign: Tray 3

2008-10-30T18:50:00.000-07:00

Does it hurt? Not much. Every two weeks I change the trays, and the new, tighter, trays are uncomfortable. My teeth are noticeably sore for two or three days, but only uncomfortably so for the first day. Sometimes I take a painkiller before bed on the day I’ve changed trays so that I don’t lie in bed fretting about the ache. I didn’t take an analgesic with tray three and had no trouble going to sleep. I’ve never had conventional braces, but I imagine that they are much more painful than the Invisalign trays.

The most physically annoying part of Invisalign is just having something in my mouth. The new tray causes me to lisp for a day or two, until my tongue adjusts to the new conformations of my teeth. I’ve always been a slobberer (one dentist said I had a “juicy mouth”) and the trays make it worse. Like the pain and the lisping, though, it tends to subsides within a couple of days of beginning each tray.

While the thought of these side effects for TWO WHOLE YEARS bothered me in the beginning, I hardly notice them anymore. Any discomfort is totally worth it!

Invisalign: Tray 2

2008-10-16T05:52:00.000-07:00

When I snapped in tray two this morning, I realized how comfortable tray one had become in comparison. I'd like to say it's because my teeth have moved, but I also wonder if some of it is due to the tray conforming to my mouth. Tray one certainly looks beat up after two weeks of being snapped off and on of my teeth.

If my teeth aren't getting straighter, my waistline is definitely getting smaller. I can't eat or drink anything but water with the trays in. For best results, the trays need to be in for 22 hours a day, leaving me a mere 2 hours for eating. On top of those restrictions, I must brush and floss after each meal/snack, before putting the trays back in. My grazing days are over. I plan to eat 5 - 6 times a day (3 meals and 2 or 3 snacks), instead of my old, constant munching. That also means I brush 5 - 6 times a day. I spend a lot of time with my toothbrush.

The beverage restrictions are difficult too. I've given up on soda. I simply can't drink it quickly enough. (I used to take up to three hours to drink a 20-oz Diet Coke.) I get one caffeine fix a day: hot tea while I eat my breakfast. Occasionally, I'll add another cup of tea with my three o'clock snack. There are no more evenings sipping wine or downing cold beers. If I have an alcoholic beverage, it is with a meal.

Finally, I've put together a kit to carry in my purse on the weekends or evenings. If I dine out, I've got everything I need to store the trays while I eat and then clean up afterwards. The purple case (from Sephora) is so pretty that I can't wait to pull it out and brush my teeth for the sixth time that day.

I Need a Union

2008-10-11T09:12:00.000-07:00

These working conditions are terrible. How am I supposed to pin a straight hem with a cat lying on my project? I tried gently removing him to the floor, but he just hopped right back to his spot, snuggled down, and proceeded to suck his thumb. Yup, he's suckling his carpal pad while he kneads his forehead. How could I disturb that?

(Actually, he's sucking on the anatomical equivilant of his heel, but it seems to serve the same purpose as a human baby sucking its thumb.)

My Cats Bring Me Snacks

2008-10-04T06:39:00.000-07:00

Wow, am I lucky. On Friday, I came home to a chipmunk in the house. On Saturday, Bear brought me this snake and Sammy brought a cicada.

Bear makes the most horrible yowling sound when he is carrying prey in his mouth. I could hear him from outside and thought, at first, that he was hurt. The yowls grew louder as he approached the door and pushed through the cat flap. He then deposited the snake at my feet and promptly ignored it. I tried to get the cats interested in it for a few more pictures, but, even though the snake was still quite alive, it wouldn’t move. Smart snake.

I released it back into the “wild.” It appeared undamaged except for a single wound. I think it will recover.

Invisalign: Tray 1

2008-10-02T05:44:00.000-07:00

After five years of wincing at my smile, I started orthodontic treatment today. The worst part was when the orthodontist slenderized some of my upper teeth. I noticed how he preferred the term "slenderize" to "interstitial filing." His assistant glued small, tooth-colored nubs on a few of my teeth and I snapped on my first invisalign tray. Only 104 more weeks to go!

He Does This Sometimes

2008-08-25T06:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when I pat Zoro, he sticks his tongue out and leaves it hanging. The first time it happened, I freaked out. I even went so far as to poke and pull at his tongue, but he wouldn’t retract it. After I convinced myself that he wasn’t having a stroke, I found it funny. He did it again last night, and obligingly left it protruding while I ran to find the camera.

Mikey's a Celebrity

2008-07-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

MyHeritage: Family trees - Genealogy - Celebrities - Collage - Morph

I'm Asian - Who Knew?

2008-07-28T13:35:00.000-07:00

MyHeritage: Family tree - Genealogy - Celeb - Collage - Morph

Spicy Chai

2007-09-11T06:10:00.000-07:00

I love chai tea. I usually use the tea bag, instead of the syrup because I want to be able to control the sweetness type (Splenda) and level (2 packets in 20 oz tea). I buy my tea at work and the Vanilla Chai (by Bigelow) is the first to go when the cafeteria opens up a new box of assorted teas. Not that I mind too much. I think all of Bigelow’s vanilla-flavored teas taste horribly false. I’ve found a much better way to brew chai tea at work.

I stir a teaspoon of Kamal Tea Masala into regular English tea. Add two Splenda, a splash of skim milk, and I’m in heaven! This is an extra spicy blend (compared to pallid American versions) and even supplies you with 2 g fiber (if you slurp the spice slurry left in the bottom of the cup). I bought it at Jungle Jim’s.

Patty

2007-06-29T06:18:00.000-07:00

I went to an annual meeting for one of my theater groups yesterday. I arrived a little late and let myself into the host’s home. Upon entering the split-level home, I was on a staircase landing. I looked up to see this.

At first glance, I thought this was a live, little girl. It continued to freak me out during dinner when I’d catch sight of her out of my peripheral vision.

I didn’t dare ask about the doll directly, but I heard, from another guest, that her name is Patty, she has different sets of clothes, and she is moved around the house. I can’t imagine living with Patty. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night for fear she’d come alive like Chucky and poke me with a butcher knife. I’d have to lock her in a closet as soon as it got dark. Actually, I'd probably have to keep her locked in a closet all the time. She creeps me out!

Mikey-poo Esquire

2007-05-14T07:12:00.000-07:00

Yes, he’s an esquire now. Mike has graduated from law school. The hoods left us both confused, though!

Mike’s graduation photo set

Priorities

2007-02-08T14:09:00.000-08:00

I went to Kroger last night and did the grocery shopping. I spent about $100. This is how my purchases broke down:

Pet: 44.6%
Beauty: 9.1%
Household Needs: 15%
Food: 31%

I guess I really DO love the cats more than I love my husband. (Or at least I do a better job feeding them.)

Quandry Plugs Along

2006-11-30T06:41:00.000-08:00

Our 30-minute, twice a night show opened at the Beach Waterpark last Friday, just after Thanksgiving. We finally hit our stride by Sunday night. You can see photos from the production of Bob Cratchit’s Christmas Quandry here. We’ll be performing through January 7th.

Made-Up Face

2006-11-27T18:13:00.000-08:00

When putting on make-up, especially theatrical make-up, I’m always amazed at how little the end product resembles my naked face:

Products used:
Theatrical base
Theatrical blush
Theatrical powder
Black cake eyeliner
Black mascara
Dark brown eye shadow
False lashes
Auburn eyebrow pencil
Red lipstick
Red gloss

Now I’m ready for the show!

MORE Mrs. Bob Photos

2006-11-22T06:11:00.000-08:00

I've got 111 Mrs. Bob photos up on my Flickr account. Thanks to our lovely producer, Elaine, I had a whole CD of pictures to upload. Check back for even more pictures in a few weeks; I ordered a second CD from a professional photographer.

Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge photoset (probably best viewed as a slide show)

And the Show Goes On

2006-11-21T19:29:00.000-08:00

Mrs. Bob ended this weekend. We were sold out on the last night and all performed well, making a great ending to our short run. I'm amazed my voice held up through all the screaming and yelling I did as Mrs. Bob. Mike contends that it's due to all the practice I get at home (SO not true!)

On Friday, I open in a show at The Beach Waterpark. Evidently, the park gets all decked out for the holidays, with lights, ice skating, nativity scenes, Santa, the works. I’m performing twice a night in a half hour show as The Ghost of Christmas Present. The show is set a few years after A Christmas Carol has ended. Scrooge remains transformed, but now Bob Cratchit has lost his Christmas spirit. I have an awesome costume (photos soon), get to act quite smug and superior, and finally get to trot out my British accent. (I had a Cleveland accent in Mrs. Bob.) The director has foolishly given me a song solo so that I may torture the audience's ears. We can only hope that the sound of the children singing along will mask my amplified croonings.

Yesterday (Monday) I started rehearsals for another show, opening in February, A Gown for His Mistress. I’m Yvonne, a clingy newlywed whose husband is cheating on her. I haven’t yet read the script yet (in my defense, I just got it last night), but the director describes it as a French farce where everyone is sleeping with everyone else.

More details when I have them!

Mrs. Bob Pictures

2006-11-14T05:49:00.000-08:00

The Drama Workshop has some pictures up from Mrs. Bob Cratchit’s Wild Christmas Binge. Take a look! (Hit “next photo” to see the remainder of the pictures. There are four.)

We have three performances left – Thu, Fri, and Sat. Thursday night has the best seats, and Saturday may sell out! Reserve online or call 513-598-8303.

I'm Mrs. Bob Cratchit

2006-11-01T18:15:00.000-08:00

If you are in the local (Cincinnati) area, come see my new show. We’ll be performing at the Westwood Town Hall, at the corner of Harrison and Montana. More details below.

Mrs. Bob Cratchit’s Wild Christmas Binge
by Christopher Durang
directed by James Burton

Friday, November 10, 2006 8:00 PM
Saturday, November 11, 2006 8:00 PM
Sunday, November 12, 2006 3:00 PM
Thursday, November 16, 2006 8:00 PM
Friday, November 17, 2006 8:00 PM
Saturday, November 18, 2006 8:00 PM

The perfect way to say “Bah Humbug” to the classic Dicken’s tale. Mrs. Bob Cratchit has had it with being the loving and long-suffering wife and mother. She’s sick of Tiny Tim (the goody-goody crippled child), she hates her twenty other children (most of them confined to the root cellar), and all she really wants to do is get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. Her life is then turned upside down by a visit from the Ghost of all three Christmases and a Tourette’s Syndrome- suffering Ebeneezer Scrooge. Having a great deal of difficulty navigating the time travel necessary to teach Scrooge a lesson, the Ghost keeps landing repeatably in the pathetic Cratchit home. From there the plot morphs into parodies of Oliver Twist, The Gift of the Magi and It’s a Wonderful Life. This rollicking, sassy tale has an ample heaping of spice, sure to add flavor to the start of your holiday season.

Buy tickets by calling 513-598-8303 or reserving them online.

Fall Vacation

2006-10-20T05:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Mike and I returned from our FIRST EVER vacation together. (I suppose it is our second if you count our honeymoon, over two years ago.) We drove five hours to Gatlinburg, TN and stayed in a private chalet, complete with a hot tub on the back deck, called “A Lover’s Paradise.” Gatlinburg itself is an absolute tourist trap, but it is the gateway city into the Smoky Mountains National Park, which I enjoyed far more than I thought I would.

I often derided the east coast’s “mountains” and hardwood forests. The mountains are mere hills compared to the west’s skyscraping escarpments and any forest that is completely naked in the winter must be inferior to evergreen cover. I still hesitate to call the local mountains as such, but I’ve gained an appreciation for the hardwood forest in the autumn. The colors were absolutely amazing. I couldn’t stop taking photos of the firey hillsides. Again and again, I was stopped short by the deep crimson, bright orange, and brilliant yellow leaves set against an azure sky.

Even more incredible than the colors were the smells. The woods air was sweet with fallen leaves. The bouquet varied as we changed elevations, but remained intoxicating. I nearly made myself dizzy by breathing deeply, trying to capture the fragrance. Even just a few yards from the crowded parkway, the air was fresh, pure, and sweet.

To and from Gatlinburg, we listened to The Stolen Child on CD. The wild tale of faeries in the woods proved to be the perfect accompaniment to our trip. We spotted a hollow tree and took photos of each of us in our best hobgoblin pose. On the drive home, the recent memories of the dappled, fragrant woods supplied our imaginations a background for the tale.

As is usually true with vacations, it was over far too soon. Between work, rehearsals, school, planting, and interviews, we were only able to slip away for three days. We can’t wait to vacation again.

View our Gatlinburg Photo Set

Feminine Candy

2006-10-05T12:50:00.000-07:00

When I was a girl, before the mysteries of menstruation and feminine hygiene were explained to me, I would hear wrappers rustling in the stalls of the ladies restroom and I assumed they were eating candy in there. Imagine how disappointed I was to learn that there was no sweet snacking going on.

(Somehow, the thought of eating in a bathroom stall didn’t repulse me as a child.)

I've Got Dope at Work

2006-09-22T18:06:00.000-07:00

I brought one of my houseplants into work today. As I boarded the bus, the driver scowled at me, and I realized that it looks like a marijuana plant. One of our VPs just walked by and he commented on my “pot” plant. I wonder how long I’ll get to keep it here.

Yoda, the Stylist

2006-08-31T05:13:00.000-07:00

When I come home from work, I usually strip off my jewelry and toss it in a decorative container on a table by the front door. The wooden container also collects things like lipstick, keys, cell phones, and sunglasses. Our curious kitten, Yoda, has found that the container is full of fun playthings.

This morning, for the fourth time, I caught him rummaging in the container, and leaving with a diamond ring in his mouth. I wrested the ring from him and put it, and its companion, on my finger. I was just starting to think that maybe he was telling me that I need to keep my rings on when he went back to the container and brought me a chandelier earring. Maybe he’s just trying to help me accessorize?

Yoda's First Movie!

2006-08-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

Y-O-D-A

2006-08-03T06:52:00.000-07:00

By popular demand, here is the story on Yoda, the new kitten.

Two weeks ago, we had five cats and I was quite firm that five was enough. Not only is it enough from a space standpoint, but, with only me working, I didn’t think we could afford a sixth cat. I love cats, but I was determined not to add to our kitty family.

Being a woman, I’m quite used to window shopping. I do it with clothes and I can do it with cats. I like to go to the pound or Petsmart and play with the kitties. No matter how adorable they are, I’m able to walk away. I suppose it has to do with my ancestral gathering behavior. Mike, however, is a man. He’s a hunter and he does not browse. It is quite against his nature to look at something nice to have and to hold and then walk away. Silly me, I led him into temptation over and over without realizing he would break.

One Saturday, almost two weeks ago, we left the house to run some errands and ended up driving out to the Tri-County mall. As is our habit, we stopped at Petsmart to look at the cats. We played with the kittens, and walked away. On the way home, we stopped at the Colerain Avenue Petsmart to look at the cats again. While I was busy playing “paws” with a feisty (but full-grown) Manx, Mike was falling in love with a little tabby. The Petsmart employee let the kitten out of his cage and Mike was a goner. With the employee and an assistant from the adjoining veterinary clinic as an audience, he wheedled until I gave in, with the caveat that it would be HIS cat.

We paid $50 for the kitten. He was on loan from the Dearborne County Animal Shelter, a “kill” shelter. Mike likes to remind the kitten that if I had my way, and we walked away kitten-less again, he would be dead. I’m such a villain.

The kitten was named Skeeter on the adoption tag. We debated over a new name. The best part about having pets is that you can saddle them with names you wouldn’t dare give a child. We initially called him Boss Hogg, but, after a day decided on Yoda, following my sister Sabrina’s lead in naming cats after Star Wars characters. (She has a Leia and Lando, but they are both female, which really confuses me.) The best part about Yoda’s name is that when people ask me to spell it, I can sing the Weird Al spoof of “Lola”: “Yoda, Y-O-D-A, Yoda.”

Like all new cats, he spent his first few days hiding from us and there was much hissing and growling (by the cats, not me and Mike). Mr. Tibbs and Yoda are now fast friends. They play “Yoda in a Box” for hours on end. They thrill in popping out of the nylon boxes at each other or trying to claw their way through the solid faces. In the last few days, they’ve progressed to wrestling. I have to admire Yoda’s temerity for daring to wrestle a cat that outweighs him five times. Tibbs, as is his wont, also enjoys holding down Yoda and giving him a good tongue lashing. They are nearly inseparable. Yoda and Zoro are not yet as comfortable, but they do play chase. Bear tolerates Yoda’s batting of his always twitching tail. Mimi hisses (then again, she hisses at all the cats) and Cleo refuses to come inside the house at all.

Physically, Yoda is unremarkable. He doesn’t have the long, beautiful coats that my other three boys (Tibbs, Zoro, and Bear) have. His tail is ordinary – not a pom-pom like Mr. Tibbs or full squirrel brushes like Zoro and Bear. He does have a unique way of carrying his tail. He lifts it so high that it arches over his back and the tip actually brushes his neck. It gives him a proud presence and conceals nothing of his “business.” My favorite part of Yoda’s body is his stomach. It is white, except for a small, off-center patch of tan with black spots. His tummy looks like vanilla ice cream, studded with a single chunk of chocolate-chip cookie dough. When he rolls on his back, I crave Ben and Jerry’s.

Yoda’s most endearing trait is his love of “head snuggles.” He likes to sleep on the top of Mike’s chair, in contact with his head, or curled around our noggins in the bed at night. With the degree of thrashing Mike does in his sleep, the pillow is probably the safest place for Yoda to rest.

We haven’t even had Yoda for two weeks yet, so we still have a lot of “getting to know each other” to do. While I am not convinced that Yoda would have ended up in the kitty graveyard had we not adopted him, I’m glad he’s around. I’ve even managed to choke down my embarrassment when confessing to people that we now have six, six, six cats at once!

People At My Work Do Not Eat Fruit

2006-08-01T11:14:00.000-07:00

Our cafeteria has just reopened following its remodeling. It is now bright, colorful, and as cold as the arctic (A/C up way too high). The walls are hung with close-up shots of ripe, juicy fruit. While fruit is appetizing and all, I don’t feel that the other cafeteria food have equal representation. Where are the glistening French fries? The oozing cheeseburgers? The pale sandwiches? The jiggling jello? I’ve seen people leaving the cafeteria with their lunch and, trust me, their trays are not piled high with fruit.

PSD

2006-06-15T19:07:00.000-07:00

Tammy Faye has finished and, for the first time ever, I am experiencing PSD (Post-Show Depression). We had a great cast and I couldn’t spend enough time with the members. At the end of the run, I spent Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings hanging out with various people from the show. We closed on Saturday and it is over. Now, I have all the time in the world to garden and pet my cats, but all I do is mope. I audition for Sweet Charity in July, but I don’t believe rehearsals will even start until August. Nothing to do until then but look at pictures from Tammy Faye and try to shake off this melancholy.

We Were Panned

2006-06-06T05:33:00.000-07:00

Part of the reason for the recent lack of entries has been my all-consuming involvement in The Gospel According to Tammy Faye. We opened last Saturday and life is finally calming down a little.

The Cincinnati Enquirer reviewed us on Saturday. Not quite the glowing review my last show had. My Jessica Hahn costume was described as something "a hooker working at Wal-Mart" would wear. I have to pout a little because it's my own dress and I used to wear it out dancing when I lived in Phoenix. Guess I looked like a whore back then.

From an actor's point of view, I think our opening went really well and it seemed well received by the audience. You can buy tickets here.

Fiddler Review

2006-03-30T07:18:00.000-08:00

Our show received a nice review (and a grade of "A") from the local media. Sadly, I was not mentioned for my extraordinary performance as Shaindel, Motel's mother.

Check out City Beat's review.

Feed Me

2006-03-23T11:25:00.000-08:00

Because my life is reduced to work, rehearsal, and sleep, I haven’t gone grocery shopping in a few weeks. I’m eating every meal at work. I’m not a light eater either. I pop to the fifth floor every few hours for something more to stuff in my ravenous maw. The cafeteria and convenience store staff have noticed the change in my habits. I’m on a first name basis with the girls in the convenience store. One of the cafeteria cashiers actually asked me if I was pregnant. They aren’t used to seeing me buy more than a cup of tea or a bottle of soda.

After the pregnancy comment, I’ve become very self-conscious of my food purchases. (And self-conscious about my figure. Do I LOOK pregnant?) I am embarrassed to be seen buying food every two hours, so I rotate where I make my purchases. First, I’ll hit the cafeteria. Later, I’ll visit the convenience store. Then, I’ll travel down six floors to the coffee shop. Just now, I polished off a salad and an Odwalla juice from the convenience store. I’m still starving and the cafeteria’s closed, so I’m left with the coffee shop or a vending machine.

Am I ridiculous or what? I suppose if it gets too bad, I could make the trek to one of the restaurants that surround our building. Mmmmmm….Skyline. Gotta go!

House on Fire

2006-02-27T09:25:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, I used to pray at night that my house would burn down. I went to sleep alert for the smell of smoke, with my escape route planned and the few possessions to be saved chosen. I didn’t put much stock in the power of prayer (or God, for that matter), so I didn’t really believe the house would catch fire. I continued to hope, though. I wasn’t wishing for the fiery death of any family members and a romantic life as an orphan or only child. I just wanted the house to burn down so that we could move.

I was fascinated by fresh starts. I wanted to remake myself into someone different. There was really nothing wrong with me, other than being deadly boring. However, if we moved, I would be the mysterious new girl in school with a past of my own choosing. I could be someone exciting!

The house never burned down and we never moved. I lived in the same house on Pine Street until I left for college at 17. In the next six years though (even before joining the Marine Corps), I would move ten times and live in five different cities and four different states. I loved it.

I loved the change of scenery and housemates. (I never had my own place.) I delighted in exploring a new territory and locating the things I needed – grocery store, park, ballet studio, pool, Target, mall. While I no longer had a burning desire to reinvent myself, I did enjoy the fact that my past life was a secret that I could choose to reveal or not.

I discovered that moving is not all fun and games. Being the new girl can be lonely. Breaking into a new network of friends is difficult, and I am frequently reminded that I do not share their group history. My current location (Cincinnati) seems to be a city from which few people ever move away. My local friends all have family with whom they can spend holidays or weekend shopping trips. Although my built-in best friend, Mike, keeps me from being truly lonely, he doesn’t take the place of a gal pal or sister.

Now that we have a house (and I have a garden), moving has lost even more of its glamour. I am quite attached to my landscaping and looking forward to watching it develop. However, Mike has applied to the Navy JAG program, and will probably be accepted. This means we will again become gypsies, moving every three to four years. Gardens aside, though, I am looking forward to the location changes. My wanderlust remains stronger than my nesting instincts. I consider myself fortunate that my childhood wish was indeed granted, just without the flames and smoke.

Without a Signal

2006-02-14T07:59:00.000-08:00

Mike is an angry driver. When riding with him, I alternate between trying to defuse his road rage and ignoring his rants. I am also frequently annoyed by other drivers, but I try to create excuses for their bad driving. Maybe they’re lost. Maybe (like in that country song), they’re old and alone and scared to drive, but have no other way to get around. Maybe their kids are waging war in the backseat. I find that my imagination can usually excuse the slow drivers, the brake-happy drivers, the wandering drivers. What I cannot excuse, or forgive, is the omnipresent non-use of the turn signal.

I try to drive defensively and anticipate what the cars around me will do. This becomes a pointless exercise when other drivers change lanes or turn WITHOUT SIGNALING. Instead of engaging in a logical movement pattern, I am attempting to navigate my way through chaotic, random entities. As you can guess, this elevates my irritation level and makes it hard for me to be understanding with the slow drivers, the brake-happy drivers, and the wandering drivers.

I am absolutely unable to empathize with someone who does not use their turn signal. True, the signal light may be out (this has happened to me), but that excuse is wearing too thin for me to continue to believe. Using the turn signal should be rote. It should be as automatic as the head check when changing lanes. Not to toot my own auto horn, but I’ve even been known to use the turn signal when trying to evade another driver (my dad – I wasn’t supposed to be out driving). The turn signal should be a reflex. If it was meant to be optional, the control wouldn’t be on the steering column. It would be somewhere on the center console.

So, why do I see so many cars change course without signaling? Perhaps using the turn signal isn’t “cool.” (So many lame things are considered “cool” nowadays, (visible underwear, anyone?) that I honestly think this may be a possibility.) Maybe the driver’s right hand is occupied with a cell phone or Big Mac. (The signal bar is usually on the right side of the steering column.) That’s all my imagination can come up with; I’m out of possible scenarios. If you don’t use your signal, tell me why.

What I’d like even more than an explanation though, is for people to just use their signals. Every signalless move contributes to my building road rage. Soon, I’ll be imitating Mike: cursing at people on their cell phones, pretending to chase down jaywalking pedestrians, and swerving at anyone who looks as if they might cut me off. Even I have my tolerance limits.

Super Heroes

2006-01-20T13:34:00.000-08:00

I was in the locker room one morning when I heard one of the cutesy interviews with children they occasionally do on the family-friendly radio station that plays at the gym. The interviewer was asking children what super power they’d like to have. I can only remember one child’s response because it was so amazingly ludicrous that it wiped every other silly super power from my memory.

“Meat vision.”
“Meat vision?” asks the DJ.
“Meat vision. I could look at a house and see where all of the meat was.”

I imagine this somewhat like x-ray vision. Everything but meat becomes transparent. This kid would gaze at house and it would look like a faint blueprint to him, with glowing dots marking the meat in the kitchen refrigerator and the garage deep-freeze. As he rode down the street in his parent’s car, he’d suddenly be blinded by the meat glow from the supermarket and the butcher shop. I wish I could meet this kid and ask him some of my questions about meat vision.

“WHY?” Why in the world would you want this super power? Are this child’s parents vegetarians? Are they starving him? Does he just REALLY LIKE MEAT?

“Can he see raw meat? Cooked meat? Living meat (people and animals)?” What about meat dishes? Does the hamburger in lasagna give off a faint aura?

“What will he do with his super power?” Will he use it for good or evil? Will he eat the meat or distribute it to the meat-deprived of the world?

After telling Mike about this odd super power wish, he has declared that he has meat vision. For him, it seems to be raw and cooked meat, but not living meat. He doesn’t do anything with his talent, just yells about the meat he sees as we drive down Colerain. It’s especially dangerous when driving at night, because all that meat at Outback can be terribly bright.

I have a super power too: Headache Power. I can give Mike a headache with any number of methods: babbling, singing, dancing. Sometimes I can just stare at him and his head will begin to pound. I assume I can also inflict the same damage on people I’m not married to. Now I have something to do in the next department meeting.

Together, we are the FANTASTIC TWO. If we’re going for alliteration, I suppose you could call us the TERRIBLE TWO or the TERRIFIC TWO or the TYRANNICAL TWO. I’m not sure if we’re good or evil. I suppose it depends on your point of view. For now, we’re undecided and keeping our super powers under wraps.

Headache Girl, out.

The Incredibly Static Eyebrows

2006-01-20T05:56:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I received a package from my mother containing all my school photos and a few other childhood studio portraits. Aside from wondering whether I was being disowned, I had a grand time cringing at my old hairstyles and gloating over the few cute photos. It’s amazing to see how little I’ve changed. Yes, I’ve lost my snub nose and round cheeks, but I still have the same smile, eyes, and eyebrows. I find the eyebrow phenomenon very interesting. They grow in exactly the same pattern today as they did in kindergarten, only I now pluck them into submission. Track the amazing unchanging eyebrows yourself: I’ve update my Me, Me, Me photoset.

(I’ve also inserted new photos into the Original Four Sisters photoset, if you’d like to see pictures of my much less cute sisters. Just don’t stare too long at this hideous photo.)

Like, You've Got Toothpaste Spooge Around Your Mouth

2006-01-19T05:49:00.000-08:00

I don’t make regular New Year’s resolutions. The only one I recall making is also the only one I ever kept: to wash my delicates in a lingerie bag instead of subjecting them, unprotected, to the perils of the agitator and zippers. It’s a bit trivial of a resolution, but I can say that my underwear last much longer than they used to.

This year, I carefully considered resolutions for 2006. It took me the first 19 days of the year, but I’ve got four that I think I can live with:

1. Be more free with compliments. I tend to stare at someone’s new haircut/cute scarf/lovely brooch with silent envy. Instead, I will say something nice (and possibly find out where I can find one for myself!)

2. Tell people when they have something caught in their teeth/a booger hanging out of their nose/an open fly/etc. Again, I tend to stare instead of verbalize. This time, though, it isn’t jealousy. Instead, I stare at the offending item or condition until I am hypnotized beyond speech. I silently wonder how they could have left the house with their shirt buttoned all cock-eyed and stop paying any attention to the conversation. This year, I am going to jerk my eyes away, snap back to reality, and tell the person!

3. Make the bed on the weekends. I give up on the weekdays because there is a man in beneath the covers when I leave for work.

4. Eliminate “like” from my vocabulary, other than its use in a simile. I currently use it as a substitute for “said” (as in: “he was like ‘What are you staring at?’ and I was like ‘The toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe.’”) and as a valley-girl style filler word.

What are your (belated or not) resolutions for the New Year?

Bear Makes Five!

2006-01-17T11:41:00.000-08:00

Yes. The rumors are true. We now have five, five, five cats at once.

We picked up Bear from the humane society on Jan 2. We had been haunting the local shelters since mid December, looking for an orange, fluffy kitten. Somehow, I had set my heart on such a kitty and infected Mike with the same longing. After three weeks of searching, we found Bear and, despite the fact that he was neither orange nor a kitten, fell in love.

According to Mike, Bear, reclining on the metal shelf in his cage, looked just like Princess Leia in her cell when Luke comes to rescue her from the Empire’s clutches, just prior to her execution. I suppose it’s an apt metaphor, because Bear had been at the shelter for three weeks and was probably scheduled for termination in the near future. Mike was Bear's Jedi knight in shining armor. I suppose I was someone dorky like C3PO. According to the tag on his cage, Bear was dropped off at the pound not because he refused to cooperate with Darth Vader, but because his owner’s house was “too small.”

Bear was filthy and smelled much like the Empire's trash compactor when we brought him home. A thorough brushing removed much of the dirt, but it took a bath to rid him of the last of the pound filth. Now that he’s clean and eating a higher quality cat food, his fur is rapidly becoming fuller and silkier.

Bear is adjusting well to the other cats. He stays far away from Cleo (as all the cats do). The babies (Tibbs and Zoro) and he have made aborted attempts to engage each other in play. I believe they will all become playmates once they learn to trust each other. There are still territorial issues to be worked out, but we see some progress every day. It took almost six months for Cleo to recover from the introduction of Mr. Tibbs, so we’ve learned to be patient when introducing new cats.

I haven’t told too many people at work about our fifth cat for fear of being labeled “the cat lady.” It is an entirely justified label, but I still find it a little embarrassing. Isn’t that the first sign of addiction: attempting to hide the problem? If so, then Mike and I are cat junkies and blissfully content in our kitty-addled state.

2005 Photo Finish

2006-01-04T07:21:00.000-08:00

Mike and I are creating our own holiday traditions. I didn’t grow up celebrating Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanza or even the solstice, so I have no history of traditions. I’m not sure what Mike’s excuse is, but he has no holiday sentimentalities either. Creating our own holiday practices is difficult and feels a little forced. I suspect it will take us many years to get it right.

One tradition that has stuck for the past three years is that of taking pictures with our Christmas gifts and sending the photos with our thank-you notes. I read of this idea years ago (before I started celebrating the holiday) as a nice way to show Aunt Mabel how that sweater she knitted looks on you. However, our pictures are generally not ones you’d show to Aunt Mabel. We try for funny “action” shots, but sometimes they get a bit raunchy – like the photo of the Bathroom Book in use (2004). I’m not sure if the gift-givers appreciate the pictures, but we have a lot of fun taking them. I actually fell on the floor laughing this year and my belly ached for days.

I’ve included a few photo highlights below, and the complete set for 2005 is available here. Happy Holidays!

Mike has turned to the dark side.

Chocolate monkster!

We are cat codependent. (Zoro did not enjoy posing for this photo.)

Toy Tibbs

2005-12-21T05:52:00.000-08:00

We have finally accumulated too many kitty toys to fit into the tiny 3”x 5” toy basket, so I bought a medium-sized picnic style basket at Cost Plus World Market (one of my favorite stores). At last, all the mice, stuffed animals, jingle balls, and milk jug rings fit in one container. The cats can open the flip-up lids to pull out whatever toy they fancy. Almost every morning, I wake to toys strewn across the living room. And almost every evening, we catch Tibbs napping in the basket:

Doesn’t he remind you of E.T.? I HAVE to submit this photo to stuffonmycat.com.

Someone Likes Me Enough to Infect Me

2005-12-16T05:57:00.000-08:00

“Write 5 random facts about yourself, and then list the names of 5 people whom you in turn infect. Also, leave a post to these people letting them know they have been infected.”

1. I’m not a natural redhead.
2. In kindergarten, my favorite food was spinach.
3. I haven’t bought new underwear in at least 2 years.
4. I’m currently obsessed with smelling new perfumes, but Michael by Michael Kors remains my absolute favorite.
5. I sometimes pretend I’m a donkey and gallop about parking lots hee-hawing and embarrassing Mike.

I only know of three bloggers who read my blog, one of whom infected me, so I infect the other two: Pixie and the other Wawa.

Push Post

2005-12-15T12:05:00.000-08:00

Mike insisted that I post to this blog simply to push the last picture (of me) out of view. Mission accomplished. Now you can recoil in horror from this photo instead! Damn, we're a fine looking couple!

Does My Hair Make Me Look Fat?

2005-12-10T06:57:00.000-08:00

I totally hate growing my hair out. I started letting it grow out from my very short cut about a year ago. The problem is, my hair isn't straight, but it isn't curly or wavy either. It is just "tweaky." Sometimes it tweaks attractively, but most of the time it does not. To deal with its unpredictable manner, I've been wearing it in a ponytail since last May.

Yesterday, I dared to wear it down (see photo - click for a larger version). What do you think? Should it be banished to a ponytail for a few more months?

Flickr Stats

2005-12-09T13:18:00.000-08:00

Do you ever look at your Flickr photo statistics and just think: “WTF?” My most viewed picture is of the front of my house. That isn’t too weird. But the second most viewed picture, viewed 154 times, is the photo to the left. It will win no beauty contests. It isn’t even nicely composed. It is simply a picture of some ugly stairs. Why do so many people look at it? Most viewed #3, #5, and #6 are ALSO OF THE STAIRS. I don’t get it. I DO get the reason behind the 96 views of Giant Underpants. After all, wasn’t the internet created so that we could see photos of girls in their underwear?

I’m also surprised by the photos people choose to mark as a “favorite.” Granted, only four of my 570 photos are marked as a “favorite.” My photostream isn’t very popular. *sniff* *sniff* Of the 0.7% of my photos awesome enough to be someone's “favorite,” who would have thunk that this one would be chosen? (This is a photo of a DEAD plant.) And how could Giant Underpants have been dissed? It's no one's favorite.

In all, my pathetic photostream has been viewed 6,509 times. Imagine if I had just taken more pictures of dead plants and ugly stairs... I could have charged admission and made a fortune.

Tibbs is a Pervert

2005-11-30T12:55:00.000-08:00

Mr. Tibbs is our favorite cat, but it’s come to our attention that he is a pervert: he loves to watch me shower.

Admittedly, I don’t often shower at home. This, despite Mike’s claims to the contrary, does not mean that I don’t shower regularly; I shower at the gym. When I do deign to use our home shower, I can count on Mr. Tibbs creeping into the bathroom to watch me. He slips under the decorative outer curtain and monitors me through the clear plastic inner curtain. Sometimes, he bats at the plastic, but mostly, he just sits quietly and gazes from within his striped tent.

What is his fascination with watching me shower? I thought that he may be enjoying the droplets running down the clear plastic, but, if that were the case, he would watch Mike shower, and he doesn’t. The only explanation I can think of is that he is puzzled by my momentary lack of fur (clothing). He often sees Mike naked, but I am not prone to prowling the house in the nude. I’m almost always clothed. Mr. Tibbs must find my pink skin a bizarre contrast to my usual multi-colored fur.

Or maybe he’s just a kitty voyeur and likes to look at naked ladies.

Grammar Rant

2005-11-29T07:17:00.000-08:00

Despite high marks in 5th grade Language Arts, I’m no grammar whiz. I’ve grudgingly admitted that it is important to use words correctly in every day speech, as well as in the written word. Like it or not, people judge you based on your shoes and your grammar. Although I still can’t figure out why I shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition, I’ve made a conscious effort to observe the other grammar rules.

The problem is, with certain rules, the effort remains entirely conscious. For instance, I KNOW when one should say “him and me” vs. “him and I,” but it doesn’t come naturally to me when speaking. I invariably use the wrong pronoun and wince afterwards. I can barely refrain from smacking my forehead and chanting, “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” However, I am no longer going to blame myself for this lapse, instead I BLAME THE WORLD. Specifically, I blame the media.

Let’s face it, we don’t learn grammar from textbooks, we pick it up as we hear the spoken word. Over and over again, on TV, radio, and in the movies, I hear two common mistakes: the “I - me” mix-up (e.g. “She’s smarter than me”) and using adjectives to modify verbs (e.g. “He runs quick”). In everyday speech, our words are not pre-scripted. Most of our remarks run dribble out our mouths with little thought. However, in the media, especially in commercials, the words are written, edited, proofread, and then handed to the speaker. I find it amazing that in the preparatory process, these errors aren’t caught. For example, listen to the “Skillets” Jimmy Dean radio commercial.

This is my plea to the copy and scriptwriters of the world: Take your responsibility as the prime educator of our youth seriously; have your work edited by a grammarian. I’d like to spare my children the anguish of misspeaking and then internally berating themselves. Or maybe I’m the only one that does that…

Turkey Wiener

2005-11-28T10:40:00.000-08:00

Turkey necks look amusingly phallic-like (see photo). However, they smell like ASS if you try to fry them up on the stove to feed to the cats. It smelled so bad we had to throw it over the back fence for the raccoons to scavenge.

Sadly, this is the only photo I have to commemorate this year’s Turkey Day. Mike and I aren’t too sentimental. In fact, our mockery of tradition would probably offend most people. This is why we spend the holidays alone; we tend to horrify our hosts.

My coworkers were aghast that I cooked an entire Thanksgiving feast for two people, but you’d be amazed at how much damage 2 people and 4 cats can do to a 12-pound turkey. We have less than half of the bird left. Mike is busy devouring the cheesecake. The stuffing, mashed potatoes, asparagus, and rolls are gone. I should probably just throw away the leftover sweet potatoes. They came prepared in a $1.50 can, so no great loss there.

If you think our Thanksgiving photo is crude, just wait till Christmas. We have a home-grown tradition of sending thank-you cards with photos of the presents in use. We got a Bathroom Reader book last year. Imagine the possibilities…

Why Toy Mice Are Bright Pink

2005-11-07T12:42:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning, I entered the living room to see the usual idyllic scene: Mike parked in his La-Z-Boy with his laptop, Mimi lying on the coffee table, and Zoro curled up on the sofa table. Mr. Tibbs was sprawled on the floor at Mike’s feet, next to the scratching post and surrounded by toys - all the trappings of a spoiled kitty. Upon closer inspection, though, I saw that one of the “toy mice” was a real, dead mouse. I shrieked and pointed it out to Mike.

“No, no,” he said, “That’s a toy mouse.”

It was the same size as a toy mouse, so I understand how he could be mistaken. Its dead body was curved into the same gentle “C” as the toys. Even the proportions were the same. The give-away was its matted gray fur, yellowed fangs, and naked tail. The toy mice, for the most part, sport neon fur and bright yarn tails (and no teeth). Somehow, Mr. Tibbs had slipped inside with a real mouse and camouflaged it among the toys, like ET amidst the stuffed animals.

I was totally grossed out but had to dispose of the rodent. Mike advised me to pick it up by the tail, but there was no way my delicate flesh was going to come into contact with that mangy mouse. I picked it up with a wad of paper towels and flushed it (just to be sure it wouldn’t reappear in the house tomorrow).

Mr. T was sorry to see his toy go, but we have about 20 fake mice for him to play with instead. Now I know why the toy makers churn them out in those heart-stoppingly bright colors. It makes the aliens easier to spot.

We're Not the Only Collectors Out There

2005-11-01T09:25:00.000-08:00

The cover of the latest People magazine (11/7/05) reads "Angelina - I want to adopt again." All I can think is that this woman has as little will power to resist babies as we have to resist kittens. However, I think impulse buying cats might be a little less disasterous than collecting babies.

Princess Wawa and Obi-Mike

2005-10-31T11:17:00.000-08:00

Mike and I lived out our Star Wars fantasies this Halloween by dressing as Princess Leia and Obi-Wan. Mike was Leia – just kidding. Actually, he nearly did have to crossdress when we discovered that his original costume, Chewbacca, was a child’s costume that even I could barely wriggle into. Thankfully, the Halloween Super Mega Store gods (devils?) showed us mercy and allowed us an exchange, although there were no adult Chewbacca costumes. On the plus side, being Obi-Wan meant that Mike got to accessorize with a lightsaber.

We wore our $100 worth of costumes for a total of three hours at a party on Saturday. We’ll be wearing them for the next five years to get our money’s worth. In fact, we’ll be donning our Jedi gear tonight to greet the trick-or-treaters.

Click on the photo to see our Halloween 2005 photo set. Be sure to check the link again in a few days. As we only had a total of three children visit us last year, we’ll have plenty of time tonight to stage more shots.

May the force be with you and happy Halloween!

How We Spend Friday Nights

2005-10-06T07:30:00.000-07:00

Going to the movies nowadays costs more than it used to. However, if you are choosy about your cinema, you can get your money’s worth. As sophisticated movie goers, Mike and I have come to appreciate the full experience that comes with the price of the ticket.

We can pay $7.50 each and go to the nearby Northgate Cinema. There, we must wade through hordes of juvenile delinquents just to get to the entrance. Then, the ticket booth will be closed and we’ll have to wait in the snackbar line to purchase tickets. After receiving our butter-flavored tickets, we’ll be directed to one of the derelict theaters in which, oddly, the first half of the auditorium HAS NO SEATS. I’ve theorized a number of scenarios to account for the missing seats. Perhaps they hold “movie and dancing” nights once a week and the vacant area is transformed into a ballroom floor. Maybe tickets are half priced if you BYOC (C = chair). It could be that the local retirement center buses groups of elderly people in wheelchairs to see shows here (although, in our experience, the mean age of this cinema’s theatergoer is 13). Maybe the theater management decided that, since most people sit towards the back of the theater anyway, purchasing seats for the front half of the auditorium is wasted money. I have to admit, once the movie starts, I forget about the sticky floor, springs poking me in the ass, and staticky sound system. When it’s over, though, my surroundings are brought back into sharp relief as I visit The Most Disgusting Restroom in the World on my way out of the building.

For about the same price, but an added 15 minutes of driving, we can see a movie at Cinema De Luxe. This place has it all; our evening is a series of lovely experiences. First, we can purchase our tickets at a machine. This is quite a timesaver. It can also be entertaining as we make fun of the person in front of us who can’t seem to master the cardswipe or is confounded by the touchscreen. Second, the snackbar has every movie snack known to man: hotdogs, nachos, pizza, pretzels, popcorn, candy, icecream, soda. In fact, they not only have soda, they have The Ginormous Soda. The cup is so large that I must hold it with two hands when full. It holds enough liquid to tide even Mike and me through a movie. The best part about the snackbar, though, is that you rarely have to wait in line, even on a Friday night. There seems to be endless supply of pleasant young people waiting to help us. With the bright lights and appetizing smells, the snackbar actually makes me a little giddy. I invariably end up telling the pleasant young person that I also once worked in a cinema snackbar. Eventually, Mike must forcibly remove me from the counter as I become carried away reminiscing about those popcorn-scented days…

Mike and I usually time our arrival so that we have almost no wait before the show begins. If we did have to wait, this cinema has comfy chairs (no benches here!) and a player piano to make the time go quickly. There is even a restaurant, which I believe serves alcoholic drinks, but I’ve never peeked inside.

Of course, the bathrooms are sparkling and all the theaters have stadium-style seating. We recently discovered, though, that if we pay $11.50 a ticket we can see a movie in one of the swanky Director’s Halls. In the Hall, the seats are leather and they lean back a little. If you are attending with someone special, you can raise the arm/cup holder and snuggle close. (Of course, we leave the arm down to hold Ginormo Soda.) People actually behave differently in the Hall. They speak in low voices and do not put their feet on the seats in front of them. No one leaves trash behind. We are all in awe of the upscale experience we’ve paid for.

The contrast between this leather-seated luxuriousness and the Northgate ghetto gets me thinking about how we could improve the cinema experience even further. What if the seats were not only upholstered in leather, but also provided a massage? There could be a small bar with complimentary champagne in the back. While I’m dreaming, I’d especially like it if there was a hole in the seat in front of me through which I could stick my feet and receive a pedicure. I’d expect a small increase in ticket price, but, hey, I’m willing to pay an extra few bucks for a massage, booze, and tootsie touch-up.

We’ve been totally spoiled by the fancy cinema. At a time when gas prices are rising and the economy seems to be sputtering, we can’t seem to refuse its siren call, but, hell, it costs $7.50 just to be tortured at Northgate. The incremental amount we spend to go to Cinema De Luxe is much less than the concomitant increase in pampering.

Ah….so this is how America falls, reclining in soft leather, coated in buttery topping, with freshly painted toenails and glazed-over eyes.

My Little Helper

2005-09-20T05:12:00.000-07:00

I start every work week with a spic and span house. Despite many resolutions, the place is a wreck by Friday. Each weekend I spend a solid three hours cleaning the house. It only takes one and a half hours if Mike helps me. If Mr. Tibbs helps me, it might take four.

Mr. Tibbs is my housecleaning helper. While I’m choking on cleaning fumes in the bathroom, he waltzes in and lies down in the newly scrubbed tub to supervise. When I open the hamper to pull out dirty laundry, he jumps in and then fights me for each piece. He loves it when I clean the floors.

Although you can’t tell on Fridays, I’m a little nutzo about the cleanliness of the floors. I have an arsenal of tools: broom, swiffer, mop, and vacuum. Tibbs loves them all. Cats are supposed to be afraid of vacuums, but not Mr. Tibbs! He cuddles the vaccuum when it’s off. When it’s on, he pays it no mind. I’ve actually vacuumed him with the brush attachment. He thought it was great fun. If he’s sprawled on the area I intend to vacuum, I have to reach down and pick him up to clean the floor beneath him. Nudging him with the roaring vacuum head is ineffective.

He also considers the broom, swiffer, and mop toys and attacks them as I attempt to clean the floor. The swiffer is his very favorite. He jumps on for a ride, biting and clawing the cloth covering. I just continue pushing both the cat and tool across the floor, hoping that the swiffer is picking up the cat hair Tibbs is leaving behind.

I may sound annoyed, but, mostly, I’m amused. While Mr. Tibbs’ cleaning help is of questionable value, his antics distract me from the Sisyphean task at hand. I need a maid so I can play in the garden with the kitties while my house is magically cleaned.

Zoro

2005-09-13T14:10:00.000-07:00

Introducing our newest kitty, Zoro...

Yes, I will be that old woman who dies alone and is eaten by her 100 cats.

Night of the Living Octopuses

2005-09-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

I arrived at work today to find the cafeteria and convenience store decked out in the October colors of orange and black. Even the new uniforms, pumpkin orange shirts and black pants, fit with the color scheme. Near one register, is a basket of cookies, frosted in bright Halloween orange. The only problem is that the cookies are not in the shape of goblins or witches, but octopuses*. Since when have cephalopods been associated with Halloween? Perhaps they were malformed ghosts?

*If you doubt my use of octopuses, vs. octopi, check out this link.

We Stink

2005-09-09T12:15:00.000-07:00

I went out to lunch with my friend D last week and told her how much I’d love to go to Chipotle, but that I’d been forbidden to eat there after the last time I did and then gassed my husband for the following 12 hours.

She laughed and then said, “You sure do talk about flatulence a lot.”

I said, “My house is ALL ABOUT flatulence. Isn’t yours?”

She then revealed that, unless under dire circumstances, she and her husband of two years do not fart in front of each other! When the occasional toot slips out, they joke about the “barking spider,” but that’s it. Either they eat a low-fiber diet, or they can withstand the pain of pent up gas jabbing at their insides much better than I can. She went on to tell me that they did not even pee in front of each other. I was astounded.

While Mike and I don’t sit on each other and fart (as D said her parents did to her), we usually just let them rip when the pressure builds up. We fart in the car, in the theater, while watching TV, sometimes even at dinner. We do have some courtesy. In bed, we warn the other to “batten down the hatches” before releasing gas. In the car, the offender rolls down a window. Recognizing that gas (and elimination in general) isn’t sexy, we hold them in when we do the horizontal mambo.

As for peeing, I don’t give it a second thought. I’ll pee in front of Mike, my friends, my family. In fact, I’ve rarely even seen the back side of our bathroom door. We usually leave it wide open, along with the window. We do close the door if we go #2 - we aren’t completely uncivilized!

Or are we? Of the two or so people who read my sporadically updated blog, how discreet are you about bodily functions? Are Mike and I Neanderthals?

Clone Me

2005-08-05T07:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve been following the cloning breakthroughs with interest. Frankly, I thought Dolly the sheep was an accident, and impossible to repeat. As cloning work progressed, though, it became more and more a reality to me. Recently, I heard a radio interview with a representative from a company that clones deceased pets for their owners. This week, scientists in Korea succeeded in cloning a dog. I wondered, if Mr. Tibbs should die and cloning a Tibbs II were financially feasible, would I do it?

It seems that most cloning opponents object on religious grounds. Either they find man’s attempt to play creator generally abominable or they see it as a slippery slope towards cloning people, which is definitely a step into God’s territory. As an atheist/agnostic, I don’t have this objection. In fact, if I had the choice between a naturally created child or a clone of myself, my decision would be much more heavily influenced by the quality of genetic material, than any concerns of being damned.

With the vociferous religious objects to cloning, I wonder that Jango Fett’s child clone in Episode II didn’t create more of a stir. Is it because Star Wars is so far removed from our reality? Many of the things we once considered science fiction or fantasy have come to pass. In 1976, when Logan’s Run was released, who would have imagined that two years later the first “test tube baby” would be conceived? I was only a child then, but was there as much religious uproar about man playing God as there is with the cloning debate? Granted, I’m not religious, nor do I associate with those that are, but I’ve heard almost no one say that they wouldn’t consider in vitro fertilization because it usurps God’s role. (I have heard much on the ethics of saving or disposing of the excess embryos created in the process.) I imagine that cloning will similarly become less of an anathema with time and exposure.

The other protestation to cloning is the “creep factor.” Laboratory created animals seem to be the province of horror movies. In one of my favorite horror movies, Severed Parts, a man loses an arm and it is replaced with a laboratory grown arm (cloned from a murderer). As expected, the arm is evilly sentient and even detaches and crawls away, scorpion-like, to continue its murderous activities. The thought of a cloned Mr. Tibbs reminds me of the cat in Pet Sematary. It would look like Mr. Tibbs, but something would be wrong about him. I’d probably sleep with one eye open, waiting for the kitten to chew my face off in the night or simply trip me as I walked down the dark stairs. Perhaps I’m a little religious after all – I seem to believe in the dark side of the spirit world. I find it hard to shake the silly suspicion that creating an animal in a lab might allow some sort of demonic possession.

In the end, I’ve decided that I wouldn’t clone Tibbs. However, it has nothing to do with the damnation of my eternal soul or the general creepiness of clones. I would not clone Mr. Tibbs because there are so many other kittens that need homes. Although I love him dearly, it doesn’t make sense to spend the money and effort to recreate Tibbs when there is the possibility for me to fall in love all over again. My final objection to cloning is that I’ve grown up with death as a natural part of life. Death, grief, moving on, and remembrance are such an integral part of the human existence that I’m loath to let go.

In 50 years my attitude may be archaic. The human condition is not constant, and my grandchildren may very well laugh at such an old-fashioned attitude. In the future, cloned pets may be commonplace and families will raise clones of themselves. I hope I can get over the creep factor.

Armadillo's Story

2005-06-27T06:44:00.000-07:00

I was always an Adjutant (administrative officer) in the Marine Corps. It was my assigned Military Occupational Specialty from the beginning. As there was almost always a shortage of “real” adjutants, unfortunates were often placed in the adjutant role of their unit for a year or so. These temporary adjutants were the bane of my professional existence. The paperwork they forwarded to our headquarters was usually late and/or incorrect. I spent a disproportionate amount of time with these officers, directing them to the appropriate references so that they could “fix themselves.” Some of them even had the gall to argue with me. One such adjutant was Lieutenant Mike C. We exchanged many heated emails.

After a few months of animosity, Mike surprised me by bringing me a gift when he returned from leave to his home state of Texas. He gave me a small, stuffed armadillo with a magnet glued to its belly. The armadillo wore a red bandanna on its neck and a red cowboy hat on its head. I kept the armadillo at my desk until I left the service. I am still puzzled by the gifting, because we were never on friendly terms.

A few years later, I moved here, to Cincinnati. My Mike (not Mike C) and I adopted kitty Cleo. After I removed the magnet, Armadillo became one of her favorite toys. She loved to bite one end and attempt to tear out his entrails with her back claws. In May, we brought home Mr. Tibbs and he appropriated all the cat toys. He, too, spends time disemboweling Armadillo. In his vicious attacks, he managed to remove Army’s, once firmly glued, hat.

All is not lost, though, because Mimi finds the hat itself an entertaining toy. She stalks the tiny red hat and bats it around our hardwood floors. (Ever tolerant, she allowed me to photograph her wearing it!)

Armadillo has gone from souvenir to beloved cat toy. Mike C., I hope you aren’t in a horrible adjutant billet any longer and I’m sorry I was such a queen bitch. Thank you for the armadillo. I’ll never know why you gave it to me, but it’s been thoroughly enjoyed.

Do-It-Yourself Castration

2005-06-22T12:32:00.000-07:00

Mike grew up on a hobby farm. His family raised everything from peacocks to cows to American Eskimos. His stories are always entertaining and often crude. For example, while they were in the pig business, he helped castrate the male piglets. He held the pig down on its back, with its hind legs splayed. His mother, the surgeon, would make two small incisions near the pig’s hind end and pop out the testicles. His account makes it sound as simple as squeezing a ripe pimple.

Recently, while discussing the cost of getting Mr. Tibbs fixed, he told me that his family neutered their kittens too. (The farm included a Persian cattery at one point.) According to Mike, the treatment of cats was a little more humane. First, they put the kittens in a working refrigerator. Then, after the kittens were sedated from the cold and lack of air, they were given the piglet treatment. Supposedly, it was less traumatic after the “anesthesia.”

After allowing me to be completely horrified for a few days, he revealed that, although the pig story was true, the kitten neutering was just a spontaneous lie. You see, his newest hobby is telling outrageous stories to see who will fall for them. I was his latest victim.

Last night, when I arrived home, Mike had already left for Frisbee. Cleo greeted me in the driveway and Mimi in the house. Strangely, Mr. Tibbs was no where to be found. I began searching the house, calling his name. Soon I heard a faint meowing. Following the sound, I moved to the kitchen. I opened the back door, thinking Tibbs had escaped outside. He wasn’t there…and the meowing was coming from my left, the refrigerator. Gasping, I pulled open the fridge door and Mr. Tibbs came bounding out. He was very cold and frightened, but didn’t seem to be suffering from a lack of oxygen. I frantically cuddled him until he warmed up. His precious little ears and paws were the last to lose the chill. He was soon his crazy little Tibbie self again, but a little sticky with food residue.

Although I was dismayed to find Tibbs in the refrigerator, I wasn’t surprised. He’s been hopping in there to explore every time we open the door. Knowing that Mike isn’t terribly observant, it isn’t unbelievable that Mr. Tibbs slipped in unnoticed and was then trapped. Still, I can’t help wondering if Mike was trying to save us the 50 bucks it would cost to have the vet fix Tibbers by doing it ourselves.

Ma-ma-ma-MY Dakota

2005-06-15T10:51:00.000-07:00

Typically, when people talk of movie stars they LOVE, they mean either (1) a hottie they find sexually attractive or (2) a hottie they wish they were. The actress I LOVE is neither. I don’t want to be her or date her. I want to steal her and take her home and make her mine. It’s Dakota Fanning.

My goodness, was there ever a cuter, more talented child?* She made me bawl in Uptown Girls and freaked me out in Hide and Seek. One glimpse of her face in the coming attractions for War of the Worlds made me that much more excited for June 29th to arrive.

I admit that I sound like a stalker, but if she is ever lost in my neighborhood, she might not make it home. How much brainwashing do you think it would take to convince her that she is my little girl?

*Besides Pixie Poopnog, of course

Written on a Building on Vine St

2005-06-03T13:26:00.000-07:00

Today's graffiti, spotted from the bus:

"Love don't cast a thing."

It boggles my mind that there is someone out there who cannot spell "cost." Is there some hidden meaning in using the word "cast" that I am missing?

The Skirt Never Lies

2005-06-01T07:46:00.000-07:00

It can no longer be avoided. I’ve got to start eating better. This morning, I put on my most formfitting skirt, and it doesn’t fit my form. When I walk, it creeps up and bunches around my waist in a desperate effort to contain my swaying buttocks. When I sit, the waistband threatens to bisect my middle. I avoid the scale and believe that jeans temporarily shrink a size after washing. The dry-clean only skirt, though, tells the bitter truth.

I’ve definitely been indulging lately. We’ve been through three pies in the last two months – marionberry, apple crumb, and cherry. (Mike detests any sort of “berry” pie, so guess who ate all of the marionberry variety.) To celebrate our recently purchased grill, I’ve eaten hotdogs at least three times a week. They weren’t fat-free dogs either; it takes some grease to get the wieners good and blackened. After describing my favorite sandwich (peanut butter/butter/honey) to a coworker a few weeks ago, I’ve found myself eating one a day.

I can reduce my pie, hotdog, and pb/b/h consumption, but what I’ll miss most is my daily donut. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I eat one every single work day morning. To my credit, I only eat one variety, and if it’s not available, I’ll pass the donut tray. When it’s there, though, I can’t resist the raspberry-jelly-filled, vanilla-frosted treat. The sugar jolts me awake more effectively than a cup of tea. Its doughy texture and greasy aroma soothe my frustration at spending yet another day inside staring at a computer screen. Once, I had two in one day; it was a rough day at work.

So, hello water, fresh fruits and veggies, and lean meat. Good-bye pie, good-bye hotdogs, goodbye pb/b/h, good-bye *sob* *sob* donuts. My skirt can no longer contain you. And it's too short for giant underpants.

Mr. Tibbs

2005-05-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

Spitfire has been rechristened "Mr. Tibbs." Hopefully, this isn't too confusing. It is his third name. After being picked up on the streets in Kentucky, he was mistaken for a girl and named "Sassy." He next went to a rescue home where he was discovered to be a boy. His outgoing and fearless nature earned him the name "Spitfire." While "Spitfire" is descriptive, "Mr. Tibbs" is more fun.

The rescue cat lady told me that kitens sleep 22 hours a day. To that I say: "Bull-sh!t." Mr. Tibbs is a ball of energy that needs constant supervision. I think he spends 22 hours AWAKE and GETTING IN TO TROUBLE.

Mimi and Cleo aren't so fond of Mr. Tibbs. In fact, they're terrified of him. They growl, hiss, and run away. Cleo has been practically living outside since we brought him home.

This is becoming difficult to type, as Mr. Tibbs is attacking the mouse cord. Thank goodness that, although 22 hours was a gross overestimation, he does sleep.

Spit-fahr

2005-05-27T07:06:00.000-07:00

Tonight, we go to the "cat lady" to pick out a kitten. She recommends Spitfire (right), because he is very playful and afraid of nothing, much like our kitty Cleo. We'd like to find Cleo a playmate because she is so C-R-A-Z-Y! We did not get a kitten earlier because of the time commitment involved with a baby animal. Now that Mike is out of school, he can "babysit."

We are debating whether to keep Spitfire's name. I think it's fun to say "Spit-fahr" in my best Southern accent. For short, we could call him "Spitty." Mike doesn't like the name so much, so if you have a suggestion, leave a comment.

(I didn't take the picture of Spitfire, so I'm not sure if it is indeed an electrical wire he's playing with.)

Anakin, Go Home

2005-05-20T05:37:00.000-07:00

Episode III was like Episodes I and II: Exotic creatures, sweeping vistas, technological toys, complex battle scenes, and political intrigue. It advanced the story line and gave a plausible motive to Anakin’s turn to the dark side. However, like the first two episodes, it was full of cheesy dialogue and characters with no charisma. You could argue that Episodes IV, V, and VI also had corny lines, and I’d agree. Where the first three episodes fall short is the character assortment and development.

First of all, I don’t care about the characters. The members of the Jedi council are lofty, know-it-alls. Anakin is a moody teenager. Padme is so reserved she is almost comatose. The bad guys cycle in and out so quickly (with the exception of Palpatine) that they don’t seem all that bad. Jar-jar Binks was at least entertaining, but he doesn’t reappear in Episode III. The only characters I felt any concern for were infants Luke and Leia. An attempt to inject character spark from the later movies with a guest appearance by Chewbacca comes across as incredibly forced. In the end, all I could think was “good side, dark side…who cares? Let’s just get some watchable (and believable) characters on the screen!”

Second, the first three movies lack the sense of camaraderie between the characters that you see in the last three movies. Han and Leia’s fiery romance blows Anakin and Padme’s out of the water. (I still can’t figure out what Padme saw in Anakin.) Anakin and Obi-Wan’s padawan-master relationship is boring. Anakin’s chafing at Obi-Wan’s rules and his constant saving of his master’s ass get old. I much prefer the dynamics between the characters of the later movies. Even without the plot, their interactions are worth watching. I never get tired of Luke’s whining, Leia’s bitching, and Han’s smart-ass comments.

Other gripes about Episode III include anticlimactic battle scenes, non-sequitur droid antics, and gratuitous Wookie shots. The movie seemed to alternate between cramming in scenes to advance the storyline and then coming to a dead halt while R-2 comically defends himself or Padme gazes sorrowfully at the cityscape. The Channel 9 movie reviewer gave Revenge of the Sith eight stars out of ten. I think she overrated it. I’d rather have been at home watching A New Hope.

Read of the Week: Bad News Hughes

2005-05-17T11:29:00.000-07:00

I mostly read domestic blogs: blogs about gardening, home renovation, crafting, or raising children. I suppose I read them because I wish I was at home, being domestic, instead of grinding away as a corporate wage slave.

I was linked to Bad News Hughes' site through one of my domestic reads and I am HOOKED. I'm having a hard time explaining why I am snorting with laughter in my cube. Bad News Hughes isn't at all domestic and is rather crude. It's a refreshing break from all that domesiticity and wishing I was somewhere else.

Sickening

2005-05-12T07:52:00.000-07:00

I heard it again today: someone complaining that they were nauseous. I had to giggle. You see, I used to use nauseous in this fashion too, until I discovered what it actually means:

Nauseous: Causing nausea; sickening (per dictionary.com)

So, when you complain of being nauseous, you are admitting that you are so repulsive that you sicken those around you - probably not what you meant.

If you’re feeling queasy, the correct term is nauseated. (Nauseated, interestingly, means both to feel and to cause nausea!)

I don’t mean to sound supercilious. I just want to educate the nauseous people of the world. Blech!

Meet the Old Lady

2005-05-10T13:42:00.000-07:00

I am happy to announce that I will be participating in another play with Cincinnati Landmark Productions: Oliver! Interestingly, I didn’t audition. Although I would have loved to play Nancy and sing “I’d Do Anything,” I initially chose my all-consuming garden over the play. When the stage manager emailed me to offer me a small part, I was surprised, flattered, and couldn’t say no. Long days, no sleep, and no food aside, I have had so much fun with this group. The fact that two of my favorite people are stage managing (Jen) and directing (Mike F.) made it irresistible.

My plummy part: Mrs. Bedwin. I had no clue who this character is. A Google search reveals that she is a sweet old lady who takes care of Oliver for awhile. In the last play I did, I played a drunk old lady. At twenty-nine, I think I’m being typecast as “old.” (At least I’m not a drunk this time!) With rehearsals, work, gardening, and instructing aerobics, it will take very little acting for me to be old. The “sweet” part, I’m going to have to work on!

I'm a Dirty Girl

2005-05-06T12:30:00.000-07:00

I’m a dirty pig. I eat and drink at my desk all day long and the result is a cockroach’s dream. I’m looking at my desk now. I see an empty cup from the Stardust, a full styrofoam cup of iced tea, and an almost empty metal mug of old chai tea. Next to my mug, there is a gladware container with the remnants of my tuna salad lunch smeared on the inside. Crumbs are everywhere: on my desk, on my seat (currently being ground in to my butt), on the floor. In fact, I see a very large chunk of apple on the floor to my right. Oops. I suppose it will stay there until cleaning day – Tuesday.

About once every two weeks, I spill something. Usually, it’s just a glass of water. Once however, it was 20 oz of hot tea. I didn’t spill it on my desk though; I spilled it on my boss’. Twenty ounces of tea is quite a bit of liquid. I managed to completely fill the compartments in her top drawer with tea. It took many sheets of Bounty to clean up that mess.

As horrible as it was to ruin my boss’ papers, my worst spill was at my own desk. It was another, full, 20 oz cup of water. Usually, spilling water on my desk is welcome. The clean-up process leaves the desk free of grime and crumbs. This time, though, there was so much water that it did not stay in a nice desk-top puddle, but flowed over the edge and into my keyboard.

My keyboard is far from pristine. The key tops are grimy. The cracks are full of crumbs. Still, despite the food debris, it functions. However, I soon learned that water and a keyboard do not mix. After spilling the water in my keyboard, I held it upside down to drain it and went back to work. I thought nothing more of the accident until my keys started malfunctioning. Pushing any key on the right end produced unexpected results, like bringing up strange dialogue boxes or suddenly switching to other programs. It was quite bizarre. It also made it difficult to work, so I swapped the wet keyboard out with a dry one. The ruined keyboard is my dirty little secret.

I’ll continue to pig out at my desk, but I’ll be investing in a new water container. (I don’t have any more spare keyboards.) I’m thinking of something with a lid. Food and computer equipment can peacefully coexist, but liquids are deadly.

Happy Birthday, Badness

2005-04-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

Hey Badness Baby,

I know, you aren't bad OR a baby anymore. Too bad.

I can't wait until you come to visit and show me your INCREDIBLE MELTING FACE!

Love ya!
Kasmira

Happy Birthday, Brit!

2005-04-28T10:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Brit,

I've decided to risk your wrath and post the below, oh-so-lovely picture of you on your birthday. I look forward to seeing my mouth, full of candy, in November.

Let me know how 30 is!

Love and other indoor sports,
Kasmira

Happy Birthday, Pixie Poopnog!

2005-04-26T07:32:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday. You are a muh-puh!

XXXXOOOO
Kasmira

You Say Elevator, I Say Escalator

2005-04-15T12:32:00.000-07:00

I avoid the elevators at work. I’m not claustrophobic or afraid of heights. It’s just that the particular elevators at my job make me sick. They accelerate and decelerate a little too quickly, nauseating me. To make matters worse, the doors open before the car has stopped moving! I leave the elevator queasy and unsettled.

You would think, given my fitness mania, that I would take the stairs instead. However, I rarely enter the staircase. I am usually wearing shoes that are wholly inappropriate for stair climbing. Spike heels are a bit unsteady and mules make a horribly loud *CLACK* as one descends. The stairs are also inconvenient. Only one staircase is easy to find. The other is hidden at the end of a cubicle maze. Most importantly, though, one cannot enter or exit the stairs on the second floor, where the skybridge to the other buildings is located. How illogical!

Thankfully, we have five flights of escalator. I adore the escalator. It doesn’t make me sick and it services the second floor. Although it only extends to the fifth floor, that is high enough for me. I work on the fourth and the cafeteria is on the fifth. If I am in a hurry or feeling energetic, I walk the escalator. I love the way my steps, combined with the escalator’s motion, rush me to the next floor. I feel like a giant, covering leagues with each stride.

The escalator shaft is open to the lobby on the first floor, but must be entered through a door on the other floors. The rumbling machinery generates quite a bit of heat and the warmth remains trapped within the shaft. After sitting beneath the air-conditioning vent for a few hours, the escalator’s steamy heat is welcome. When particularly chilled, I’ve been tempted to just ride up and down, from the fifth floor to the first and back again, until warmed.

Riding the escalator has its price. I have to walk an extra fifty feet to the escalator doors, vice taking the stairs or elevator. I figure the additional exercise excuses me from any stair climbing. I also have to risk looking odd in front of my coworkers when I decline to join them in the elevator. They must think me claustrophobic or acrophobic or simply strange. Sometimes I swallow my bile and climb into the car. Whenever good manners will allow, though, I continue down the hallway to my beloved escalator. With my giant strides and the long wait for an elevator car, I sometimes beat them to our destination!

High School Dropout?

2005-04-11T06:34:00.000-07:00

This morning on the bus, I saw this written on the back of the seat in front of me:

"I'm tried of school."

Reflecting on Wild Child

2005-04-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

This weekend, Mike and I attended a very satisfying performance, a one-woman play called “Wild Child,” written and performed by Kristen Clippard. The play depicts the relationship between a linguist, Susan Curtiss, and a severely isolated child, Genie. If you are unfamiliar with Genie’s story, I suggest reading about it on Feral Children. Instead of retelling the tragedy or ineptly reviewing the performance, I’d like to share how our evening watching the play affected our thoughts and conversations afterwards.

First, my conception of a one-woman play was completely revised. When I think of a one-woman show, I recall the angry monologue Chandler (of Friends) was forced to endure, alone, while everyone else was at a party with the cast of Joey’s soap. The show started off with the woman demanding: “Why don’t you like me?” Wild Child was nothing like that. Instead of a monologue, this was a true play, with a cast of characters. They just all happened to be played by one actress. I was amazed to see how successfully she played an annoying lawyer, an intelligent linguist, and a frightened, handicapped child. The transitions were seamless. Her commitment to each character led the audience to completely accept that she was becoming different people. To my surprise, a one-woman play was entertaining, and not at all uncomfortable.

Different people can be drawn to completely different aspects of a story. The focus of Kristen’s telling of Genie’s story was the relationship between two women, Susan and Genie. She eloquently presented the women’s commonalities through her own common portrayal. Mike was more interested in the motivations of the family. How could the parents have so horribly abused their child? How could they have had one normal child (a son) while keeping the other locked away? I, having read Russ Rymer’s account, was drawn to the linguistic problems presented. If Genie had no language, could she think? If so, how differently did she conceive ideas from people with language? Could she learn language at such a late age? How would her brain be affected by linguistic exposure? My own concept of Genie’s story was enriched by the different emphases that Kristen and Mike found.

Finally, Mike surprised me on Sunday by confessing that, while he watched the play, he couldn’t help but think that I would do well, cast in the role of Genie. I didn’t know whether to be offended (do I act retarded too often?) or flattered (does he respect my acting abilities so much?). I chose flattery and indulged him with my imitation of the actress’ imitation of Genie’s behavior. He gave me a standing ovation, but I felt as if I had ill-used Genie. Imitating a handicapped person for another’s entertainment can easily become farcical.

I am grateful to have gotten the chance to see Wild Child. It was one of those rare experiences that lingers with the audience members. I feel that my life is richer for having seen it.

The Grossest Outhouse Ever

2005-03-31T06:45:00.000-08:00

*as the title suggest, this is a disgusting and potentially offensive story*

In the summer of ‘98, during one of my random weekend trips, I pulled into a free campground near El Portal, California. El Portal is just outside of the main, western gate to Yosemite. Surprisingly, the campground was nearly empty, which suited me, and I set up camp. Eventually, I had to use the restroom, and I headed to the single Honey Bucket that served the campground.

I held my breath, opened the door to the Porta-John, and was faced with piles and piles of poop. The “toilet” was full to the brim and beyond with turds. The “urinal” had been defecated in. (The physics of pooping in an outhouse urinal are beyond me. I guess you have to be a bit taller.) Even the corners had been crapped in. Everywhere I turned I saw shit slugs, festooned with toilet paper blossoms, evilly glistening in the blue light. I staggered away as quickly as I could, but that sight will always haunt me.

I ran across the street to the wooded hill. Although the cover was sparse, it was preferable to the vile Porta-Potty. I had neither the time, nor the tools, to dig a hole, so I lifted a rock. The space beneath it, and every other rock in the area, was occupied. As I inspected the hillside a little more closely, I noticed that it was littered with used toilet paper, in wads, clumps, or strung between branches. There were quite a few suspicious piles of leaves and loose dirt. Apparently, I was not the first person to run from the outhouse in horror.

I backed down the hill and reentered the campground. I got in my car, intent on finding somewhere else to relieve myself. As I drove down the road, I passed a number of houses, but was not yet desperate enough to ask to use a stranger’s bathroom, especially not for #2. Luckily, the road ended at a recreation area, complete with picnicking, a playground, and a real, non-portable, hole-in-the-ground outhouse. It was a sanitary haven, never mind the cobwebs and spiders. It had toilet paper and at least 10 feet of clear space beneath the can.

Now, I am forever wary of the “free” campground. Twelve bucks a night is worth a maintained restroom. I’ve entered some nasty portable toilets since, but they pale in comparison the El Portal Potty.

Tina's Carryout

2005-03-29T04:59:00.000-08:00

Every morning, on my way to work, I pass Tina’s Carryout. Beneath the title sign, the following words are painted on the building: “Downtown Business’s Delivery’s.” I nearly have an apoplexy when I see it.

I’m a word and grammar nut. I don’t claim to have flawless grammar myself (for instance, I have a tendency to end sentences with prepositions and I still confuse “lay” and “lie”), but the obvious mistakes make me crazy. It’s easy to excuse grammar errors in emails, notes, and even blog entries. However, I am far less forgiving when it comes to the business setting.

For example, in the changing rooms at the gym, the following sign hangs inside the changing room: “Please use the changing room to change cloths only.” While my clothes are made of cloth, I still believe that the “e” is necessary. I cannot count the number of times I have seen “affect” and “effect” misused on signs posted within places of business. However, it seems to be the apostrophes and plurals that confuse people the most often.

I find the misuse of apostrophes and plurals particularly vexing because I know that it is covered in every grade school curriculum. Additionally, we see them in use dozens of time each day. Yet, I still see signs, professionally painted signs, in which they are used incorrectly. I have a simple solution. If you don’t know where to use another “s” or an apostrophe or both, avoid the situation.

If you don’t know if it should be the “Barristers’ Ball” or “Barrister’s Ball,” call it the “Barrister Ball.” The meaning is still clear. Completely avoid the contraction of “it” and “is.” Then you just have to worry about the possessive of “it.” My advice for Tina’s Carryout: change the sign to “Downtown Delivery.”

I Ate a Grapple

2005-03-28T13:10:00.000-08:00

Today, I ate a Grapple. They smell lovely; my kitchen smells wonderfully grapey. However, the grapple tastes mostly like a plain ol' apple. Even the heady grape perfume loses some allure when you learn that it is due to the artificial grape flavoring that the apple is soaked in.
On the bright side, the excessive packaging ensures that your grapple isn't bruised! I've had way too many smooshed apples lately.

Happy Easter

2005-03-27T06:13:00.000-08:00

In highschool, Leif Hansen gave me a card that read:

"Happy Easter. I hope you get resurrected too."

I Fell on My Face

2005-03-22T11:48:00.000-08:00

Last night, I fell on my face. I do not mean that in the figurative sense (e.g. when people usually say, “I tripped and fell on my face.”) I mean that I fell, and the first part of my body to hit the ground, and thus absorb the shock, was my face. Specifically, it was the side of my right orbital socket and my right cheekbone. It did not feel good. How does one go about falling on one’s face?

Well, it takes just the right circumstances. In this case, I had just attempted painting French tips on my toenails. Mimi was peering under furniture and meowing, the way she does when she has trapped her favorite toy (a plastic ring) in a spot she cannot reach. Usually, I get down on my hands and knees to look under the tables and couches. This time, I didn’t want to mar my pedicure, so I just bent at the waist and lowered my head. At some point, I lost my balance and caught myself with my face. Did I mention our floors are wood? Did I mention I FELL ON MY FACE!

Today I feel like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, because, despite the beating I took, I have no bruising. In fact, were it not for my internet indiscretion, no one would even know what a klutz I am! I just can’t stop wondering, why didn’t I break my fall with my hands?

Cat Blab with Photos

2005-03-22T10:47:00.000-08:00

If you can stand to read another post about my cats…I developed a roll of film on Sunday and have some cute photos to share.

Cleo still enjoys her walks in the yard. If it’s cold or she gets frightened, she will lead me to the house to end the walk early. When it's nice out, though, she could stay outside forever! I am not quite so fascinated with "outside" and end the walks after half an hour. Because Cleo walks me, not the other way around, I have to pick her up to take her in. All the while, she makes the most horrible yowling noises. Once inside, she waits for me to take the harness off and has a snack.

Cleo is a finicky eater. She only eats cat food, tuna water (with the occasional tuna flake), and wheat grass. Her first batch of wheat grass was from a “pet grass” kit I bought at the pet store. I wasn’t willing to pay $2.50 for another 30 seeds, so I bought 10 lbs of seed online (at least a year’s supply). I was hoping it would keep Cleo from eating the houseplants and also add some fiber to Mimi’s diet. However, Mimi hates the stuff. I “mowed” some and put it in her dish and she still wouldn’t eat it. Cleo, however, is in grass heaven and she’s leaving my houseplants alone. She still likes to nibble on the grass in the yard, though, even the dried-up, brown blades. Go figure.

Cleo has taught her bad habits to Mimi. Now they both drink out of the fish’s bowl. However, Mimi has noticed that there is something interesting inside the bowl: the fish. She spends hours watching fishy-poo. She tries to bat it through the glass. When excited she’ll try to get the fish from the top, but doesn’t seem to like to get her paw wet. Sometimes, she meows at it. It’s very cute and quite entertaining when you’re stuck talking on the phone.

My furry babies are doing well, and as you can see, becoming quite the camera hams.

My Giant Underpants

2005-03-20T11:53:00.000-08:00

Because I know everyone in internet-land has been waiting with bated breath to see my giant underpants...

Sexy, huh?

Happy Day After St. Patrick's Day

2005-03-18T05:58:00.000-08:00

I’m not Irish, but I love St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe it’s all the green. Maybe it’s my secret desire to have a Gaelic accent and cavort with the little people. Whatever the reason, Mike and I celebrated the holiday with style.

On the evening of the 16th, I told Mike I had a surprise for him. I gave him a pair of shamrock boxer shorts, an “I [Shamrock] Beer” shirt, and instructions to wear the ensemble the next day. He was a little surprised (“I didn’t know this was a gift-giving holiday”), but agreed. He even wore his jeans with the hole in the crotch so that people could see his festive undies. When two different (female) classmates pointed out his shamrocks, he told them that his wife had given him permission to wear his holey-crotch jeans that day. As I have a surfeit of green things, I needed no wardrobe additions. I wore my green tweed skirt to work and, once home, changed in to a green sweater. I accessorized with my green shamrock necklace and green lucky charm bracelet. We were quite the holiday couple.

Instead of visiting an Irish Pub and dining on cabbage and corn beef, we went to Buffalo Wild Wings*. We had spicy chicken things and my first ever green beer. I had no idea it would be SO GREEN. It looked like liquid lime jello, but tasted like Bud Lite. Actually, mixing the two might be kind of good….in a lime/Corona sort of way. We played two games of trivia and downed two big glasses of beer.

Maybe the beer is why I like St. Patrick’s day so much. Who wouldn’t like a beer drinking holiday?

*I was first initiated to BW’s when I met Mike’s family in North Dakota. I thought that a whole restaurant devoted to hot wings was absolutely fantastic. I had no idea it was a chain and was thrilled to discover it in Cincinnati. It is my first pick for birthday and holiday meals.

Aerobics Instructor Job Offer

2005-03-17T10:32:00.000-08:00

Hooray! I’ve been offered a position as an aerobics instructor at our local fitness center. (I accepted.) After waiting for two months since submitting my application, I was beginning to think they didn’t want me. I suppose I had better get cracking on studying for the written test. No teaching, and no making money, till I pass that bad boy.

One Month with Mimi

2005-03-17T06:39:00.000-08:00

We’ve had Mimi for one month now. With all the Mimi/Cleo conflict, it seems like so much longer, but we are making progress.

When we first brought Mimi home I felt so sorry for her. It didn’t seem fair to bring a sweet, cuddly cat home to our little monster. Cleo is the most hyperactive cat I’ve ever seen. She behaves like a kitten on crack and scares the poop out of Mimi.

We are slowly beginning to see Mimi’s personality. After two weeks, she showed some interest in her toys and after three weeks, she began to be “frisky” with us in the evenings. I am sure that her play behavior is a sign that she is becoming adjusted to our home. Sometimes I forget how long it was between us bringing Cleo home and her complete transformation into psycho kitty.

Cleo still likes to stalk and attack Mimi. Mimi probably takes it a little personally, but I think Cleo is often just playing. Cleo would probably enjoy being stalked back. For now, she is content to have me chase her each morning. Mimi just watches our display with confusion. (What is wrong with our human?! Does she think she’s a cat?)

The kitties are definitely interested in each other. I’ve noticed them sniffing parts of each other on the sly. This morning, we had a minor breakthrough: they approached each other and sniffed noses! The tranquility lasted only a second or so before Mimi hissed, but you’d be suspicious of Cleo too if she was constantly attacking you.

A truce is not enough. I want them to be bestest friends. I’d like to have one litter box for both cats and both food dishes in the same room. I’d like to be relieved from stalking duty (although it is cute). I want them both to curl up with me at night. (Poor Mike, as it is, he has to remove Cleo from his side of the bed when he joins me.) We’ll see where we are at month two.

Save a Tree

2005-03-16T12:41:00.000-08:00

I may be trashy, but I show my commitment to the environment in other ways. For instance, I purposefully copy documents in the two-sided mode to “save a tree.” Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much to “save my sanity” when the copier jams five times in 20 minutes. I feel like an earth day martyr as I get on my knees, root around in the hot, steamy insides of the copier, and extract pieces of crumpled paper. The usually culprit is the “high capacity feeder.” The feeder definitely has a high capacity; it holds four packs of paper. Unfortunately, any time you save by filling the paper reservoir less often is negated by the need to clear paper jams every 30 sheets. In the military, it would have been perfectly acceptable to relieve my stress by cursing at and kicking the copier. Here, in corporate America, I can only sit and stew. Is a tree really worth all this nonsense?

Evening Snack

2005-03-08T07:09:00.000-08:00

An evening snack I do not recommend: Brussels Sprouts. You and your significant other will spend an uncomfortable night together.

Blogging is Better than Talking

2005-03-07T06:55:00.000-08:00

One of the reasons I like blogging so much is that it fills a communication void in my life. At work, I spend most of the day alone in my cubicle. At home, I only talk to Mike for a few minutes before he is studying and I am working on one of my projects. For me, blogging is like talking, only better. Here’s why:

1. It’s all about me me me and I never have to listen!
2. If my reader gets bored and leaves halfway through the conversation, I never know.
3. I get to talk when it’s convenient for me.
4. I can use words like “surfeit” and “obviate” and look all smart, without worrying about whether the listener knows those words.
5. I can use words like “surfeit” and “obviate” and rest assured that anyone who doesn’t know what they mean can just look them up on dictionary.com.
6. I can use words like “surfeit” and “obviate” and then be a supercilious asshole and link the words to their definition.
7. When long lost pals wonder what I’m up to, I can just send them my web address.
8. Thanks to archives, I never have to repeat myself.
9. Images!

And the number one reason why blogging is better than talking…

10. When Mike asks me how my day was, I just say, “Read my blog.”

Cincinnati Dialect

2005-03-05T09:32:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the Insiders’ Guide to Cincinnati, I knew I would encounter a few unfamiliar dialectal terms upon moving to the area. For instance, the shoulder of the road is referred to as the “berm.” (Mike and I find this amusing, because, to us, a “berm” is the dirt and concrete hill that separates the shooters from the targets (and target pullers) on a rifle range.) I can bear “berm” and even the ever-present, Midwestern “pop” but did not expect three local terms to drive me batty: net, choiceful, and please.

The usage of “net” I often hear is defined by dictionary.com as “Ultimate; final: the net result.” It sounds innocuous enough, but when “net” is used at the end of every discussion and email, it becomes grating. Before living here, I had never heard this usage of “net.” Now, to my great dismay, I hear it every single day. How about some diversity in word choice, people?

Contrary to what I first believed, "choiceful" is, indeed, a word. It is an obsolete term that means “making choices; fickle.” However, I instead hear it used as meaning “carefully considered” or "well thought." Every time I hear it, I want to scream: THAT WORD IS OBSOLETE AND, BESIDES, YOU ARE USING IT INCORRECTLY!

Locals use “please?” in place of “what” or “excuse me” or “pardon” when they have not heard or understood something you’ve said. It is so overly polite that I want to counter its gentility with rudeness. If I don’t hear something you’ve said, I’ll screech “Whadja say?!” Maybe the next time I’m asked “please?” I’ll answer with “thank you.”

Net, I’d appreciate it if you were very choiceful with the words you use around me. I think they’re teaching this crap at Miami. Please?