It's getting a bit weird around here.

Chloe is our cat. Chloe is 7 years old, gray, and has somewhat of an attitude problem. It’s not her fault really; she had a bad start in life. She was feral to begin with. At 3 months of age she was adopted from the Denver Dumb Friends League to a family with 3 kids and two large dogs. The husband of this family returned her to the shelter a month later claiming he was allergic. At 5 months, we found her. She was so little and docile. When the shelter put us in the Getting to Know You Room, the first thing she did was curl up in our lap and took a nap. She woke up for a bit to play with the strings on our sweatshirt but then went right back to sleep. We were smitten and we took her home that day. We didn’t know about her social issues then. Honestly, we didn’t find out about her ‘issues’ until two months later when a stranger came into the apartment to look at a piece of furniture we were selling and she just Freaked Out. The stranger was all of three steps into our living room and there was Chloe – having suddenly popped out from behind the sofa all puffy tail, arched back and hisses. We were shocked. This was our docile little kitten. The one that liked to run across the hardware floors, slide for a bit and jump all nails to the back of the sofa. The little kitten that sleep all night on our heads. The one that never bit unless she was playing, never meowed unless her bowl was empty, never once hissed.

Earliest picture I have of "the little shit"

After that first incident, she got progressively worse. Unless it was us, Chloe took the firm stance that no other creature – human or otherwise – had any business being in her house. Most people who come over are always warned not to touch her no matter how friendly she comes across. It’s a trap. A stranger who touches Chloe will get bit, scratched and batted at. As she ages, she’s been getting a bit better, but not by much. Because they stayed at our house for an extended period of time, both my dad and my sister can be in the same room with her without having to fear for their limbs. In fact, Maggie can even touch her without a problem. Most other people, and creatures, forget about it.

"Don't taunt me woman! I will cut off your face!"

Before you think we are housing a monster, she is still a docile little kitten when it’s just us.

Who couldn't love this face?

This is not a post about my cat; really, I just needed you to know a bit about Chloe before I tell you what strangeness went on this weekend. It all started on Saturday night…

Andy tops up Chloe’s food bowl in the morning. She’s the sole cat in the house and because of this, we can leave out a bunch of food without her scoffing the whole thing down in one go. She grazes throughout the day which is preferable since we can leave her alone for a couple days with a heap of food without worrying she’s going to be starving by the time we get back. On Sunday morning, Chloe was being more annoying than usual trying to get us out of bed. She typically does this because she wants to go outside to eat grass and yell at the birds. Once we got up we found that her being annoying was because she was completely out of food. Andy stated, “But I just filled up her bowl yesterday! What a fat cow, eating all her food!” I simply wrote it off as Andy not filling up the bowl all the way. Andy did mention that late on Saturday night when he finally woke up from falling asleep on the couch in front of the TV that the back patio door was open (this is not a big deal as we sometimes leave the back door open to let Chloe outside – Andy simply forgot to close it before he went back to the couch – don’t rob us robbers). He also mentioned that when he went outside to smoke that he saw another cat in the back yard. It was highly possible that this other cat has snuck in while Andy was snoring away and ate all of Chloe’s food. Sneaky other cat!

The rest of our day on Sunday was pretty uneventful. It was a nice day but we spent a good portion of it cleaning the house. I did 6 loads of laundry and spent over an hour organizing the kitchen cupboard. Afterwards we went to get something to eat and then headed to the Harp at 4 PM so Andy could watch the Liverpool game. We stayed longer than we thought we would and ended up at home finally at 8:30 PM. Chloe appeared to be pretty freaked out about her food situation as she had gone through quite a bit of her food while we had been out. I just went ahead and filled it back up again.

This morning the bastard alarm went off at 6 AM. I climb out of bed and with half an eye open, grabbed my clothes and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. Andy shuffled downstairs to make coffee. As I was about to turn on the water for the shower I hear an “AAAAAAAGGGGGH!” from downstairs. My first thought was that Chloe had puked – common cat issue but I yelled down just to be sure.

“Hey, everything OK down there?”

“There’s….There’s ANOTHER CAT in the house!”

“Are you sure?”

“I think I can count up to two cats!”

I run downstairs and I’ll be damned, there is another cat, skinny and black, sitting under our coffee table in the most devil may care way. Because of where we were all day Sunday, we can only assume that this cat snuck in sometime while we were cleaning and hung out in the house ALL DAY without us even noticing. Andy opened the back door and I went over to the cat who sprinted out of our house like its tail was on fire.

And what is Chloe doing during all of this? She’s sitting at her now empty food bowl meowing that she’s hungry. The same cat that will puff out her tail and hiss at the front door if so much as an ant crawls past it on the other side had NO PROBLEMS with this cat being in the house twice and for a WHOLE DAY.

Because it’s us, Andy and I instantly came up with this elaborate double life that Chloe is leading. The house parties she has when we’re gone – the sneaking in of cat boyfriends – the lot. I’ve said for years that she must have a pretty lucrative modeling job going on as I see her photo on lot of cat products. I think she probably has a more exciting life than we do.

Evidence of modeling jobs:

The Fly, the Geek, and the Sloth

So for the dumb ass move of the weekend:

On Sunday morning when I was doing my hair I was kind of zoning out and managed to lose hold of the flat iron I was using to straighten my hair. I managed to quickly grab it, but not before the flat iron clamped on to my ear lobe. While it was only on my ear for a second, it was extremely hot and now my ear looks like the ear that fell off Jeff Goldblum in 'The Fly'. And it kind of hurts. I think it's pretty amazing how we take our different body parts for granted. I mean, you never really realize how much you use or touch a body part until the briefest moment of contact makes you howl in pain. You may be thinking, "An ear lobe? That's nothing, you never touch your ear lobe" because that's exactly what I thought. Until I realized today that when I'm at work working, I have a habit of pulling on my ears. Yeah, totally didn't know I did that.

So for the geek out moment of the weekend:

Sunday afternoon Andy and I finally got around to seeing 'Clash of the Titans'. I am a huge fan of the 1981 version. My mom claims I dragged her to see it in the theater 9 times because I was too young to go by myself. It was also on HBO the summer we got cable so I distinctly recall watching it every day, twice a day, that summer. Man, I was a treat to babysit. I have no problems telling you exactly why, at 7 years old, I loved that movie. One word: Pegasus. I'm not going to be embarrassed about that because I was a 7 year old girl. As a 7 year old girl I already had my unicorn obsession well under way. A winged horse was simply the next step. Of course, as I grew up and my obsession with anything mystically horse-related went away, I still loved the movie for it's other great moments. The Krakken, Medusa, the giant bird that carried Andromeda's cage, talking shields, invisible rendering helmets, gah. While the special effects are LAME and the acting questionable, it's still a fantastic movie.

How can you not love a flying horse?

I have been saying for 10 years that 'Clash of the Titans' would make an excellent remake just because we have the technology to make it that much better. I wasn't disappointed. Medusa was still scary as hell. The Krakken - SCARY AS HELL (Rwwwwrar!). And Pegasus? Yeah, I may have clapped and squealed when Pegasus flew into view. I'm a bit embarrassed. My 7 year old girly self couldn't contain her excitement. I want to see it again though Andy says he refuses to take me 9 times in the theater. Oh, just wait until it's on cable honey.

So for the completely unrelated to the weekend bit:

I am not a jewelry person what so ever, but I stumbled upon this today and completely fell in love with it. Not that it would look good on me, but it's so cute the urge to buy it is great. My 7 year old self might still be hanging around. Thankfully it's out of stock or I'd be $38 poorer right now.

Remember, my birthday is in 70 days!

Don't forget to vote for Chloe. Chloe will promise to give you one less hiss if you do.

Vote For Chloe

Not that she's ever done anything for you.

Some random pictures from the iPhone (because I waited so long)

So I'm 4 days late with this, which makes it a bit pointless. Unless I start a new blog feature called "The Weekend in Pictures...on THURSDAY".

Starting off with Saturday morning, I stop at Finest Nails and Spa to get my gangly toe nails trimmed and painted.

Off to the Harp to see our dear friend, Patrick, play drums with his band, Alder Eagle.

Mari and Gu bring in two little dogs that they are babysitting - puppy sitting? - for Mari's sister.

It also happens to be Tarik's birthday. There were a lot less shots than one would think. However, there were plenty off super rich brownies all around.

Andrea is happiest when she has a tambourine in her hand. Here's the proof.

Andy and I looking absolutely fabulous. That was pretty much the running joke of the weekend since after I got my haircut (fabulous), I had to get obnoxious sunglasses to be fabulous with.

"Here - hold this."

"So Oliver, what do you think of your mom playing tambourine?"

"I see."

On Sunday my sister, Maggie, took us all out to breakfast at Mutt's to celebrate her first big paycheck.

There were Peeps all around. Basically our folks had sent belated Easter candy - everyone got Peeps. Unfortunately no one in our group actually likes Peeps so the Peeps became art.

Seriously, we are so fabulous it almost makes me gag on a spoon.

Andy before he got "Sarah-ed". Sarah saw this and laughed, "Look, it's a Sears portrait - I even have my hand on his!"   I would agree save the big ole glass of beer.  Less they've changed things up at Sears since I've been there last.

Over to the Blue Beat where we have chips and I try Hot Sauce Art.

Dreary, cloudy day at the beach...just like I like it.

In a hole with nothing to show for it.

I was planning on giving you the weekend in pictures today but because I have other pressing things to relate to you, it will have to wait until tomorrow or Wednesday, or whenever the hell I get around to it. Of course, the longer I wait, the longer the “Weekend in Pictures” becomes “A bunch of random iPhone pictures from an unspecified point in time that no one really cares about anymore.”

So Sunday morning around 6:30 AM, I was peacefully dozing in bed. It was that type of sleep that Sundays are made for - you’re not tired enough to fully fall back to sleep but your just lazy enough to not get out of bed quite yet. Andy was just getting out of bed because he’s English, and a Liverpool Football supporter, which means that once every weekend he will get up at some God forsaken ass-crack in the morning time to watch the Liverpool match live. Sometimes the night before a match I will lovingly say to Andy, “wake me up, I’ll watch the game with you” but when the morning comes I always groan and tell him I’m too tired and please bring breakfast when he heads on home. Most of the time (if it’s after 6 AM), the minute I hear the door shut behind him, I get up anyways as I will have realized that I’m hungry or have to go to the bathroom or wouldn’t a cigarette be good right about now or since he’s gone I should watch ‘Private Practice’ or “What was that noise? Was that the cat? I better check.” This Sunday was one of those Sundays and at 6:45 AM I was shuffling downstairs to put on the kettle and booting up my computer lest something fantastically interesting happened to one of my 166 Facebook friends overnight.

A cup of tea and a quick Facebook assessment later, I was already thinking to myself that I should go back to bed but I was up, dammit, and might as well check my email accounts (yes, that is plural – don’t ask).

When I got around to logging into Hotmail, I noticed that I had a whole bunch of iTunes receipts sitting in there. I thought that was odd since the last thing I bought from iTunes was the new Gorillaz album ‘Plastic Beach’ (not entirely a bad album though I still prefer their earlier stuff) over two weeks ago. I opened up one of these receipts to see that it was for $42 worth of iPad applications. I don’t own an iPad and I have no intentions of owning an iPad as feminine product sounding name besides, I have a tendency to drop things that are relatively expensive and therefore keep all my high end electronics safely on a stable flat surface. The receipt for these iPad applications was disturbing, as well as the 8 other receipts for similar purchases that I kept opening. I say ‘disturbing’ when really I mean I was ‘freaking the fuck out’.

Steve Jobs: "Look what I made!"

A quick check to my bank account confirmed what I was desperately afraid of. My checking account was not only wiped out of funds, but so was my savings account (due to having set up overdraft insurance) and a bunch of hefty overdraft charges tacked on to boot. As it was only iTunes purchases to blame, one can’t say that my identity was stolen completely, but more that my iTunes account was – but it was enough to do damage. All in all, Mr. Fuckhead (well, what would you call him?) bought $400 in apps and put my account in a -$177.42 deficit. Asshole.

I’ve never had my identity or some part of it anyhow, stolen before. I was honestly under the belief that because my credit was so bad and my banking account so pathetically lacking in funds at any given time that I was immune. Well, I’m not that thick, I didn’t think I was immune but I certainly thought the likelihood of me getting hit was really low.

I ended up calling up Andy in a panic. I simply didn’t know what to do. Andy kept a level head about it (though it may be he wasn’t quite awake yet and that’s the only type of head he could muster) and let me know the plan of action….which was to call my bank first, which is what I did. I want to give Wells Fargo props right now for not only handling the situation with ease and grace but also for not making me feel like a criminal (“Are you sure those aren’t your charges?”). Within 15 minutes my card was cancelled and an investigation was put in motion. I should have a “loan” of the funds in 2 -4 business days. Thank you Wells Fargo.

Apple was another story. I would figure Apple would be very keen on getting down to the matter. For one, they can track exactly which computer in the world downloaded those apps. They also have the power to stop the applications from downloading (Mr. Fuckhead failed to completely download 16 of the gazillon applications he bought). Did Apple do that? No, of course not. Did Apple even care that this had happened? Nope, not even slightly. The Apple representative that I spoke to was oh so very helpful with her, “You can’t report that here. You have to fill out an email on the Apple website and someone will get back to you in 24 hours.” When someone from Apple got back to me (via email) they gave me the oh so very helpful tips to change my iTunes password and disable the credit card within iTunes – LIKE I HADN’T ALREADY DONE THAT THE MINUTE I SAW THE BOGUS CHARGES – and that they were sure my bank would sort it out. Thanks Apple. By the way, your iPad is really fucking lame and has a really stupid name.

And that’s that. Thankfully I do have a credit card to use until this gets all sorted. I will have to admit that through all of this I kind of giggled on the inside anytime the bank said, “Your identity has been compromised” like I was James Bond or something. I fully expected my compromised Debit card to blow up after I received the message.

******************

UPDATE 04/15/2010: From Monday to Wednesday, my checking account slowly crept to -499.00 due to Wells Fargo applying 9 separate overdraft charges to my account. There was also some misunderstanding about the form I had to send back to them. As of right now, Wells Fargo has my filled out fraud form and has taken off the overdraft charges. They have not yet reimbursed me (or given me a "loan") for the fraud items. Well, at least it's something...

Vote for Lucid

If  you would be so kind, please click on the following link and then click 'Vote' and then choose 'Lucid - Be The Last Time' and then click Submit.  Far be it from me to tell you what to do, but my buddy, Nik, plays violin for Lucid and he said that he'd give me a billion trillion dollars and a puppy if I got people to vote for his band.

No, he didn't really, but it would be nice if he did.  I could use a billion trillion dollars, especially with a puppy.  Puppies are really expensive.

http://www.iwcp.co.uk/ribfest/index.php?page=poll-poll

That's Mr. Nik 2nd to the right.

Much Todo About Nothing

So I’m going to start right off by saying, I really don’t have much to tell you about today. Doesn’t that intrigue you? I bet that line would make an award winning start to a bestselling novel:

"What you are about to read is very dull. Thanks for the $12.99 you just paid for this paperback."

Fact of the matter is I have to continue to write even when I don’t have much to say or else I will stop writing entirely and that does not a good blog make. I pre-apologize (your favorite phrase, Andy) for what I will assume is a dull post. I can’t say for sure, I haven’t written it yet. Perhaps my best bet is to give you a life at the moment update.

First off, Happy Birthday Mom! Not that she reads this blog as I’ve been afraid to give her the link due to my penchant for cursing. And it isn’t that she hasn’t found it on her own- she’s a smart woman and a year wiser today to boot –but she hasn’t mentioned it to me if she has. Happy Birthday regardless.

Secondly, yesterday Andy let his boss know about his intent to move to Oz sometime in the near future. Andy inquired about a transfer through his current place of employment as it’s the easiest option for migrating. His boss’s response? Perhaps Andy should consider migrating to India as that is where the largest IT centers is in his company. Andy, being polite, said he would discuss it with me. When Andy first told me all of this I had to resist my urge to laugh, but then it got me thinking – would India really be so bad? The first thing I did was look up what the current temperature was in Hyderabad, India – where his company is located. It said 105 degrees Fahrenheit. Then I looked up yearly averages. In December, the coldest month, it averages 82 degrees. Since Andy and I both tend to moan, whinge, complain, and all around bitch when the mercury goes above 75 degrees here, we quickly ascertained that India was not for us. It’s a shame really; I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have my own cook, maid, and driver.

Brr...looks cold.

Thirdly, Billy the tomato plant developed blight a couple weeks ago. That’s the last time I heed advice from Topsy Turvy Tomato Planter comment boards. I’ve stopped watering him so much so he’s coming around, including with the spotting of two dime sized tomatoes.

Lastly, it’s the monthly pub quiz at the Harp tonight. I’m ashamed that I haven’t updated my pub quiz blog in two months. Not that anyone was reading it, but it’s the principle. I’m hoping for a good quiz tonight though, I think we’ll be going into tie breaker rounds as my quiz is so ridiculously easy this month a Miss Teen USA contestant would do well. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I wrote it up – I must be watching too much television, my general IQ has gone down.

So yes, that’s all I have for now – exciting stuff. Now please go here and read for 5 minutes so you can suddenly think of me as the Most Interesting Blogger To Ever Walk The Earth.

Revenge of the AmeriBrit

So yesterday Andy became an American citizen. I would like to clarify that Andy did not qualify to become an American citizen because he got married to me - an American. You have to wait at least 3 years to gain citizenship through marriage. Nope, Andy did it the ‘ole fashioned way – many many MANY years on a green card through his employer and then lots of money to the US government to get processed.

Yesterday was his oath ceremony which I had to miss because of work and a lack of vacation days. I’m really disappointed that I wasn’t able to be there. I love me a good ‘ole fashioned oath ceremony with a televised message from the President and little plastic flags that you get to wave about. I’m trying to make up my lack of presence by holding an Americano BBQ party for him this Saturday. I’m trying to convince everyone to dress as American (or really, over the top tacky American) as they can but I haven’t really gotten a sense of enthusiasm over that (which is what you can expect if half of your guests are foreigners). Regardless of our guest’s apparel, I’m planning on making what I consider some typical American BBQ food – throughout the ages.

I’ve got your hamburgers, hot dogs, and potato chips of course but I’m also pulling out the 60’s classics – deviled eggs, pigs in a blanket, cream cheese wrapped pickles – all with little American flag toothpicks. I’m debating putting in the effort to make an Ambrosia salad – you know, the creamy Jell-O monstrosity with bits of fruit suspended in it – but I don’t know yet. If I do attempt it, expect photos.

So yes, Andy is an American now, or like we came up with quite awhile ago – an AmeriBrit. Of course this means that Andy is having a grand ‘ole time winding me up with his claim that he’s a minority now and that I’m oppressing him and he’s going to write to Obama to complain.

Is he cute or is he British?

I make no claims on writing this myself.  In fact, this was written by  Sarah Hepola at the Morning News.  If you like to click, here's the original article.  I may have doubled over with laughter reading this ("It's funny because it's true!" - Homer Simpson) though the pain of doubling over is better than peeing in the bed.   You'll get that joke when you're done reading this.

Question: I recently started dating a British guy. I think he’s cute, but maybe it’s just that he has an English accent. How can I tell the difference? —Carrie F.

Answer: Like many romantic dilemmas—“Your place or mine?,” “Is it warm in here, or am I just drunk?”—this is a question that has long plagued American women. The British accent is Kryptonite to the female resolve, and though the evening may start with him innocently “chatting you up,” it ends with your knickers draped on a lamp in his sketchy midtown apartment. Would this happen if he didn’t have that damn British accent? Yes, because you’re a slut. But it wouldn’t have happened twice. And not while his mum was visiting.

When it comes to the attractiveness of British men, American women are simply incapable of rendering a proper judgment. Bad teeth, the unibrow, Guinness bloat, doesn’t matter; hell, we think Tony Blair is hot. Studies have proven that British accents are, in fact, the number one cause of hot women dating nerdy men. (Number two cause? Woody Allen.) There’s nothing wrong with dating men who have British accents; Madonna liked her husband’s so much she got one of her own. But there are scoundrels out there—those who use their cute British accents to lure innocent birds to their flat for a friendly game of hide the blood sausage. Sorry.

The following prompts will help as you try to decipher whether your new bloke is a winner or a wanker. Beware the British accent, ladies, and remember: The country that gave us Shakespeare also gave us Simply Red.


What kind of accent does he have?

Even more than in America, British regional accents are the key to deciphering class and social stature. Does he speak with a crisp London clip? A slurry cockney? Does it matter? No, because they all sound freaking adorable. What do you care?


What’s his education like?

Decades of BBC and English Lit classes have genetically programmed the American female to believe the British are culturally superior beings, skipping around Oxford making puns with their Byron under one arm and a pot of marmalade under the other. This isn’t always true, of course—at least according to The Full Monty. Apparently England is also full of working-class people who watch telly and prevail against overwhelming odds. But talking about books and stuff makes you look smart. The other day I told a British guy I read Irvine Welsh, and he was so impressed he called me “brilliant.”


Does he have a nanny?

This could be trouble. On the other hand, if he is currently dating a supermodel or a foxy but curiously cold English actress, he is so yours.


How does he dress?

The archetypal British chap wears tweed jackets, a fine cashmere sweater vest, and a dashing Burberry coat. (Well, that’s what they wore in Closer. Hell if I’ve ever been to London.) But most British blokes I know are less formal, prone to wearing World Cup-sponsored clothing and jeans. This is fine. It’s to be expected. With one caveat: If there is any chance of a gold chain and a yellow tracksuit in his closet, I say run.


Beware cultural nuance.

Though we speak the same language, Americans and Brits have famously different words to describe the same thing. Everyone knows what we call “fries,” they call “chips.” But there are subtle phrases which, if you’re not careful, can cause grievous misunderstanding. For instance: When he says, “Can I bum a fag?” he’s not trying to expand your relationship—he is simply asking for a cigarette. When he says, “I could murder a taxi right now” he means only that he wants a taxi very badly. When he says, “I’m off to the pub with me mates for some tipple,” it means he’s going to pee the bed. Watch out.


Does he ever drag you to a soccer match at 9 a.m., and get you drunk on Irish whiskey, and then tell you he’d fancy you if you just beat up those two bloody Welshmen in the corner?

No? Crap. I am such a sucker.


OK, pretend he did do that. So, in that case, do you think when you asked him about it later, bringing up fairly legitimate concerns about health and legal matters, he would respond to you with phrases like “what a bunch of bollocks,” “stop yer whingeing,” and “for fuck’s sake?”

Because that would be rude.


And then what are the chances that, in the middle of what you would consider an innocent fight, he might shock everyone in the subway by suddenly calling you “a bloody cunt?”

Because when it happens, it’s not pretty.


But wait a minute: Does he say those things in British accent?

Cause that’s cute.


And does he spell “labor” like “labour?” And “theater” like “theatre?”

I know! CUTE!


And does he measure things in metres and talk about weight in stone? And reference the Queen? And when he speaks in that British accent do you forget all about how he called you a cunt and pissed in your bed and wears the tracksuit and made you beat up that poor Welshman?

I say go for it. Cheers, mate.

Mr. Posh

My husband is so posh he whispers polo scores in his sleep.

Of course it should come with a pickle!

So with a little urging from the Usual Suspects, here is my post on the lustrous Bloody Mary. Actually, this post is actually inspired from the simple fact that in the last two weeks every time I had a Bloody Mary, somebody invariably exclaimed, “are those pickles?!” Similar to having an unexplained badger sized lump growing on my back, I had to explain a little bit about what it means to be from the Midwest and what we expect from a Bloody Mary.

I am not a Bloody Mary enthusiast. I like Bloody Marys, I really do, but I don’t do weekend 50 mile radius searches for the best Bloody Mary in my area. I don’t have the time, the money, or even the care to bother. I maybe have a Bloody Mary once or twice a month (I’ve had more recently, funny enough, hence this post). All I ask from my Bloody Marys is that they are done properly. Of course, this is all a matter of perspective (“Too much fucking perspective” – Spinal Tap) – everyone wants something different from their Bloodies.

What can easily ruin a Bloody Mary for me is it being too sweet, too spicy, or too strong. Too much Worcestershire sauce will be the too sweet, the horseradish (which I wish would be banned from existence, not just in Bloody Marys) will be the too spicy, and the too strong…well, let’s just say I like booze as much as the next person but if I can see through my Bloody Mary, something is seriously amiss. And then there’s the matter of the ‘extras’.

In California, if you order a Bloody Mary you will get a lemon, a lime, and MAYBE a pathetic looking olive or wilting celery stick. Very rarely I’ve seen the dreaded pickled asparagus or (GAG!) the pickled onion. California always has the lemon and lime though – if nothing else. I contribute this to the amount of citrus in this State; they have to use it up somehow.

A "fancy" California Bloody Mary.  Pathetic.  At least there is an olive.

In the Midwest*, it’s a bit different. And when I say different, I’m talking about the Bloody Mary extras. The potential for having a good or bad Bloody Mary Basic is the same everywhere but it’s the extras that really make a difference. In the Midwest when you order a Bloody Mary, you don’t just order a drink - you order a drink and a snack. No, you actually get TWO drinks and a snack. The Bloody Mary extras vary from place to place in the Midwest but 90% of the time when you order a Bloody Mary you will get AT LEAST the Bloody Mary Basic with AT LEAST two olives, a pickle spear and a side car of the tap beer of your choice. Yes, a small side of beer. It’s to sip on if the Bloody is too spicy or to just pour in your Bloody if you so choose (and I do occasionally). In Wisconsin, where they are known for their cheese and also for having the Usinger sausage factory in town, it’s not uncommon to also get a piece of cheese and a beef stick. Talk about Bloody Mary heaven.

A Bloody Mary from Comet Cafe in Milwaukee.  Yes, that is bacon. Sadly, I did not take this picture or have this Bloody though I'll be back in July.

I can’t be that picky living in California. I certainly can’t expect the cheese and the beef stick. I really can’t ask for a pickle unless they have a kitchen onsite. I’m not going to get a side of beer unless I order (and pay for) one. But I do expect olives. It’s a little thing, olives; all bars have a jar or two. I get annoyed when I order a Bloody Mary here and all that comes with it are those pathetic lemon and lime wedges – which I don’t even like and take out the minute the bartender is out of sight. Kristie, my friend and all around best bartender, knows this about me. When I order a Bloody Mary at the Harp I get a stick full of those green orbs of salty olive goodness and two spears of pickles from the Harp kitchen. Sure, I still have to order my beer on the side and run the risk of looking really really thirsty, but it’s worth it. Of course the minute I walk out onto the patio with my Kristie inspired Blood Mary, I will invariably hear, “are those pickles?!”

Bloody Mary from the Garage, East Side Milwaukee.  It was more impressive before I ate bits out of it then decided to take the picture.   You can also easily make this Bloody Mary vegetarian by giving me your beef stick.

If you are interested in learning more about Midwest Bloody Marys from a more professional source, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel has a great article on the subject. You should check it out just so you know I’m not making this shit up.

*I’m bunching the Midwest up in here as part of an assumption. What I’m about to say applies to Milwaukee, where I’m from, and to places in Chicago, where I’ve been, but I can’t say for sure this applies to places like Minneapolis or Detroit.

Addicted to Picasa

So recently I’ve been incredibly addicted to Picasa, an online photo storage program offered by Google. I pay $5.00 a year for 20 gigs of storage which is incredibly cheap considering the benefit of having an online backup so you don’t have to make hard copies of your photos (or CDs). Not only that but once the photos are uploaded, you can send them directly to Snapfish or Shutterfly to order prints. And no, as a matter of fact, I don’t work for Google - though I certainly wouldn’t turn them down for a job if they asked (not that I could pass their interview process).

One of the reasons why I’m incredibly addicted to Picasa is the face recognition feature. After you tag a few people, it gets really good of guessing for you and all you have to do is confirm that it guessed right. I have literally spent hours tagging people and doing confirmations on Picasa’s guesses. I might be obsessive compulsive but there’s something really satisfying tagging a bunch of albums then using the “Show All Pictures with Mr. So-n-So”. Yes, I am that big of a dork.

To add another level to my twisted sense of humor, I try to pick really funny profile pictures for all my friends. It makes me giggle.

Saturday Supplement Special: Week One

Welcome to the Saturday Supplement Special where we track the success or failure of Billy Tomato who lives in the Topsy Turvy Tomato Planter.

So recently I was at Ace Hardware during one of my lunch breaks. I get an hour for lunch and even after getting something to eat and getting the mandatory decaf iced coffee from the Coffee Bean, I tend to have 10-15 minutes left to spare on my lunch hour. Sometimes I go back early (dork!), but sometimes I wander through the stores “looking at stuff”. Seeing as there’s a Walgreen’s, Ace Hardware, and Office Depot there, I tend not to buy anything except pens and lip balm. However, it’s spring (or near enough) and Ace Hardware has all its plants out on display now.

At first I just stood outside looking at all the cute little plants. There were bell peppers and cucumbers and strawberries. Then the tomatoes caught my eye. I might have gotten a bit wistful. I love tomatoes and have tried on more than one occasion to grow them. The first try I not only didn’t cage them properly, but I was also bad on watering. The last time I tried, it was going really well until my poor plant got attacked by Tomato Hornworm caterpillars. I really do love gardening but I’m really crap at it. I haven’t bothered trying growing anything in the last two years and had no intention of trying this year until I wandered in the bowels of Ace Hardware and found the Topsy Turvy Tomato Grower (on sale!). I realized then and there that the Topsy Turvy Tomato Grower was a Must Have.

I purchased the Topsy Turvy Tomato Grower, a bag of Miracle Grow soil, gardening gloves and the cutest tomato plant whose variety I have already forgotten. I then got back to work and looked up the best way to plant the Topsy Turvy Tomato Grower.

Those not familiar with the Topsy Turvy Tomato Grower please go here and watch their infomercial so I don’t have to explain that it’s a planter that you hang from a hook and that your plant grows upside down to avoid the possible pests and that the planter acts like a greenhouse on the soil helping it grow better. Oh wait, I just saved you 10 minutes.

The first thing you learn about the planter is that once it’s filled with dirt and water, the planter becomes incredibly heavy. Every review I read started with “it’s really heavy”. Thankfully one of the reviewers mentioned that using moss layered with the dirt helps reduce the weight. While a great suggestion, my first thought was, “great, now I have to go back to Ace to get moss.”

The second thing you learn is that because the plant is hanging upside down, it loses a lot of water – therefore, you have to water it at least once a day if not twice a day if it’s really hot.

On Wednesday, Andy helped put up the hook in the backyard and I fumbled with assembling the planter. This little video makes the process look easy. I’m clumsy and typically use the force method for all assembly related things and managed to tear off 3 arms of leaves on the tomato plant and tore the spongy bit that goes around the plant in half. I can pour in dirt properly and within 15 minutes, Billy the Tomato Plant was up.

Yes, its name is Billy and for once, I wasn’t responsible for the name. When I first came home with the little tomato plant, Andy looked up from his spot on the couch and said, “I see you have Billy.” “Billy?” “Yeah, Billy Tomato” Billy it is.

 Billy begins his life by chilling upside down. 

Great Design Change Folly 2010

So, I don’t know if any of you checked in earlier today but I was in the midst of The Great Design Change Folly of 2010 and you may have caught the blog mid-change. What you see here now is – I think – what I’m sticking with until The Great Design Change Folly of 2011. My frustration and rage level with the whole thing is quite high – think Hera finding Zeus in bed with a mortal high and I just can’t be bothered to tweak it any further. I realize that the font is ENORMOUS. After struggling with removing the RSS Feed links (which I have no problem admitting that I have no idea what the hell is even AFTER looking it up), I spent quite a while looking for the great big Font Adjuster button with no avail. I’m tired people. I guess to put a great big American bright side spin on it, a least those near blind people can comfortably read my blog sitting across the room without having to have their Seeing Eye dog bark out the words for them.

Andy and I were watching ‘House’ last night and it happened to be the episode where the fabulous Donna Pinciotti, er, Laura Prepon played a woman who had some disease that definitely wasn’t lupus, but also was a blogger who blogged about every single detail of her life. At some point during the show Andy asked me to pause the show to ask me if I read any blogs like that. I had to admit that I have and do read blogs like that (I would link to these blogs but I’m honestly terrified that it will somehow come back to haunt me). I think Andy might have also asked why it was that I blogged, but that might be a figment of my imagination. I do remember telling him, though poorly, as it was later on in the evening and my brain had shut off and I was really interested in seeing what disease Donna, er, Laura had that definitely wasn’t lupus. Or cancer.

Why do I blog? That’s a fine question really. So fine of a question that I’ve just sat here for 5 minutes looking at that question. Why do I blog? I’ve been writing in journals and diaries and such since I was 8 years old. I’ve been writing short stories since before that. I really enjoy writing. That isn’t to say that I’m any good at it, in fact I’m rather crap (a creative writing class in my short stint in college was proof to that statement), I just enjoy it.

Blogging is such a natural step in the journal writing process. It benefits me two-fold. One, I get to catalog my life so I don’t have to physically remember it (everyone who knows me knows how bad my memory is). Two, because a blog’s natural existence is PUBLIC, I benefit from laying down my personal thoughts in an edit mode. Stay with me here – when I still wrote in paper journals, you wouldn’t believe the shit I was putting down to record. The whole “I feel ugly today” or “I don’t think he loves me anymore” and “I think so-in-so is a fat, back stabbing bitch!” While it might be what I was feeling on that particular day, there would always be an entry two pages away with a “I feel fantastically pretty today” and “He DOES love me!” and “So-n-so apologized, she’s such a good friend!”. When I go through those old journals I just roll my eyes and cringe.

You could argue and say that writing is therapeutic. If you did, then I agree with you. Nowadays I tend to write out my frustrations in a Word document, save it to my hard drive, and when if in 3 days later I think its emotional crap, I delete it. All the benefits without the wasted trees and the possibility of some curious 10 year old child stumbling upon my anxieties 100 years from now thinking that people from the 20th Century were crazy whiney.

The last thing I want to mention is the audience aspect. Bloggers would be damn liars if they told you that they didn’t enjoy the audience aspect. We like to know people are reading what we’re writing just like you enjoy knowing that people listen when you talk. We’re addicted to stats logs. We’re addicted to comments. We don’t expect millions of readers, we don’t expect book deals (though, c’mon, how cool would that be?), we just want to know people are reading.

I just realized I’m getting too serious. Here’s a picture of a hermit crab wearing a hat that I got off the internet. FACT: I wrote ‘hermit crab wearing a hat’ BEFORE I looked to see if such a thing existed. Because I know the internet has everything, I wasn’t too worried.

I seriously cannot believe how easy that was.

It's come to that I'm afraid.

Well HELLO.

Best comment wins...well, I have no idea what you would win.  I guess nothing.  I'm just interested to see what my fine readers can come up with.

Speaking of which, Ed told me that I need to pimp my blog because everyone else does it.  While I don't like to think that I'm of the herded cow variety, I know that I am so here I go.  If you are here and you check in more than once, how about be a Facebook Follower?  That's right, that little annoying box on the right that says "Follow Badgers with Knives on Facebook", click 'Follow This Blog' please.  It really doesn't do anything besides put your little pretty profile picture in that box making me look more popular than I already am.   Go on, you know you want to.  Because you know, having our cat as one of my Facebook followers is a bit sad.

I will completely ignore the sadness of having a Facebook page for the cat by the way.

Honeymoon in New Orleans: All the Rest

So Andy finally got around to reading my most recent blog posts. When I asked him what he thought he replied, “They were really long and you talked about food…A LOT.” I was a little put off by his comments (I may have “hrumphed”) but vowed not to talk about food once in this final wrap up post. I’m afraid the length of it all will be about the same – some things, like my rambling nature, never change – but at least the honeymoon will be properly documented and put to bed. Oh hey, semi-pun. Look at me go.

On Thursday, the day after Official Eating and Dive Bar Day, Andy and I woke up early to get ready for an 8 AM pick-up from the Louisiana Tour Company. As mentioned in my last post, neither of us likes being a tourist and neither of us enjoy tours but I had wanted to see one of Louisiana’s many plantations and we were both very interested in taking a ride on the air boat through the swampy Bayou. While we could have rented a car and taken ourselves, it was cheaper and what we thought would be more convenient to do a combined tour package. If we knew then what we know now, I think both of us would be very happy paying the extra $50 to never have to go through that pain again.

We happened to be the first people to get on the bus that was first headed out to the Laura Plantation in Vacherie, about an hour away from New Orleans. This would have been fine, but before we took that hour drive, we had to sit on the bus for over an hour while it went around to all the hotels in the French Quarter picking up passengers. By the time we got to the Laura Plantation it was nearing 10:30 AM and both Andy and I were very cranky sitting on a small hot bus with a bunch of old ladies and French tourists. Because of this, neither of us enjoyed the plantation tour that much. It was interesting enough, but drawn out and the tour guide (who also happened to be the owner) had to mention at every opportunity that 1. He owned the place. 2. He wrote a book about it. 3. The book was available for sale in the gift shop and he’d be more than happy to sign said book for us. It was nearing 11:30 AM when we finally boarded the bus again, exhausted, hungry, and ready to shove a signed autographed copy of the History of the Laura Plantation book up the owner’s tight backside.

 

Can't you just see the happiness on Andy's face after being on a bus for two hours?

We had hopes that the bus would take us directly from the plantation to the air boats. Jaysus, if I had known what was ahead of us before we got to the air boats, I would have gotten off the bus and walked back to New Orleans. First there was the 40 minutes at the 2nd plantation while we waited for the other group to join us. Then 20 minutes pulled to the side of the road so the tourists could take pictures of trees (TREES! C’MON PEOPLE!). Then the hour ride back to some dinky town to wait for the 2nd tour bus to transfer the swamp tour tourists away. Then the 40 minutes on the bus before we got to the air boats. Then the 30 minute wait before we actually boarded the air boats.

 

Weeeeeee!

The only redeeming point in the entire day was the air boat ride itself. We opted for the slightly more expensive 6 seater air boat (opposed to 12). It was more personal and the tour guide, Ragin’ Cajun Captain Ernie, was eager to answer our questions and made sure we got a bit of a speed thrill when we weren’t cruising slowly looking for gators. Besides the huge tool of a man who sat in front of me who had to ask the cringe worthy Hurricane Katrina question, it was loads of fun.

 

Cute, sleeping little baby gator.  Man, I wish I could sleep with my eyes open, it would be really useful in meetings.

Which I guess is a good time as any to go into the Katrina Thing. I don’t mean to belittle hurricane Katrina by calling it a ‘thing’ by the way. I don’t know how else to describe it. Hurricane Katrina happened 4 ½ years ago. It was horrible and awful and the City of New Orleans went through some horrors that I don’t think the rest of us could even imagine. BUT, that was 4 ½ years ago. New Orleans took a hard hit and it’s working to come back. It’s going to take a long time to get New Orleans back to what it was before but that city has so much heart, it will come back. With that said, we didn’t witness much damage, or that we noticed. On our air boat tour we saw the effects of the hurricane on the native cypress trees, which are fresh water trees but are dying as there is so much salt water left in the soil that the trees have barnacles on them. But that’s about it. (You can take a Hurricane Katrina damage tour, btw, but personally I think that does more harm than good). The people that you talk to in New Orleans don’t like to talk about Katrina; they’re tired of talking about Katrina. What they do want to talk about is how the city is coming back, slowly but surely. They want to talk about the hope and the determination of the people left there. Most of all, they want to talk about how the Saints won this year’s Super Bowl. If you go to New Orleans, please keep that with you. I know you’re curious, we all are – but that’s what the books written about the subject are for. Respect the people and keep your curiosities to yourself.

So yes! The air boat! Even though it was winter time and alligators hibernate when it’s cold, we managed to see a bunch of baby gators. Sadly, the Ragin’ Cajun wasn’t able to grab the baby 1 footer for us to hold. That was probably the only bummer of the afternoon. Oh wait, yes…the hour and half it took us to get back to the French Quarter after the tour was a huge bummer. Never have I loathed a form of transportation as much as I loathed that damn 16 seat tour bus. Even though Andy and I were both absolutely exhausted after 9 hours of busses and tours, we bee lined to the next dive bar in our Quarter Rat book in an effort to erase the memory of the day.

On Friday, our last full day in New Orleans, while we were walking around looking for somewhere to eat we happened to run into a place that rented 3-wheeled motorcycle type buggies. I could tell from the start that Andy wasn’t interested (i.e. being a wet blanket) but because Andy loves me and sometimes lets me get what I want (operative word there being “sometimes”) he agreed – as long as we only did the hour rental instead of the special priced 2 hour rental. Andy drove as he has a motorcycle license (not required, but definitely helpful for operation) and I sat as a passenger with a shit eating grin on my face, giggling and taking pictures. We basically cruised around the French Quarter and pissed off delivery trucks (the 3 wheeler just didn’t go that fast) while people took our picture and asked where they could rent one for themselves. The hour went way too quickly and as you can see in the picture, we looked like dorks, but it was well worth the $55.

 

For Beth, who loves pictures of me looking like a dork.

Afterwards we walked around some more, did a few more dive bar locations, and as night fell, headed over to Frenchman Street to catch some live music. There are places in the Quarter that have live music, Preservation Hall being the main one, but having now been, I would hands down recommend Frenchman Street for live music, especially after 8 PM on a Friday night. Every place had music and all the music was good. I was absolutely chuffed (English slang, I’m sorry, means “thrilled”) that we managed to catch both a man who played two guitars at one time while playing the bass guitar with his feet, and Chaz, the washboard man, and his band. It was a perfect end to a near perfect honeymoon (tour bus, I’m looking at you!) and I was a bit sad Saturday morning having to say good-bye to it all.

 

Chaz!

The only other thing to note is that I was an absolute pill (how old am I, seriously?) on the plane ride back home. I was tired and cranky and quite a bit sad to be leaving New Orleans and irritated that we had two toddlers sitting next to us that wouldn’t shut up and a friendly but creepy born again Christian in our row with us and we were at the very last row on the plane and we didn’t have time to have a cigarette on our layover in Houston. Once we landed I may have (can’t say for sure, my mind had gone into Crazy Lady mode) grabbed my bags and pushed ahead 3 rows in an effort to avoid having to wait for the toddler family. I also may have sighed loudly and then exclaimed loudly, “What is your problem people? MOVE” and “Anyone from Irvine, please step aside and let the normal speed people go.” I was obnoxious and once I was outside smoking, I refused to go back inside for the baggage as I was quite embarrassed about my actions. Nicotine addiction isn’t pretty. I’m not proud.

 

The happy couple still happy in New Orleans.  We tend to frown when not on vacation.

NEXT…my normal mundane blog!