The Power of Forwards and Lottery Tickets

We all have those friends who seem slightly addicted to 'forwarding' every silly poem, slidescreen (of animals doing something) and .wav file (again, usually of animals doing something). I have a friend whose parental units believe it is irresponsible not to forward certain 'warnings' especially the one about gang member initiations (the gang member 'to-be' drives around without their car lights on and then kills you if you flash your lights at them). Course these same parental units believe that it is your civil duty to purchase lottery tickets when the pot gets about $80 million. (Can't disagree with that).

Generally I do not engage in 'forwarding.' Hence, Lord knows how many times I've damned myself to seven (or more) years of bad luck by breaking the chain. But I don't mind being the receiver of the forward; please don't view this statement as an open invitation to start mailing me random amounts of crap. I'm saying that I appreciate the ones I already receive. It's awfully nice to receive an email that says 'Happy Friday' or 'Do you know how special you are?' regardless of the cheese contained within. Good karma. I thank you 'forwarders' for brightening my day!

Carpe Diem...

It's that season again...

Wedding season is upon us again. A season where as a guest you start wondering what should I get the happly couple. Thankfully the couple usually provides a list of items they would like to have; hence, making gift giving easier. Had lunch with a good friend of mine this week who informed me about a wedding registry that lists, as one of the 'we'd love to have' items, a crowbar. Yes, a black metal 'S' shaped crowbar.

A few questions quickly appeared in my head:

1. Really, you need a crowbar that much? Why? The occasional 'moved into a new house - have to force open rusty metal doorlock' - maybe; otherwise, slightly suspect.

2. How does one, as a guest, give the gift of a crowbar? Wrap it in a big bow and say 'here you go, please think of me everytime you beat your poodle with this gift.'

[Complete sidenote - me - big fan of scraping the registry and getting the happy couple a goat, a la, http://www.heifer.org or paying for a few cats to be neutered in their honor http://www.alleycat.org/]

Tasty

The House of Representatives, Energy and Commerce Committee, Environment and Hazardous Materials subcommittee is holding a hearing entitled: Antifreeze Bittering Agent.

CQ reports the following agenda:

A subcommittee hearing on H.R. 2567, a bill to amend the Federal Hazardous Substances Act to require engine coolant and antifreeze to contain a bittering agent so as to render it unpalatable.

Do we really think people consume engine coolant and/or antifreeze because it tastes good? Is the problem that it's palatable? Yum -I'm thinking salad dressing. Really, 60,000 pets and 4,000 children can't be wrong.

Seriously though, many pets and children die from drinking antifreeze each year. Apparently the argument for this bill goes alongs the lines of: if one accidently ingests said substances that they won't drink any more once the bitter taste kicks in. I'm thinking lock up the antifreeze and the engine coolant so the pets and the kids don't get it in the first place.

Boys, boys, boys, I'm looking for a good time...

"You know, like nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills... Girls only want boyfriends who have great skills." [And who aren't allergic to cats].

There Is No Matrix

Right, so recently, my work computer was upgraded (thanks IT guys) but now the default screen saver is the Matrix (the default songs on media player also include Poison's 'Every Rose Has It's Thorn' along with Motley Crue's 'Girls, Girls, Girls' but more on the questionable song choices later). I'm sure someone thought this Matrix plan was a good one, but I do not understand? I thought the Matrix was ridiculous. Keanu Reeves is not 'the one.' In fact, during the Matrix (part I) when Morpheaus declares him to be 'the one' I literally laughed out loud in the movie theater and then didn't understand why no one else was laughing. Oh and the 'there is no spoon' metaphor; come on people - no reality - as if that's an original thought. The second one was all about running around in dirty clothes and the orgy dance scene. The third - ok, I admit it, I couldn't/didn't watch the third. But here's my issue, I have many friends (mostly in the computer science field) who believe these movies are good and 'really made them think.' Huh, what? The themes portrayed throughout the three movies are a mixture of major religious doctrines with a little Hollywood splash. And for the record, I'm not saying the special effects weren't cool; they were. It's the mass appeal of the so-called 'plot' I don't understand. Can someone please explain?!

Don't Read Much; Hurts My Brain Part I

About a month and a half ago, I was dinking around 'in a seaside town they forgot to close down' in the southwest of England known as Poole. Walking around, checking out the town but it's March in England which means it's freezing cold. I head over to the Poole Museum (get me a little culture and some warmth) but the Museum was closed. Then what to my freezing eyes did appear, but a sign saying I could go around to the back entrance (shut it, i.e., no comments about the use of 'back entrance' people). I go inside and it's the Poole Museum library; a lovely library with a librarian who takes one look at me and says 'Here you go, love, we'll set you up with some books with pictures that you can look at.' She continues, 'There are loads of really nice pictures in here of Poole.' Thankfully, there were not many words in the books to confuse me (or to explain what the pictures meant), but I learned all about (ok saw) Poole through the ages -- The entire time silently giggling to myself and wondering if I look like a ninny or if she was like this with all library patrons.

Cake and Naked Dolls

So for a friend's 30th birthday, I made her 'Naked Man Jumping Out of Cake' (by made, I mean, I adapted a Ken doll to look like a mutual friend complete with tattoos, anatomically correct parts and glued on a cut-out picture). Aside - why is Ken 'all build, no package'?; Barbie has boobies at least. The cake portion involved much glitter and fingerpaints.

A good time was had by all (damaging of the pee pee did occur but was remedied via toothpick). Starting to wonder if I should go with a different money-making scheme on the island.

Plans for Small Island Nation Takeover

1. Download the songs "Take this job and shove it" along with "These boots were made for walking" for ceremonial blasting at top volume when I walk out.

2. Deal with dangling light fixture in back bedroom and sell house.

3. Take ridiculous amounts of money from item #2 and head south (preferably to some place with young, strapping island persons who already know their way around a woman's body; nothing worse than having to train a newbie - a little to the left - now right, etc., etc.).

4. Start selling arts and crafts by the side of the road. (Note to self: learn something 'crafty.').

5. Use monies from arts and crafts to initiate plan to take over aforementioned island; train army for specific 'hits' around the globe (people who are on the top secret hit list - you know who you are). Wahaha!

6. Write 'tell-all' book about rise to power and assumed coup by the locals (add in the further assumption of narrow escape during coup, i.e., running for my life, cat strapped to my back and high tailing it out of Dodge on a motorboat). Course, could go the other way with my head ending up on a stick. . .

7. Assuming head is intact, move to another island (perhaps somewhere slightly larger, colder and with no pressure in the showers).

8. Rinse and repeat.

There's a time and a place for funny; who knew?

My most infamous job interview involved a non-profit environmental group (who shall not be named here, as don't burn bridges, my dad always says - but I digress). Job was a fellowship involving forest protections and management. Oh yeah, I'm all over it. Made it through the phone interview; it's narrowed down to three people. I borrow money, buy the suit (and the ridiculous shoes), get a plane ticket, navigate the city streets and arrive for the interview (all sorts of shiny and perky).

Job interview begins. Questions about forest management - how familiar am I with the statutes, am I able to translate the alphabet soup of common forest abbreviations into English, etc. Nailed those questions. Even start discussing my vision for the fellowship (don't ask me what that vision was now, but I'm convinced it was brilliant). And then comes the following question:

Q - How do you commune with nature?

A (me) - I get naked and roll around in the mud.

Dead silence. Could have heard a pin drop in the room (and thanks to Sprint for the fiber optics visual of a pin dropping that floated through my head; I'm such a product of marketing).

My next few thoughts: I'll get my coat? - apparently funny and forests do not go together - and damn these ridiculous new shoes (blisters on feet). In a futile attempt to salvage my response, I mumble something about canoeing. Icy cold, nice try stares were the reception.

I returned to my friends' place, kicked off the shoes, ripped off the pantyhose (in an entirely un-sexual way), grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat on their porch. After arriving home an hour later, they asked how the interview went:

A - I'm really not the person they were looking for.

I stand by my answer; how miserable would I have been working there. Yikes! Although apparently I should have asked these people for help: www.job-interview-questions.com

In Memory: Gabby the Cat

To My Beloved Cat,

I remember meeting you 11 years ago in South Dakota. You walked through my friend's door and fell over; tired from just having given birth to five kittens and from being kicked by the evil people next door. I stayed up with you that night, feeding you a teaspoon of cat food every couple of hours. The next morning, my friend woke me up and said "Uh, I think you have cats," as you had moved all five kittens to their porch.

I took you (and the kittens) home with me; I had just moved in and the first night didn't know the trick to locking the back door (Ah, college housing). The next morning the door was open (and there wasn't a screen). You were standing inside the door and when you saw me, you jumped outside. I told you that you were free to go if you wished; you looked at me and jumped back inside.

It took six months for you to jump up next to me and a year for you to voluntarily jump into my lap; the internal and external scars from the evils took quite awhile to heal. You became my judge of character -- the Gabby test -- you were always right.

You never left the yard; content to lay on the front porch or to mutilate grasshoppers for your whimsical play. I kept finding grasshoppers throughout the house with only leg. One day, I realized that you were the culprit; made it significantly easier to play with them as they would just hop around in a circle and you could lay down to bat at them. Ingenious!

We then moved across the state for law school where you discovered your love of all things white: milk, cream cheese, yogurt. One morning, I had cream cheesed (yes, it is a verb) a bagel and left it on the table, returning to the kitchen for coffee. Upon my return, there was no cream cheese left; the bread looked dry. I re-cream cheesed the bagel thinking I must have been nuts and started eating it, only to look over and see you licking the remains of some cheese cream from your whiskers. I ate the bagel anyway.

Five years ago, after we moved to DC, you came down with cancer and had part of your jaw removed. Six days after major surgery, you'd had enough of the feeding tube and starting eating your cat food. Your resilience and tenacity amazed me.

A year ago you were diagnosed with cancer again but this time there was no surgical fix. Instead, you took your medicine everyday and chemo every two weeks. And you fought with all your might.

For 11 years, you slept on my pillow and greeted me at the door. You were there when I passed the bar, got my job and for every promotion. You were there through all the ex-crazys and for the crying when the non-crazys moved on. New Years Eve this past year, you fell asleep in Hotel Lobby's lap; he was already asleep (long before the ball dropped).

This morning you died; around 8:20am. Your son (one of the kittens) and I stayed up with you last night as you stopped purring around midnight. I checked on you at 6:30 and fell asleep. Many thanks to KC for calling at 8 to see how you were (as he woke me up). I picked you up to take you downstairs for breakfast, you had a seizure, I put you on the sofa, you put your head down and died. I have never felt so alone as I did in that moment.

A bit later, I had some cereal (as my mother commanded that I eat) and after finishing, I put the bowl on the floor for you as you would lap up the remaining milk (sometimes you were bold enough that you wouldn't wait for me to finish), but this time, it was not to be.

A few hours later, I wrapped you in a towel and we took one last ride to the vets; I will pick up your ashes in a couple of weeks so I can have you with me.

My girl; I thank you for the memories and the love.

In closing, the words of T.S. Elliot:

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.
She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that's smooth and flat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits -- and that what makes a Gumbie Cat!

But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment
To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment.
So she's formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
With a purpose in life and a good deed to do --
And she's even created a Beetles' Tattoo.

So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers --
On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.

And then I saw my life flash before my eyes...

Ok, so went on a little frolic and detour last week involving a National Park (one of my absolute favorite things - to visit National Parks; more on this addiction later). On the drive down to Key West, we watched the car in front of us hit the median, got a warning for speeding (whoops) and finally arrived around 11pm after celebrating our "divorce" (we've been working together for many moons and are now looking forward to dating/seeing/having lunch with, well frankly, anyone else).

Got up the next morning and headed for the seaplane to take us to Dry Tortugas. You actually land on the water (super-cool!). We were on a tight schedule with only 2 hours on the island so we zipped around - toured the fort, read the plaques, etc., and then went snorkling. Slight aside - I adore snorkling; I adore the silence, the sound of my breathing and the absolute relaxation from taking deep breaths. The first thing my esteemed colleague said to me when we got in the water was "I just saw a shark." No worries; I've swam with sharks before so we head in. About 20 minutes later, I found his shark (or the shark found me); I looked over and there was a shark swimming beside me - just la, la, la. I admit to panicking slightly but we were on a tight schedule so I only had 4 seconds to freak and then had to move on.

The seaplane flight back was a dream but then we got on the flight from Key West to Miami; somewhere right before Miami the plane dropped causing my esteemed colleague to scream and yell out "fu*&!" The flight from Miami to DC caused some further consternation as the pilot missed the runway in DC; yep, pulled up at the last minute. Granted DCA landing's are difficult so I have to cut the pilot some slack. But in combo, I've learned my lesson - no more dinking around on company time (well, maybe just one more time....)

Madams and Museums

At a birthday party last Friday I was told a tale involving graves, wine, sex and money; in other words, a fabulously wonderful DC story. When excavating the site for the Native American Museum across from the U.S. Capitol, the workers came upon the remains of a house of ill repute. See http://www.si.edu/oahp/madam/index.html. The brothel opened its doors in approximately 1840 and provided comfort to congressmen and soliders alike. The Civil War was an especially lucrative affair.

Mary Ann Hall ran the facility and made an excellent living; her estate was $100,000 in 1886. Ms. Hall is buried in Congressional Cemetary with a huge gravestone. Her obituary says it all: Mary Ann Hall, long a resident of Washington. With integrity unquestioned, a heart ever open to appeals of distress, a charity that was boundless, she is gone; but her memory will be kept green by many who knew her sterling worth

The Miami Guidebook

What the guidebooks won't tell you about Miami:

1. Most restaurants do not take credit cards; cash is a must.

2. Parking in South Beach requires quarters; these can be obtained at any of the publix grocery stores (located every couple of blocks).

3. Miami is not a place for vegetarians; I've had 3 delis refuse to make a sandwich that did not have meat on it. See above reference to publix for food.

4. The beautiful people in South Beach are not located on Ocean Drive; Ocean Drive is where you will find the hoochies and the studmonkeys, i.e., clothing optional but really all you can think is 'cover up people.' You must have at least a bottle of wine to find these people attractive.

5. Assume your hotel will have mold in it especially if it has carpet (the actual hotel does not matter); for this reason, be leary of the air conditioner and sleep with the balcony door open (this may require ear plugs but truly a small price).

Traveling, traveling, traveling...

For those of you who haven't heard from me in awhile, I've been living in hotels across the globe. New York, Geneva, Miami, and Spain. Pretty sure I met the love of my life in a hotel lobby but shockingly it didn't work out. You know you've been traveling too much when the hotel staff recognizes you and your preferences (the cookies were good though), one of your team ends up in the hospital (nasty case of pneumonia) and you're buying undergarments at the airport.

Thumbelina

This is Dave's thumb on crack; it's so stubby.