A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Rubber Gloves Are Sexy

I have a huge girl-crush, and I find myself day-dreaming of those delicious cleaning gloves made of latex and rubber. And if they have extra decorations, all the better.  Purr!

Let me back up.

_______

DC is not just a town in a murky swamp or a city with really crappy weather or a city with bad air quality.

It's ALL of those things combined.

And one thing that is hard to understand for the newcomer is that all those people and cars and dust and unnecessary amounts of dirt and salt on the roads to combat the winter slush produce something I'd like to call The Fine Particulates From Hell.

These Fine Particulates From Hell seep into your home through tiny cracks and invade any chance they get -- they come in with your shoes and groceries and waft in when you leave the window open on a cool day.  The sooty goodness gets in everywhere, even if you're not even actively opening and closing the windows.  Case in point: when we were gone for two weeks, with only the cat hanging out and no a/c being run, the house got so dusty that within minutes of arriving we were all achooing, coughing, hacking and blowing our noses only to find something that looked more like Rorschach tests than actual mucus.

("...this one looks like a dirty house... and so does this one!  And this one looks like a mop and bucket!  A feather duster!  Is there a pattern, doctor?")

Nastiness aside, I've heard from all manner of people on getting allergies upon moving to DC.
And now that I understand the simplicity of the annoying process, I can definitely see how those allergies start.

And I think that the secret lies in cleaning and dusting a lot, which doesn't sound like a whole lot of fun or terribly meaningful... but there you have it.

As simple as it sounds, it isn't.
Cleaning takes effort and work and is an ungrateful and daily action because living is a dirty, dirty thing.  Dishes get dirty even as they are being pulled out of the sink or the dishwasher.
Showers get dirty as you get clean-- only to get dirty again, and in need of a new shower.

It's a vicious and unstoppable cycle, but it's not for lack of trying in people's lives.

Which is where my new girl-crushes come in.

________

"How Clean Is Your House" is the awesomest show on Earth, you see, and its stars are my girl-crushes.

Kim and Aggie have these delightful rubber gloves and wisecracky-yet-no-nonsense personalities.  Of course since I speak American English, they also have the most delightful accents to my ears: Kim's accent sounds a bit harsh but very English, while Aggie has the cutest Scottish accent, like, evar.  I want a doll that talks like Aggie and pronounces "house" like "hice" .  Loooooove.

And of course, they visit the nastiest, filthiest, most sickeningly dirty houses in all of the UK.  They analyze all the nastiness and dirt and grime; for instance, in a recent episode, they found a direct relative of the bacterium that causes Bubonic Plague lingering in this woman's kitchen-- who happened to be a mother of two kids under 7.  Just thinking that Herr Meow could be in contact with something that horrifying made my stomach lurch.  Then again, our kitchen isn't a giant garbage pail with walls stained yellow thanks to years of nicotine and tar coating them.

Back to the show..... as they clean the houses and show the inhabitants just how gross their 'ouses are,  they show cleaning and care tips for the house... which rocks my socks big time.   (nerd!)

Of course, I seriously think that they should also come with a shrink (which I read somewhere they might do for the new season), because some of their victims are all kinds of crazy and do not know it.

Or maybe they do know it.  And so, they do tend to relapse --because you can't just have ten garbage cans full of nasty crud in your living room and be totally normal and reformed once people come to clean, I think.  After all... it would take very little time at all to go back to the depression and the desolation of that clean/dirty cycle starting all over again.  And again, and again.

Oh but Kim and Aggie.... I love you both.  And I especially love your rubber gloves.

_______

And to my readers, here is a household tip:  VINEGAR.  FOR EVERYTHING.
Cleaningscrubbingdisinfectingremovingthatnastygunkystickystuffanddrinksomeformosquitostoleaveyoualone!

And if vinegar can't fix it, Neosporin is the panacea (especially for mosquito bites).

Eternal Naptime Of The Tired Mind

Ah... summer.

Mind blank and at peace.  I could take a nap right now, honestly.  The only sound is that of the fishbowl's airstone WHRRRRRR and it's a pretty relaxing one.

WHRRRRRRRRRR!
WHRRRRRRRRRR!

Mmm.
I just ate something that sounds kinda not too exciting but is so good-- these soy and flaxseed chips from ... where else?  Trader Joe's.  I recommend them, if only because they have FOUR grams of fiber in every serving and fiber equals smooth-as-silk bowel movements.

I enjoy being regular.  Don't you?

So back to the WHRRRRRRRRR! I just have to say that it is one very relaxing sound.
Not sure if I've mentioned this before, but the two mollies and one platy that were in our fishtank as replacement to poor little deceased Abe have turned into about seven mollies and four platy fish.

They have spawned and it's kind of funny to see them all swarm at feeding time as if they've been there the whole time.  I must say, they do seem to love it in the tank.  Which is funny because I have read and have been told that they don't really like giving birth under less than ideal circumstances.

Crazy fish.  WHRRRRRRRRR!

It is mighty pleasant outside.
The heat lately has been simply wonderful, and the drought is not good, but it sure makes for nice weather.
STOP WATERING YOUR LAWNS AT NOON, YOU JERKS!  Hello?  Evaporation?  Singing plants and burning them?  Not smart?

 

Mm.... want iPhone.  Too expensive.  Book am reading is depressing but cannot put down as am on page 661 of 807 and what's this?  There was AN APPENDIX OF CHARACTERS HERE?  Bastards! These are the things one needs at the beginning of the book to keep track of ALL the dead!  AAAAAAARGH!

...must.  take.  siesta.

An Inconvenient Thirty Days

August will be Frugal Month here at the Meowhold.  Between the Monsieur and I we decided to give honest and simple living a try.  We were inspired to a certain extent by Morgan Spurlock's series and we think that this could be a decisive month in our lives, as far as reducing our expenditure footprint (if not our carbon footprint, really). 

Well... that is the hope, anyway.  So, during Frugal Month we will try to accomplish the following:

We will save more.
We will try to use 100% of our groceries and only buy enough to eat.
We will try to reduce impulse buying.
We will attempt to be all-natural and buy local produce whenever availiable.
We will recycle even more than we do so now.
We will not engage in frivolous spending.
We will donate to charity even more-- specifically those things that we hoard but that we do not need and only hold onto out of sentimentality and schmaltz.
No frivolous spending.

Really.  No frivolous spending.  I know.  What was I thinking, right?

So of course I've been going a little crazy trying to get "organized" and "squaring off" certain "necessary" "things" that simply "need" to be purchased.

A friend recently referred to my affliction as a fiscal bulimia of sorts.

She is ever so right.

_____

Why do we have these compulsions?
Why is it that the moment we know there will be the last call for the kitchen, we figure out that we're hungry?
Why is it that when we're told "NO" vehemently and sternly, we feel the rebellion yeast brewing inside and rebel, even if we think that "Viva La Revolución" is something that MTV "Trés" concocted?

Oh and incidentally --and with all due pardons-- what the hell are you thinking, you rancid assf**ks?  The number three in Spanish DOES NOT HAVE AN ACCENT (check?  click here)and I want to say that I hate you but I really don't hate  you for placing one there where there is none.  You just make me very angry, is all.

_____

No.  Frivolities.
August will be a long, boring month.
Or possibly, it could be the best month of my life.

I feel the need to try.

Sun In Leo; Will To Live, In Uranus

The house is not dirty, but I need to get started again in my routines.

If only I could remember what those routines were.

I know it's a very ungrateful thing for me to say, just having returned from a long vacation in a beautiful place, but isn't it annoying how holiday tends to suck the life out of you?  I mean, it does... sucks the life out that you wanted pumped back in, in the first place.  It's kind of an odious little vicious cycle, but I'll be  back in no time.

Of course, I highly suspect that the overall lethargy that seems to plague people around this time of year is also due to the sun thinking ever so highly of itself now that it's moved into its own sign of Leo.  Sometimes familiarity does breed contempt.

Must.  Stop.  Rambling.

______

Then again, it seems someone likes my ramblings!  Thank you (OVERDUE THANK YOU!) to Jo over at Life With Heathens for awarding this blog with the Thinking Blogger award!  I am flattered and cannot think of one single snarky thing to say.  I think I'm hyperventilating.

Ooh.  Shiny.  Purdy.

I am now supposed to award five people whose blogs make me think.  So without further ado and in no particular order, here you are:

1. Bohemian Girl and her lovely creations, thoughts and pictures.
2. SoloMother and her courageous and empathy-filled outlook on life.
3. Bee's acid-tongued observations.
4. Valiens and her bear-trap-sharp mind
5. Reya's poetry on a DC theme.

Thank you for always having fun and funny and deep and thought-provoking items that make me look forward to reading.  I appreciate you.

Don't Whine Beyond Necessity

It started soon after we moved into the house.

First a sniffle here and there.  An achoo!  A bit of sinus pressure, a headache.

"We must be adjusting to life in DC,"
"Moving sure takes it out of you,"
"The weather change is to blame for this."

Achoo.  Cough.  Hack.
Achoo.  Ow.  Sniffle.

Then it became more serious.  Two sinus infections, several colds.  Did I mention we had his 'n' hers infections around Valentine's Day?  It doesn't get more romantic than yellow roses, hacked out of your very own lung garden, I tell you. 

I started to mutter silent thank yous to Those Above that Herr Meow does not yet have sinuses.

"It's the winter,"
"It's this damn snow!"

When spring came around, things got kind of ugly, as things do when everything is surrounded by plant jizz.  And so, the hacky dusty nastiness lingered.

"Could we be allergic to the alley?"
"Is there some sort of black yet invisible mold growing in our bedroom?"
"It's this damn political sooty dirty sold-off-to-the-Man DC air, isn't it?"

It has to be.  Sniff,  hack, sniff.

_______

Yesterday I opened the other half of the window in our bedroom.  You know... the top side, instead of the bottom one, in those sash windows that split open so you can open the top or the bottom?

It was dusty.
Dust from eons and eons, clinging to the tops of those windows.
Dusty.
Windows.

Occam's Razor, biatches.
_______

If you need me, I will be, vinegar and newsprint in hand, cleaning windows today-- and possibly realizing just what it means to say "I don't to windows."

Other than, you know, not owning a PC.

Have a happy weekend, everyone!

Delciousness

Some days you just feel lucky to be you.  Today was one such day for me.

It was hot and delicious and it felt nice to be out and about --even if it was a little sweaty; and I got to go to IKEA with a friend and her baby and we had a really fun time figuring out what we did and did not need and yes.... IKEA is still evil, but delicious as well-- especially these really yummy oat crisps with chocolate in the middle that attacked me at the grocery aisle thingy.... mmmmmmm; and later I got to meet up E:) for lunch!

And it was... wait for it... delicious!  I highly recommend La Lomita Dos --tucked away very near to the Library of Congress on Pennsylvana.  Mmm.... Mexicanny.

And E brought along two deliciously Australian morsels for Herr Meow and me: Tim Tam balls, which are sitting in the fridge, waiting for my blitzkrieg attack on them because they are awesome and chocolatey and you know you're so jealous; and a lovely book called Possum Magic which is silly and sweet and made me hungry for knowing more about Australia and all its food-- and might I add that the lamington sounds awesome, but I'll never be able to accept that vegemite is actually "edible".  (It was great to see you E!!!!)

Now we're sitting here, tired but relaxed and with the air conditioning off, just enjoying the first really warm day of almost-summer and listening to classical guitar and watching Herr Meow playing with his new steed.

Life is good.

Enjoy your week, my pretties!

He Is Miraculous, After All

Happy St. Anthony's day everyone!  Hope you get a boyfriend/girlfriend if you need one!  Read on for instructions and a DIY project, kids!!!

________

When I was a kid and starting to "blossom" into a woman  (and "blossom" must go in quotation marks because it was more like a weird and long metamorphosis than a blossoming, and I think everyone agrees with this statement), my grandmother introduced me to Saint Anthony of Padua --Patron Saint of Lost Things.

Look up "St. Anthony" in any of your well-scrubbed and serious gringo sites, like this here article on my beloved Wikipedia, and you will see that St. Anthony's patronage is over things that are lost, and over babies and pregnant women and old people and the mail.  But oh!  If you search for San Antonio (like the city in Texas) you will see that south of the border, it befalls poor Saint Anthony the bitter lot of having to be placed upside down over and over again by eager girls who don't want to end up spinsters. 

"Saint Anthony," goes the made-up litany, "get me a boyfriend."  And if I remember, the way my grandmother used to say it, it went on, "Saint Benedict, make sure he's not ugly."

You are supposed to pray to him for nine days (a "novena"), although some people pray for years on end.  You also go to a catholic church or to your local Latin American miscellany store and get a figurine of the saint, and then you stand him on his head --sometimes adding the extra superstition of placing thirteen gold coins next to the figurine to seal the miracle.  And you're not supposed to set him right-side-up until you manage to rope yourself a man (or a woman, as the case may be).

So, my gift to you on this day of Saint Anthony is simple:  print out this page, cut out the picture, stand him on his head and place some 13 Sacajawea dollars next to him and go to town until you're hitched. 

You're welcome, and please name your firstborn after me.

_________

If only it were that simple, right?

My grandmother blamed my utter boyfriendlessness back in those prime marrying years of 11th grade on several things: my lack of faith was paramount.  I was personally more comfortable letting poor St. Anthony sleep nicely tucked away in my bedside drawer  in a horizontal position, rather than upside-down (I had a copy of the novena and a photo, not a figurine).  Plus I figured that out of the many things that could spell social suicide for an already-awkward teenager, certainly having an upside-down picture of a Catholic saint holding a baby displayed prominently in the room would not help.

Also, I felt a little sorry to see the saint hanging upside down, because he was cute.  And let's face it: a man who knows how to hold a baby is kinda hot, no matter how old you are.  So St. Anthony stayed in the drawer, unprayed-to but not uncomfortable.

Aside from my lack of prayerfulness, she thought it was mostly my personality --shy and not very talkative around guys, and with a penchant for dreading eye contact-- along with my looks that were failing to seal the deal.  You see.... apparently, guys like blonde girls with large breasts and bright flirty eyes that give them come-hither looks and my grandmother knew this, pointing it out at soul-crushing intervals.  The problem for her was the simple fact that I was what you could generously call a "dark blonde", but a dark blonde who at the time had the boobs on back-order and the flirtatious personality at the dead letter office.

I know she resented my evident lack of potential, because she told me so many, many times.  My grandmother actually told me more than once that she'd love me more if, well... if I were blonde and blue-eyed. 

Tough break, huh?

_________

When I actually started dating more seriously, I couldn't quite shake off the thought that if my own grandmother didn't like the way I looked, I was pretty much doomed as far as finding a boyfriend was concerned.

(Yes, yes, yes... it's easy to blame your problems on others and I should stop playing the maudlin violin solo here.  Leave me alone: this has an uplifting ending for Pete's sake).

So en suite, a string of fellows who were either as besotted by their low self-esteem as I was, or if they were not dazed thusly, then they were capitalizing on my lack of self-esteem.  So it's a good thing that I didn't date much at all, is it?

_________

My grandmother died almost ten years ago.

She had an unhappy life, and a very quick and weird death-- both material for some other posts. 
I remember going through her things, and finding a laminated image of St. Anthony.  It was yellowed and a little frayed-- perhaps from so much use, since he also finds your lost things. 

I stared at the handsome face (not all are handsome, but this one was) and I wondered why I couldn't perhaps have a serene-looking man like him, tonsure optional, who would like me for me. Maybe a brunet; surely a man with dark hair wouldn't mind a dark-haired girl, right?

I don't know what happened to that St. Anthony picture.

_________

Monsieur Meow is a brunet.

He's also quiet and reserved, and he looks pretty hot holding a baby --a thing at which he's become rather expert doing.

He does not shave a tonsure on his head, but he does keep his dark, dark, dark brown hair cut very short so that if you see his head from a certain angle, you can make out the creamy paleness of his scalp.

And I have to say that I am very proud of the fact that I was able to shake off the years of bad, dreadful and spirit-destroying assessment of myself --with the help of my beloved Rev. Mom, of course, who also had to deal with far more spirit-destroying assessments than I ever did.  After all, my grandmother was her mother.

And I'm proud of this family we've made, and of the fact that we may not have needed faith or superstition to come together but that both worked themselves into our lives somehow.

And I'm happy that the only lost things around here are Herr Meow's toys, which seem to disappear and reappear at will.

Maybe St. Anthony can do something about that.

The Customer Is Rightly Annoyed

The shower door fell cleanly off --no real bang and no shattering, thank Jebus.  Well, I guess it fell twice: once into the very capable and manly arms of Monsieur Meow (who when left to his own devices and near old-fashioned phone booths transforms into Super HandyMan), and once into my not-nearly-as-capable and decidedly-far-more-lacking-in-strength ones.

I screamed a girly scream, "AAAAAAAAACK!  Get your butt up here! NOW!"

He seemed exasperated at first-- must not have heard the thud.  The door was resting awkwardly on my collarbone now, being held by it and by a hand and part of a knee because that sucker is HEAVY.  The baby was looking and pointing and laughing.  Ah, to be 18 months old again and to not realize that glass doors can kill you, especially when they are about to fall off their hinge completely for the second time in less than a month.

Obviously, the first fix didn't do it.  My clavicle agrees.

_______

So after some hemming and hawing and wondering, he gets on the phone with someone who is supposed to manufacture doors like ours.  It's Thursday, and naturally they are gone for the week.  Naturally.

A few days pass.  On Tuesday (that's today!), it is my job to track down the person who will help.  First stop: the installers.

"I'm sorry!  I know we may or may not have installed them over two years ago, but now it's no longer our business because the warranty may or may not have expired and we can't tell you who we used or what parts were used."
"Can you maybe recommend someone you're currently working with?"
"Nope, I'm sorry.  I don't have that information."

Hang up.  Try building supply company that seemed to have every single part under the sun last time I was there. 

"I'm sorry.  We don't sell shower door parts."
"Do you know anyone who could help me?"
"Try Other Building Supply Company."

Call Other Building Supply Company. 

"Hmm... yeah. We only do custom shower doors.  But starting at $1000 we can probably help you out with your shower door problem."

Tell her I am not willing to pay upwards of $1000 for a shower door hinge and doo-hickey.  Thank her and ask if she knows of anyone else.  She glibly rattles off long list of names.  I Google the one that sounds most reverentially manly and get the number.  Calling Manly Plumbing Blah Blah Distributors

"Hello?  I have a shower door that is hanging out next to my toilet.  Can you help me?"

"We're wholesalers."

"Do you happen to know a company with whom you work that might do residential work?"

"Nope."  Click.

Well, now.  Try Google again for another one of the manly names.  Try Other Manly Plumbing Heating Blah Blah place. 

"Hello?  I was wondering if you could help me?' Explain the situation one more time.

"I can't help ya, but I think [Blank] Hardware can."

Apparently in the sales biz, "wholesale" means that you cannot talk to people in a manner that doesn't make them feel really small and insignificant, because while the second guy was actually helpful he spelled things out for me in what I considered to be a thick Southern accent as if I were a moron.  Granted, bud: I may not know the difference between a continuous hinge and piano hinge, but at least my "a" sounds different from my "i" when I'm spelling out words.  Just a thought.

But he did put me on the right path and for that I thank him, wherever he may be.

Finally, after a ridiculous amount of telephone stops, I find a business who can actually help me --other than redirecting my call-- and a nice person who does not make me feel like a moron.  She knows what I'm talking about and tells me what I need to do.  I think I'm in love.  I swoon.  I briefly consider getting the name "Paula" tattooed on my arm.  Yess!!!! Three cheers for customer service!!!!!!!!!!

But before I get that tattoo, I need to call about a weird rattling noise in the HVAC.

Oh dear Lord.

Rose Confessions

I mentioned a few weeks back that I'm an amateurish gardener.

Well, it seems some of my efforts are finally paying off, despite the late snow that stunted some of the roses and their growth patterns.  Or at least that's what I'm choosing to believe, anyway.

My little Sombreuil (pronounce something like "Sahm-brr-OY!" and try to look refined) has a few proud, creamy blooms ready to open, and I can't help but bask in that tiny bit of loveliness that will soon share its fragrance and make me smile.

The rose has had its share of sorrows, alas; apart from the crappy weather and the snow a few days after it was planted, it's also had to deal with horrible aphids that tried to munch on her delicate buds (oh, how I hate aphids!) and with some sort of suspicious, strange oil discard courtesy of our neighbors next door.  Jesus, people.... do you really think it's a good idea to leave motor oil not a whole foot away from a pretty rose?  Insane people! 

See how pretty she is?  So very verdant and simple and lovely.  You can even see a little discoloration on the bud where she sustained some aphid damage (click on picture to see larger version).  She thought that was not a very flattering angle to share with the interwebs, but I assured her that this was actually a good thing:  she was a fighter showing off her battle scars, not some spoiled rose who has never known a day of trial or tribulation and whose skirts are entirely too low and who's trying to snag every photo-op imaginable holding a bible or some Buddhist literature as if that made a difference on whether said rose is guilty of driving drunk or not.

She gave me a funny look, little Sombreuil. A little clever rosy look that said, "Stop reading so many damn tabloids and get cracking with the insecticidal soap."

No Thought-Bubbles Were Harmed In The Making of This Relationship

Today's CHBM carnival topic is "How did you meet your spouse/partner."

You know, this strikes me as funny, not because of the subject matter, but because I tend to shy away from telling stories that are a little too much edging toward the personal.  Which, I realize, is rather ridiculous in some ways considering that this is a personal blog and it's all about me, me, me and --in case you were not paying attention-- ME.

Also, I've reconnected with a few friends recently, and talking about that inevitably comes up.

The Cliffs notes version goes like this:  we went on a blind date, et voilà!  (incidentally... isn't "Blind Date" the best/worst show EVER?!)

But you know that the Cliffs notes always leaves the good part out-- unless it happens to be the Cliffs notes for Anna Karenina, in which case I highly recommend them because do you really want to punish yourself by reading the whole thing only to wish YOU had lived in Czarist Russia so that you could have killed Anna yourself.

_______

Last night while we watched "On The Lot" after American Idol --ugh-- the Monsieur and I were trying to come up with our own pitches for movies.  He kept on talking animatedly and was full of ideas.  I kept on realizing how much of an art form it is to convey simple stories in such a way that you actually want to hear them told over and over again, even if they are trite and even if it's something predictable and something you've heard or something that has even happened to you.

And so, on to the story:

______

2002 was not a bad year, really, but something was missing in my life: that elusive someone, of course.  Having been the issue of the first feminist generation has put us women entering our thirties in a weird position, where we're *definitely* not supposed to associate our value as a person on having a man--because otherwise what was the whole "we're all equal" bit about then?-- but we're also all still biologically and societally expected to settle down somehow.  Many of us are pressured to have a career, and many of us are pressured to have a career AND kids.  Many of us are pressured to have a career, kids, pets, and donate time to worthy causes and fine spare time to do DIY projects out of Martha Stewart magazine.  Plus since we're liberated, we're supposed to be just a little wanton, or maybe even straight up dynamite in the sack.  Oh, and we're also supposed to floss daily, read the newspaper, stay out of the sun, and save at least $3000 per year so we can have some sort of nest egg for when we're older.

Because there is nothing sadder than being of a certain age, alone and penniless, feeding cats and crocheting doilies until the day we die-- still alone and penniless and unfulfilled (but, I suppose, still liberated).  So instead we stumble and fumble and feel very very annoyed and we grow up later and later.  Thank goodness most of us have mothers to blame, huh?

_______

By New Year's Eve of 2002, after a very annoying and frustrating "romance" petered out  due to the other party's utter lack of interest in me... wait...  I need a few seconds there for my bruised ego at this point... ouch.. okay.  By the end of '02, frustrated by the utter lack of interest in me, I had had it.

Sure, 26 is pretty young to give up on love, romance and amorous pursuits, but I really felt like I'd turned a corner of sorts.  It's hard to pretend it does not bother one that another human being --for whom one has romantic and lurid feelings-- thinks one is as exciting as melamine, and that was a good reason to be hurt and make rash decisions.  But I also felt that I was on the slow train going to Shitsville -- still living at home, in a very nice but boring job, and with friends who (I thought) had far more fabulous lives than I, hands down.

So what does a person who's hit rock-bottom do?  She gets roaringly drunk on New Year's eve, cancels coaching practice, spends all day in bed whining,  and realizes that New Year's day is just another day and not the magical life-turning point she's enshrined in her mind.  2003 beckoned: the year of do-not-give-a-flying-eff.

The year began, and so did my new resigned, singleton self.  And do you know what?  Hitting a low point has the virtue of making everything else look pretty good by comparison:  I worked on crocheting (had to train for doily-making),  and I read, and I did, you know, things.  I stopped caring as much about getting asked out and started enjoying going to pubs and playing trivia more (yes, the geeky stuff).  I tried to stop seeing myself as a piece of cattle who must auction herself off to know her worth.

On St. Patrick's day, while having a pint with a family friend, I agreed to something that I'd never done in my life.  He told me of a guy he knew through work, whom he thought would be a good date for me.

An old-fashioned blind date: the quintessential anything-goes of the dating world.  Why not?

 

"Is he cute?" I knee-jerked.

"Um.  I guess I think he's reasonably handsome for a guy."
"That doesn't help"
"Well... uh... he's the best runner I know."

Blank stare.  I hate to run.  I don't really want to  go out with some super  fit crunchy athletic nightmare guy.

"Anything else to recommend this guy?"
"He drives a Jaguar."
"K, what's his number?"

Don't look at me like that.  I happen to like cars.  I figured that at least I'd be going out with someone who was in relatively good shape, and the fact that he drove a nice car was a good bonus (and something to get me home faster in case the night went horribly.

But it didn't.
It was "geek at first sight."  He was geeky, and looked like he'd stepped out from 1961. 
He thought I looked, "Um.  Different from what I'd imagined." (<--confessed years later, both)

Uh.   Jaguar, take us away?

______

Somewhere in between dinner and drinks at bar #1, I realized he had the most beautiful green eyes I'd ever seen.  And somewhere between bar #1 and bar #2, I found out he was a cat person.  Oh, and I found out that being held by him felt right and good and yes.

And here we are, four years and several thousands of miles later.

______

Later I found out that he'd also given up on romance and life and love.  He thought he'd end up a geriatric bachelor, living somewhere in the deep woods with a cat.

It's a good thing we found each other, because we could have been next-door neighbors otherwise.

"Leather Anniversary" Sounds Naughty

"Grow old along with me!  The best is yet to be."

~~Robert Browning

"Love doesn't make the world go 'round.  Love is what makes the ride worthwhile."

~~Franklin P. Jones

"True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked."

~~Erich Segal

"It is easier to be a lover than a husband for the simple reason that it is more difficult to be witty every day than to say pretty things from time to time."

            -- Honore De Balzac

"Do not forget to love yourself."

~~Søren Kierkegaard
      

Thank you for three wonderful years, my darling Monsieur Meow! And for the rest of you, gag bags are available in the pocket directly in front of your seat. 

The Gauntlet Has Been Thrown

It's officially mosquito season.

The first actual bite in the Meow household was sighted around 0810 on 04 May 2007, on subject Rev. Mom.
Subject received appropriate dose of Neosporin on site of wound. 
She claimed to have detected the enemy's presence the night before, possibly between 2130 and 2200.   
Subject reported unsuccessful killing attempt on enemy.

______

I am a woman obsessed, as usual.  Remember that one post about being paint-obsessed?

Yeah.  This is worse.  Mosquitoes love me, you see.  They love to feast and dine on my blood, and they seek me out with a viciousness usually reserved only for Ben & Jerry pints.

Therefore, I have been dreading mosquito season for weeks.  Every time the nice weather rolls around, I utter the same thing-- something to the effect of, "As soon as it rains, it'll be mosquito season again."

I have been talking to the neighbors about the horrors of mosquito season.  I have been handsomely regaled in return with horror stories of  limbs mauled by insect malfeasance -- red welts that swell and become puffy and itchy within minutes and can sometimes even become infected.  Millions of tiny bites, or a few large ones.  Itchiness, discomfort and sorrow for months to come, with the possible evil looming of West Nile Virus or even Malaria.  Yup.  Malaria: although it's not nearly as common or as deadly as it is in Africa or in South America, Malaria still manages to kill over 1000 people every year in the United States, according to the CDC.  Scary huh? 

If you're with me in your mosquito wars, here are a few things to know:

* Mosquitoes like romantic sunsets: this is the time where they bite the most. 

* Only girl-mosquitoes are the evil blood mercenaries.  Still-- destroy them all, especially the eggs. 

* ANY standing water will allow a girl mosquito to lay her eggs, so don't leave any birdbaths or other "cute" things with stagnant water.

* Mosquitoes are attracted by your production of carbon dioxide.  In case you're incapable of holding your breath the whole time you're outside, click here and here and here for some helpful tips. 

Remember: mosquitoes are NOT your friends and they DO NOT do anything other than being vectors for disease.  The only good mosquito is a DEAD mosquito.

Bloomin' Earth Days, Mate!

Aaaaah.  Breathe the warm air in, folks, and happy belated Earth Day!

Another gorgeous spring day that feels more like summer.  Everyone comes out from their hiding place and feels like a kid again.  Yesterday's lovely weather brought out he and she bears from all around the neighborhood and everyone's heads were bobbing outside, doing projects and sunning themselves and grilling and cooking things that smelled delicious and planting plants and rejoicing in the beauty of early summer-feeling days. 

As a matter of fact, there could not have been a more appropriate way to celebrate Earth Day than to be witness to the outward expression of an entire metropolitan area's inner gardner.  I'm not sure that everyone's (including my) projects will take off and prosper, but it will certainly not be from lack of trying.  There was true dedication and love out there this weekend.  I even have the suspicion that some people skipped church expressly to tend to their gardens. 

Is it safe to say that they sold their souls to the garden elves?

Case in point: we needed to pick up some stuff for home projects yesterday, and I swung by the Home Depot's gardening section and could not believe my eyes: people who could not tell the difference between the verbenaceae, the lamiaceae, and the candidaceae less than a week ago were actually on the verge of punching each other out over tomato cages, flagstone paving steps or more mulch.  MORE.  MUUUUUULCH.  NOOOOOOW.

Considering that I've seen the same little area of the store so quiet, barren, empty, dead and still that you could see the tumbleweeds a-rollin' if you had the tiniest bit of imagination, yesterday's scene was just one more reminder of the curious yet charming fact that in a place where the seasons make sure that things happen only at a certain time and NEVER AGAIN, you have to take advantage of the limited time give by Mother Nature.

Which is a weird concept, you know.  I like the fact that weather really behaves like a total diva around here, but it really seems to breed conformity.  Whatever happened to planting roses on September 28th or spreading poppy seeds at the end of summer?  When you're dealing with frost, all bets are off and all you're doing is asking to burn money if you dare defy the Order of Things.

Sometimes I really do miss California, despite the beauty that surrounds me.

Today, however, is not one of those days.  Suck it up with your FIFTY-FIVE STINKIN' DEGREES, BITCHEZZZZ!!!

Gloating and Glamming Up

I am doing the gloating dance, people, and you cannot stop me.

I am Madame Meowstradamus, predictrix of awesomeness, and I cannot stop myself from screaming "I CALLED IT!!! I CALLED IT!!!" over and over.

Sanjaya Malakar has been voted off the island and all is well.  Simon Cowell smiled his smug smile and Ryan Seacrest raised his goofy eyebrows. 

Of course he would go.    Please: believing that Sanjaya would ever win American Idol is like believing that America as a whole is really THAT dumb.  Come on, people: America can sometimes be dumb, but not dumb enough to realize that Melinda pretty much has it in the bag. 

________

I had fun doing last week's Carnival of the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas, so I'm going to give it a go this week as well, wherein they ask about a favorite beauty secret or product.

Sick, sudden realization #1:
I am not so sure I have a beauty secret.

Sick, sudden realization #2:
Oh God.  I don't think I have a favorite product.  I am a Sephora whore.

Sick, sudden realization #3:
This is going to be a weird entry.

________

For as long as I can remember, my grandmother was the self-appointed maven of beauty secrets.  I remember having to endure many of her beauty treatments without a right to protest: I have had aloe pulp, mayonnaise,  avocado, beer, and eggs sitting on my hair for hourly increments more times than I believe anyone's ever stopped to imagine that this kind of torture is reasonable to inflict on a 12-year old, for instance.

I have a vivid recollection of sitting in the rooftop of our flat in Bogotá wearing nothing but a hairdresser's sheath and a plastic shower cap because I was dripping one of those horrible concoctions all over the floor and she wouldn't have it.  The rooftop is windy and while the day is sunny, I am shivering and standing there in a huff.  I am hungry and in a foul mood and my head feels absolutely gross and smells like a dairy case, but the treatment hasn't sat on my scalp long enough.

The promise is that of a less frizzy, shinier, and possibly pin-straight mane (woe to me, born with wavy, frizzy, coarse, unmanageable hair). 

The result is an eggy-smelling head: a frizzy, wavy, unmanageable, coarse head of hair that smells like egg salad.  Did I mention that, according to my grandma, egg is actually "shampoo" and should not be followed up with actual soap?  Lucky me.

Something must have gone right, however, because by age 17 my hair is long enough to sit on.  Guess who deems it a victory?

I wish I could say that my grandmother's beauty regimens circumscribed themselves only to my capillary woes: they did not.  Eggy  and papaya-rind face masks to get rid of blackheads; homemade eggshell scrubs to exfoliate;  cucumber slices for puffiness; rosemary baths to purify; pineapple rinses TO CURL YOUR HAIR (????); linseed leave-in treatments to prevent frizz (ha!); shady-smelling oils (possibly cooking oils) for shapelier derrières (??); barley water to purify your intestines  and prevent blemishes; and all manner of other natural things, some of which actually do work, and some others which clearly never did.

The punchline to this whole thing is that we're currently surrounded by a million-dollar beauty industry that has taken all those raw and torturous ingredients and made a mint bringing them to the "average" consumer.  In other words, if my grandmother had been a little more industrious and spent less time chasing me around to smear all that crap on me, she could have been raking in the big bucks selling it to a major corporation, or at least to a group of people who would appreciate her artifice a little better --or just have a little more faith in it.

I will tell you, though, in what I do put some faith:

* Plain ol' white toothpaste on a big zit-- disinfects and reduces swelling.  I hear a crushed Aspirin works well too, due to the salycilic acid.
* Drinking plenty of water-- self-evident.
* Eating enough protein for shiny hair and nails, because you need protein to make protein (don't bother drinking the gelatin water-- it's pretty gross).
* Cleaning your face every night, or at least attempting to do so-- I've found the hard way that a dirty, oily face at night is what creates pimples.
* Brushing and flossing-- boring but essential.
* Pasley and angelica root teas for hormone control-- go to your crunchy supermarket and get some.
* Green tea for slimming down (combined with diet and exercise)--if anything, it makes you pee.
* Credit card and Sephora for fun beauty stuff that may or may not work-- never underestimate the power of consumerism.

And my Golden Rules:
* When in doubt, moisturize.
* When bored, depressed, confused or otherwise, add lipgloss.

Green Within

I am green-obsessed.

For as long as we've been in this new house, I knew I wanted to repaint the main bedroom in a nice shade of green that would bring out the dark wood but not look like a hospital-- sterile and uninviting.  Well, at least I certainly knew that the current shade of the room, which reminds me of some sort of clay-based treatment at an upscale spa and that could possibly involve hot stones and obscene amounts of Saran wrap, didn't cut it.

I don't like to wake up every morning and look at something that reminds me of mud.  Sure, it's inviting mud: the shade has even kind of grown on me.  But I am tired of it.  And a few months ago, boosted by the success of painting Herr Meow's room, I started the Quest.

This would be the obsessive quest toward finding that one elusive-yet-perfect-but-somehow-definitely-out-there-yet-not-anywhere-I-looked shade of warm sage green that isn't quite sagey but kind of more mossy but not very vibrant but still very green but not lemony.

Honestly?  I had no idea that finding a color would be a task that would make me reassess my own preferences and tastes, and would challenge something to which I don't like to give much of a thought: my own personality flaws.

______

If you've ever had to pick paint, I'm sure you're aware that your choice is something that will stick with you for a long time.  I see you in my mind's eye nodding your head: it's an elementary concept ("duuuh").  Of course, wall colors stick around for a long time, but you can always have a do-over.  You can always get some primer and start again.

You're not committed to a color.  It's just something fun.

Alas, I have a problem with that whole concept. 

For me, things should come out right the first try.  I hate rough drafts.  I don't like repeats.  I have little mercy or patience with myself or others when things don't come out buttery-smooth and with a crusty finish on my first attempt.  This, folks, makes for bad crafting and bad artistry and overall bad sportsmanship.  But worst of all, it makes for a bedroom currently sporting six different shades of green, one blue and one pink (minor folly), giving the Dalmatian treatment to the mud-brown walls and creating some sort of strange Piet Mondrian nightmare effect.

Oh.  Did I also mention one of my walls is also currently a shade of green that clashes with mud?  It's a deliciously vivid shade of green called "Mossy Green" but which looks like the moss was collected on St. Patrick's day.  The color on its own is happy and vivacious; but when it gets hit with our generous amounts of western sunlight and the hue reverberates and reflects on every surface --and double for the mud-- it looks like I painted it with bile.

So I've had to realize that the whole "no rough drafts for me" and "everything must be awesome on the first try" fantasies are just that: fantasies and constructs in my mind to prevent me from looking at the real issues.  Namely, I need to realize that as much fun as things are, not everything comes out right on the first try.  Even things that later turn out to be fun are painful and awkward for the first couple of times... or more.  I've skated on my ability to do some things well right off the bat, and on my undiluted talent to rationalize why it's not worth doing other things at all.  I also need to realize that painting little bits of wall is expensive and wasteful in the long run-- with all the money I've put into samples, I could have already bought all the paint for the room... if only I could commit to a color.

So. 
I've narrowed it down to two possible contenders: it'll either be a color named "Palm Leaf" (by Ralph Lauren, and which looks really not at all like the color in person) or this pretty one that's a bit lighter called "Sherwood Forest" (by Benjamin Moore, and which looks ugly over the internet, might I add).  Or maybe it'll be one wall with one and one with the other.  Or maybe just one accent wall.

Or maybe I'll just paint the whole thing white and be done with it.  AAACK! 

_______

Um.  I do dare to commit to a prediction about "Idol":
I think Sanjaya is going tonight. 
There.  I said it.  I hope I'm right-- on the first try.

Sounds Like "Lobbyist"

Sometimes when I start writing my next blog entry, I come with a cadre of pre-thought themes that promptly gets tossed out the proverbial window when my own little blogging one stares back at me, blank and expectant and innocently judgmental.

It's hard to be judgmental when it's so beautiful outside.  So I caved in and checked out the carnival over at the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas for inspiration.  This week's carnival (or rather, last week's... yikes.... I'm very late to the party) is on hobbies, so here we go.

This morning I was talking to my friend, Chi-Town mom, and we were discussing hobbies.

She confessed to her deep abiding love of working out and I (redundantly, since she's read my blog and I am waving to her if she's reading this) admitted my love of writing.  We both coincided on cooking and she said she'd like to take up painting.  I think I mentioned my various crafts of varying states of completion, but maybe I only did so in my mind.

Because you see,  the longer we kept on talking, the more we realized that in spite of the lofty nature of our aforementioneds, our favorite pastime was more along the lines of keeping track of just how long Britney's hair is these days and why doesn't she just rock the bald head à la Natalie Portman anyway because it's not like she's fooling us with those nasty cheap wigs attached to the dopey hats anyway.  Or perhaps --and this was brought up a few days earlier with my darling Monsieur Meow, no less-- talking about whether or not Tom Cruise really deserves his newly-earned reputation as village psycho and all that jazz, especially considering that he's been the voice (and the cash cow) for Scientology for many years.

Suddenly I have come to realize that the easiest and most delicious hobby is to keep up with the lives of people I don't even know and most likely will never meet, which in a strange way is a lot like blogging itself.  For, what are blogs if not little custom-tailored windows into another's reality?

Suddenly I get a very surrealist tingle to have cards printed up that say,

"Madame Meow-- Stay-at-home mother and observer of others' realities.  All you say can and will be used against you (changed ever so slightly to protect identity) for blogging purposes."

Maybe I'll get some Moo cards printed up. 

After all, one of my other hobbies is photography.

Electronic Shoe Therapy

Herr Meow is sick.

We didn't sleep much last night and he's been very clingy and needy all day today.  Thank goodness, Monsieur Meow came home early and is giving me a nice break while I nurture my soul and have a quiet moment to myself.

My way to unwind?  Enter "Chie+Mihara" into Google.

Just do it.  It will restore your faith in art, beauty, and shoes.

Oh, shoes... uplifters of the height, restorers of the soul.

You know... it just popped into my mind that whatever damage is sustained by what the mouth says/does/erupts, the feet can always make up for it.  Pedicures.... foot massages.... the perfect pair of shoes.. they all erase years of McDonald's abuse, root canals, and toddlers' teething woes --if only for a little while.

If only for a little while.

The Not-So-Constant Gardener

It's official: I am obsessed with planting and plants right now.

I like flowers.  I think that's kind of obvious if you've ever taken a gander at my Flickr pictures.  Flowers are beautiful.  They are also just what I talked about in yesterday's entry-- make no mistake.  But I just love them and love knowing more about them and like to attempt to grow them.

I guess we're all works in progress, just like plants.  I am a very amateur gardener, only impaired by my sloth and forgetfulness, because more than one poor innocent plant has succumbed thanks to my steady diet of neglect and lack of water, combined with little sun.  Oh and root rot-- how I hate thee, and yet how I aid and abet thee too.

Right now, in between catering to Herr Meow and his burning desire to be melded into one happy, sweet, forceful-petting union with Mademoiselle Gracie --who really does not want to partake in his overtures--
I am happy to report that my outdoor planter (of which I had mentioned nary a thing until today) is sporting three happy little lavender crocuses.  My little baby Trader Joe's rose seems to have a bloom in the way.  The two Alberta spruces I repotted are happily growing, and so is the basil I bought a while back-- presumably to use it up within the day, but I couldn't bear to part with it when it actually started to thrive.  The little cheap ivy I keep on the shady side of the house is thriving, and two little blueberry plants are waiting to be planted, along with three roses we got through Jackson & Perkins.  They are three climbers, and are sitting outside, soaking in some lovely water, waiting to sink their little roots into the soil, and I am excited.  Rose gardening has its ungrateful moments (especially when you get pricked by those spines), but those are always rewarded with sweet blooms and lovely aromas.  Plus, some of the happier memories in my life are associated with working, playing in, and tending gardens.  My grandmother had some unfortunate red roses she babied like nothing else, and which rewarded her with an astounding amount of  suckers, spines, and nasty fungi on the leaves (Bogota is not good rose weather and my grandmother was kind of a lousy gardener); she didn't give up on them, I don't think, until we moved away and the roses stayed behind in their unhappy little rose ennui.

Ah.  Roses.  Flowers.  Spring.

A chance to grow something from scratch, and do things right .

Oh, God. 
The roses are already in trouble.