Snakes! On a plane!

I first heard about the upcoming movie Snakes on a Plane because I religiously read the imdb.com gossip page. "Wow," I thought, "Can it get any better than Samuel L. Jackson on a plane with a big bunch of snakes? I have to see that!" I especially loved that Sam insisted that the movie remain entitled Snakes on a Plane. The man gets it.

Since then, the thing has become a phenomenon. Everyone on the interwebs is talking about this movie. I read somewhere that they were adding a line to Sam's dialogue (ostensibly to get a PG-13 rating): "We need to get these motherfucking snakes off this motherfucking plane!" You can see a clip here.

I am so there.

Image courtesy of some dude.

Pu$$y update

Has anyone else using blogger noticed that there's a BIG change in the options? Suddenly I have far fewer icons (what, I don't get to change the font color anymore?), and I don't see HTML until the damn post is published. Blogger, I hate you, I fucking hate you! P.S. Page me later.

Anyhoo, so little Mr. Clyde has a new home. Friends of my friend Ai Li, who is a Crazy Cat Lady like me, recently had their older female cat roll a seven. They wanted their next cat to be a boy, and this is where Clyde comes in. Unfortunately, the husband is out of work, so Booby and I are out of pocket for the vet bills we incurred. Of course, the important thing is that Clyde (now "Elliot") has a loving home. I've already received a progress report, which amazingly didn't include distress at his tendency to knock over plants, complain loudly for food at 4 a.m., or insistent clawing and kneading of one's breasts. There was, however, mention of him finding his way to the top of a very tall chest of drawers. That's my boy!

I miss him quite a bit, though, and I'd really like to get into fostering homeless cats for shelters. Has anyone done this before? Am I crazy? I await your advice and insight.

Meanwhile, my "special needs" cat, Emma, endeared herself to me by shitting in her kitty apartment in such a way that it looked like she spun around like a dervish while evacuating her bowels. And then she wiped her widdle paws all over the (white) radiator cover, the little sweetheart. Poor Booby had to clean it all up and give her a very thorough bath because I'm not allowed to touch cat poo for fear of contracting toxoplasmosis. His rewards will be great for that one. An extra helping of white rice (sadly, this would be a wonderful reward for him, as its lack of health benefits means I have taken it off the menu, and he adores it)!

Anyone else have pet tales of woe? I know all you dog owners probably have a million and one!

Selling out

I don't use this blog to rant very much about corporate evil (that's something I tend to reserve for other people's comment boxes), but today I feel a need to vent. I am not a vegetarian, but I do try to eat natural, organic, unprocessed foods and I use exclusively cruelty-free personal and household products.

My very favorite company, and the one I figured was immune to the typical parent company takeovers that so many grassroots businesses fall prey to, Tom's of Maine, has announced its partnership with Colgate-Palmolive.

This hit me hard, because it wasn't that long ago that I sent an angry letter to Colgate-Palmolive after finding out they are the parent company for Hills Science Diet pet foods. The reply I received from their "Consumer Response Manager," David Coffman, stated:

Today, at Colgate, animal testing is the exception to the rule in their product safety efforts, with more than 98% of all internal requests for product safety substantiations being met using non-animal alternatives and available databases. In 1999, Colgate declared a voluntary moratorium on all animal testing of their Personal Care Products designed for adults and the ingredients used in those products. Testing is governed by a strict set of Colgate-developed guidelines which meet or exceed legislated standards and is only conducted after all other options have been exhausted.

Note a couple of things, here:

1. "98% of all internal requests," meaning, not requests that originate from the government. Is it wrong of me to think that these requests come from a legal department that harbors fears of lawsuits if Colgate's toothpaste gets into someone's eye and there isn't animal testing to back it up? I call fire insurance on this one, boys.

2. "a voluntary moratorium on ... products designed for adults." Why not the children's products?

3. "strict Colgate-developed guidelines." Again, our government doesn't specify a need for such tests. But colgate cares so much that they test anyway.

Granted, it could be worse; Tom's could have sold out to Proctor & Gamble, who are infamous for their cruelty to animals in their Iams pet food experiments.

In response to my email, I received the following missive from Tom's of Maine:

Dear Mrs. Harridan,

Thank you for your email. I can certainly understand your strong feelings about this issue.

As you know, testing our natural products for safety and efficacy without the use of animals has been a central value for Tom's of Maine from the beginning in 1970. In 1984, we even challenged the FDA and created the first ever non-animal testing toothpaste approval process.

Our commitment to no animal ingredient and no animal testing policies, and all of our standards for natural and sustainable, are part of the agreement with Colgate. They remain intact and unchanged.

We are encouraged to see that 99% of internal requests for safety assessment at Colgate are addressed by using available databases and non-animal alternatives with a goal of eliminating all animal testing in the future. In 1999, Colgate declared a voluntary moratorium on all animal testing of its Personal Care Products designed for adults and the ingredients used in those products. Further, Colgate has committed more than a million dollars annually towards the development, validation, and scientific and regulatory acceptance of alternative non-animal testing methods of product safety research. We hope to help Colgate reach its ultimate goal of eliminating all animal testing by sharing what we've learned over the years.

We hope this information is helpful to you.

Sincerely,
Patti Murphy
Consumer Dialogue and Services

Sigh.

R-e-s-p-e-c-t

This morning, my husband and I found ourselves driving to my fertility dotor's office, bearing a little specimen cup containing swimmers (someone on another blog suggested carrying it between the breasteses, and damn if that wasn't a great method. I stuck the cup in between the cups of my bra, slung a sweater over top, et voila!). But more details on the why and what happened later; what I really want to convey here is our car conversation.

I had been on the phone with the lab tech earlier, and I'd asked her if it was OK that Booby come along to my appointment. She thought I meant that he wanted to fill his specimen cup right there in the office, and even when I assured her that we were going to take care of that at home, she insisted on telling me that they didn't have the proper "facilities" for this type of evacuation. I guess they don't keep a stock of nudie mags (though I often read fashion mags there that have the occasional frontal nudity, and if my memories of breaking into my brother's treehouse serve me well, National Geographic will also do in a pinch). I relayed this conversation to Booby as we drove along.

Me: "She was very insistent that you not arrive without the specimen already collected. I wanted to tell her that you weren't going to be getting your wang out right there in the office, but she wasn't hearing me!"

Him: "Honey, you must never call my ... equipment ... a wang."

Me: "I'll call it whatever I want. What, now I'm not allowed to use words like schlong or dick in reference to you?"

Him: "No. You can't."

Me: "Well, then what am I supposed to call it?"

Him: "A penis. See, you must respect the cock."

Me and Him: {hysterical laughter}

Funnily enough, we went out for breakfast afterwards, and Carman's Country Kitchen is, for some reason, festooned with penis crockery (More pictures TK!). So it was a good day to be instructed to respect the cock.

Happiness Is

...going to see The Colbert Report in New York next month. Squee!

Thank you, Booby.

When in doubt, make lists

These are the books I have waiting for me to read while I finish up Kitchen Confidential (which is fascinating, although Tony Bourdain is a smacked ass and I got to this one about 5 years too late):

Cold Truth, by Mariah Stewart
This is listed as "romantic suspense," which makes me think of Victoria Holt and raven-haired ladies running away from castles on dark, stormy nights. Some of the reviewers on Amazon were pissed that there wasn't enough romance, which I can only take as a good sign, because I've read too much Mary Higgins Clark in my time (where the harrowed but spunky heroine is saved by the hunky policeman, and all of her female friends also make fitting love matches by the end of the book, as well).

Milkrun, by Sarah Mlynowski
I read a reader's copy of her book Fishbowl that was silly fun. This one was a huge selller, so I thought I'd give it a go as a mental palate cleanser.

Panicking Ralph, by Bill James
Top Banana, also by Bill James
I can't decide whether I love this series or hate it. I have a deep affection for British police procedurals, but the cops in these books are so defiantly amoral that it's tough to know whom to root for. The dialogue is pretty amazing, though. Quite gritty.

The Speckled Monster, by Jennifer Lee Carrell
A story about smallpox that looks great, but a trifle academic. Sometimes I have to force myself to read non-fiction to exercise the small part of my brain that accepts things that aren't total fluff.

The Big Nap, by Ayelet Waldman
Her blog was pretty amusing, but reading it made me tired because she's so hyper. And then she defected to Salon, which was understandable, but ... ugh. I figure her books will be funny.

Mean Season, by Heather Cochran
More soap operatic fluff to read before bed.

Gallows View, by Peter Robinson
Again, British police procedural, but a new author for me. This title is about a peeping tom and looks to be heavy on character development, which I always enjoy (sometimes more than a great plot).

Dead I May Well Be, by Adrian McKinty
Northern Irish career crims in New York City. What could be better?

Death's Little Helpers, by Peter Spiegelman
This is one of those high finance-themed mysteries, so it might stink. It grabbed my attention while I was at the library.

Miss Pym Disposes, by Josephine Tey
If you're a mystery fan and haven't tried Ms. Tey, Georgette Heyer or Mary Roberts Rinehart, you're missing out. These books are fascinating period pieces, usually taking place in remote English country houses, and they're just rife with odd characters. This one is about an unpopular schoolgirl found dead after she wins a scholarship, and it sounds fairly fascinating.

You gotta have friends

Hopped online this morning to find this missive from a long-ago high school buddy, K:

Mrs. H!?!

I hope that you haven't forgotten good old K ...

I just got my alumni directory and HAD to send you an e-mail.

Sorry we lost touch when you were in college. I got a little freaky around that time and wound up following the Grateful Dead around for a while and just basically being a party girl (U2 reference!!) Well, now I'm married, almost 7 years, to be exact. My husband is a down-to-earth freak, just what a spacey freak like me needed. He is also the complete opposite of me, personality wise, so that works, too. I guess you're married now, too. Or, you just changed your name to confuse and elude the public.

Anyway, this is just a short note to say hi after all these years and that I've always thought of you and Frau Doktor and all the fun we had in high school, which sucked. You and she were the only people I really thought of as friends then, mostly because I hated everyone. I think you can understand. Well, if you have some time, please write back or call me anytime (xxx-xxx-xxxx home or xxx-xxx-xxxx cell). I'd love to hear from you.

Hope all is well.

First, a little background. K was the new girl in school at the tail-end of grade school (wherein she affected a near-constant tough-girl stance and threatened to slit her wrists with emery boards), but I don't recall being particularly friendly with her until high school.

Later we got to be good friends, but she had a crappy home life (divorced parents, living with her dad and stepmom and much-favored half-sister, who was a juvenile delinquent and went to reforem school), and every so often she would sort of freak out a bit. Usually this would take the form of lashing out at me and our other friends, giving us all the silent treatment for a few days, and then sitting down with us at lunchtime later in the week as if nothing had happened. Sometimes we knew why she was angry, sometimes we didn't. Often, I would react to her lashing out with an equally abrasive remark, which I can see now was the wrong approach. It's hard for me now to remember what it was like to be a petulant teenage girl, which makes me a bit sad, because I was SO moody and alienated that I figured I would always understand the complexity of the feelings I had then. But K had me beat - no one was moodier or more alienated, and when she wasn't brooding, she was acting out. I was a fairly naive schoolgirl, and although K wasn't a crazed drug-addled tramp, she engaged in enough risky and off-the-wall behavior that she made me nervous (her smoking pot bonding experience with her real mom, whom she wasn't supposed to see, comes to mind, as well as one adventure in which we hung out at some dude's house drinking beers after taking a valium apiece).

In college, our bond became looser, but we were still semi-friendly, until she invited herself to my school for the weekend and attended the Artfag Ball, which was an annual quasi-formal party, well-attended by all the wacky, debauched students at my small art school. Mainly, it was an excuse to dress up, or dress in drag, or dress as a corpse in disco clothes - if it was fabulous, it was accepted. K attended the party with me, got piss drunk off of 2 beers, and proceeded to bump 'n' grind the majority of the people on the dance floor. "Wow, your friend is drunk!" was the refrain I heard over and over again that night, soon followed by, "Your friend needs to go to bed!" I lost track of her and didn't see her until the next morning, when she did the walk of shame back to my dorm from the apartment complex across the street (while I worried myself sick she'd been raped or killed - I had no idea where she was). She had spent the night with the roommate of one of my friends, and it was the story of the hour on my small campus. I was mortified.

A few weeks later, she developed a relationship with a friend of a friend on campus who was known for doing lots of drugs and filing his long nails into points. The alliance didn't last, but she did recommend to me that if I ever needed to get laid, I should go looking for him (um, no thanks!). This was followed by many sob stories that had a ring of untruth and prominently featured her victimization and desire for vengeance. It was getting harder and harder to stay friends, and I wasn't up to the task. After that, I let her sort of fade away, talking to her on the phone occasionally, but not going out of my way to remain in touch. I felt a little guilty, but I got over it. The other friends we'd had had already cut her loose in high school and didn't fault me for wanting shot of her. I felt like I had wasted too much time commiserating with her on her hard-luck situations, offering advice that would never be taken, being sucked dry by someone I now considered an emotional vampire.

I guess what I'm asking is, should I allow this person entrance back into my life? I've prided myself on lately weeding out the bad friends and culling in the good ones. I'd hate to dismiss her on the basis of her jackassery 15 years ago - maybe she has changed and grown as a person, and I certainly wasn't the greatest person in the world when I was 19 - but I'd hate to let her back in and then be stuck shoring her up in her personal high dramatics again. Does this make me a bad person? Shallow? Selfish? I welcome your input, just don't bash me too hard.

I just called ... to say ...

I guess this is why I keep him around.

b00by: hey
b00by: I love you.
b00by: just in case you forgot.
teminy: I didn't forget
teminy: thank you
teminy: I love you too

Commence vomiting ... now!

Shamrocks and shillelaghs

Tommorrow is a famed day of revelry: drinking of green beer, fighting in the street, public urination, and eventual lack of consciousness (kind of like the Mummer's Parade, less the green beer). I'm not a big fan of St. Patrick's Day. To me, it's amateur night, much like New Year's Eve and the night before Thanksgiving and all the other nearly-mandatory going-out nights we observe throughout the year.

I live in an ethnically Irish neighborhood (though that's changing a bit as time passes) and a large proportion of those are direct-from-the-bog-Irish. Go into any bar along the main road on the way to my house (and there are many), and you'll hear plenty of harmonious Irish accents. But were it not for the huge diaspora from Ireland in the 1840's in the wake of the Potato Famine, my neighborhood would probably be a stronghold of mostly Italians, Poles and Germans.

Growing up Irish, I sort of knew about the Famine, in that I was aware that it had happened. I knew there had been a potato blight, and I knew that a lot of people had died, and a lot of people had emigrated to the states to escape and make a new life. I also knew that many of those people were treated like dirt. But it wasn't until I heard a program about the Famine on NPR about 10 years ago that I knew the real extent of what had happened: the mind-numbing numbers of people who had died, and how little the English government had done for those suffering. This was the first time I had any realization that there might have been, if not a deliberate attempt to starve poor Irish Catholics, then certainly a lackadaisical, uncaring attitude, at best, towards their mass starvation (and active exportation of food from the island that could have been used to feed the starving -- think about that for a second, if you will) that calls to mind the current-day Hurricane Katrina response. You can listen to the program here.

No one knows for certain how many people died. No records were kept, and anyway, the death tolls were so staggering that the clerks wouldn't have been able to keep up.

Thankfully, times have changed, both here and in Ireland (in the Free State, anyway). On Friday, everyone will be a little Irish. Everyone will celebrate and be happy and continue the grand tradition of sharing drinks with friends and talking and laughing through the night. Best wishes to everyone for a Happy St. Patrick's Day - don't forget to wear your green, and don't forget that governmental travesties like the one referenced here are still happening in our own "civilized" country - just like it did in England 160 years ago.

Grrrl in the 'hood

I haven't written about my neighborhood yet, but today I'm breaking my (relative) silence today because a) I think that a small minority of my neighbors actually has an internet connection, and b) the chance that one of them would find my blog and c) be irritated to read my thoughts about them as a collective whole is pretty remote. So here we go.

My neighborhood is cute, in a shabby-genteel, working class kind of way. I bought my house three years ago for what would now be considered a song. Housing prices have risen steadily since then, and Booby and I are hoping that the trend continues, especially since we are about to embark on some pretty large-scale improvements (a bathroom in the basement, for starters) to make the place more saleable (and to make more money off of the sale).

The concern we have at the moment is our neighbors. We have some good ones (they snowblow our sidewalk when there's an eighteen inch snowfall, and sweep up the seemingly-constant trails of trash that float down the street from our curb, just to be nice), and some bad ones (the trash-leavers, the people whose dog sits chained on a 3 foot lead in their scrap of a yard all day, whose holiday decorations are STILL up and who we always hear screaming at their listless, dull-eyed kids). The problem of late is the bad neighbors, of course.

We have a few Section 8 houses in my hood. In theory, this is a good thing. Low-income families should be given a chance to own homes. The problem is that the families in the HUD housing (which is up the street from me, perhaps a quarter of a block) seem not to care or have any pride in their homes. Trash is everywhere, and blows down the street into every other yard on the block. Windows are broken and go unfixed for months. Beer cans and liquor bottles (not to mention dogshit) litter the sidewalks. The kids are running around breaking glass in the alleys and playing knock knock, zoom zoom (and lighting cherry bombs near each other's faces, in one particularly memorable incident this summer). I guess it's not too bad compared to some of the things that go on in the average city (there doesn't seem to be any drug abuse or burglary, and I've never felt unsafe walking around at night), but the point, for me, is that I left the city proper to get away from this sort of shit. My elderly next-door neighbor went into a nursing home some months ago, and the report is that once she makes the move to assisted living, her house will be put up for sale. I can't help but worry that it, too, will become a Section 8 house like the others slightly up the road. Moving is starting to seem pretty attractive with that possibility as an incentive, and I had always planned on this being a starter home. I'd miss my friendly, helpful neighbors, but I would wither and die if I had contsant trash piles in my breezeway.

But perhaps there's hope. This article discusses plans to do a little sweeping out of some of the more down-at-heel neighborhoods in the township (although I have to wonder why the mayor thinks that having trash blowing around creates a criminal environment), while this blogger discusses in no uncertain terms his feelings about Section 8. I don't know if I'm quite as vehement as he is (he has another post that gets a little too racial for me; Section 8 is not a color issue in my experience, and even if it were, so what?), but then again, I don't live in his part of town. I looked at houses in his part of town, which were often beautiful (I'm talking leaded glass doors, original hardwood flooring, and huge yards, in some cases), but just too damn close to what is well-known as the criminal element that lingers around the 69th Street Terminal.

What have you done when you've had less than stellar neighbors?

There is superstition ...

I saw my much-discussed mother last weekend when we celebrated my parents' 50th anniversary. My mom is a great one for little gifts - she is forever picking up things she thinks I might like. This time was no different; she brought me a St. Gerard medal.

I haven't discussed my fertility issues with my mother in any great depth, but regardless of her awareness of the scientific methods being employed to get a bun into my oven, I know her solution would be the same: Heavy Duty Catholic Superstition. Whenever anyone was selling or buying a house, St. Joseph got buried. When rain threatens someone's graduation or wedding, the statues go onto the window sill to guarantee nice weather. Novenas have been made to St. Jude (the patron of hopeless causes) to rid the family of disliked boyfriends. Deals with the Heavenly Father are the norm in my family.

Saint Gerard is the unofficial patron saint of pregnant women, and at one time it wasn't uncommon to name your male child after the saint as a way of thanking him for seeing you through a difficult pregnancy safely.

I guess I'm not immune to the superstition, either, because I put the medal on a chain when I got home and put it around my neck. I haven't taken it off since. Maybe the good vibes will actually work better than "just relaxing" or "trying not to get pregnant." And an IUI probably wouldn't hurt, either.

Just don't expect me to name my baby Gerard.

Dull and boring, that's me! Zzzzzz

My life has been so, so boring this week, which is why I haven't really bothered posting. I am too dull: I get up in the morning, after having been awakened by Clyde, who has been quarantined in a spare bedroom this week after he discovered how to escape a basement room with only a waist-high false wall (it took him about 3 days - he's not a confident jumper yet). Clyde has been yowling at about 3:30 or 4 a.m. for the past few nights, for about 15 minutes each time. I curse silently when this happens, so as not to wake Booby, who didn't want this cat in the first place. And then I remind myself that if I ever have a baby, I'll actually have to GET UP and tend to her needs, instead of rolling over and putting the duvet over my head. So, really, I don't have it that bad. But I have had a hard time waking up. Clyde goes vetward this weekend, so he should soon be de-verminated and able to mingle freely with the other kitties (and won't they be thrilled!).

The rest of my time has been consumed with work (the Unbloggable), cooking dinner (nothing interesting, I'm afraid, although may I heartily recommend Mark Bittman's bulgur pilaf recipe? It is the bomb, and if you want it let me know and I'll email it to you), and watching Cycle 6 of America's Next Top Model while fighting with my husband, because nothing does wonders for a woman's self esteem like watching a 2-hour program riddled with hot (but unbearably stupid) model-types with a median age of 21, while suffering PMS. Already, I hate, hate, HATE* Jade, first off because she refers to herself in the third person** and second, because my husband thinks she's "striking." Thanks, honey - I needed that. And she's from my hometown, so I should be feeling the love, but ... see reasons 1 and 2. I am sure that my pal Mr. Baggins will chime in on his picks for this season. Every six months we enjoy this heated debate. He always roots for the skinny, gawky girls. But there are no real gawky types this time, so I'm guessing he'll root for Brooke.

But back to my boring life. I also hate all my clothes, so I think I may have to buy myself this to kill the pain. And then go a little wild in the thrift store with Arabella when she comes to visit. Really, I just need a giant makeover, so perhaps this weekend I'll finally get a haircut (Jess, the generous maker of mix CDs, got a new haircut that I admire a great deal), get rid of some bad clothes, and have a (long overdue) shuffle through my makeup drawer.

*Is it wrong to hate someone you don't know with such white-hot intensity? After one episode? I must need a Midol or something. Yeesh. I promise that I also love some TV people immediately, too, like Nick Arrojo, whom I would love to cut my hair and then give me a big hug.

**I have had a problem with that shit since I was in 2nd grade and Mrs. Davis, my bully of a teacher, committed this very sin in conversation with her students - this, to me, is a sure sign of an unhinged wacko. She also used to pray out loud for a "bag of patience" from the Lord to help her deal with us unruly brats. Usually this happened whenever we asked a question she didn't know the answer to. About 5 years ago her son bought the house I grew up in from my parents. I try not to think about it.

In the buff

Some of you know that I'm an avid gardener when the weather permits. In the last couple of years, I've also gotten a little obsessive about seed trading, as well. This has served me well: I've "met" many online seed traders via various Yahoo groups and over Gardenweb.com (the people there are knowledgeable and friendly, for the most part).

Last year, I traded seeds with a nice fellow in Delaware. Well, I say traded, but I think I even neglected to send him the seeds I owed him, because I'm lazy and forgetful. Somewhere, I still have a label with his address on it, with a note to send him columbine seeds or something. But anyway, every so often, I get an email from a chat service, or one of those "keep track of your friends online!" services mentioning his name: Harry Morninglory wants you to join FriendMonster! I usually delete them without thinking much about it (except for the stab of guilt that I never sent him his seeds - why does he want to keep in touch with me, when I'm a bad trader? He must just have me in his address book, and import that info every time he joins one of these services). But this time, there was a link to his page. Hey! I thought, He had such great garden photos on his GardenWeb page. I wonder if he has any new flower photos on this page? And I clicked through, noting his interest in Cher, the movie The Birdcage and the Carolina Tar Heels, and only noticing the following paragraph after reading that the thing he is "scared of" is "having to wear clothes":

Looking for great friends who don't care about dressing just to hang out. Nudity is the only way to share being open and honest. If this is something you like to do, please let me know so we can hook up.

Dude. Now I'm pretty sure that I'm never going to send those seeds I owe you. Sorry.

Friday Four Meme

I've been tagged by Mignon for the 4 Things Meme (and thank god, too, because I am burned out, seriously):

Four jobs I've had:
Kitchen worker in an Italian takeout restaurant (7 summers! My hands smelled like onions ALL THE TIME)
Nude model (nuff said)
Bookstore Assistant Manager (Sorry, bald dude with crown of thorns tattoo, you're not getting the job.)
Friendly Restaurant Fountain Girl (Do not scoop in a round ball; no, no, NO! The scoop must have a "flare" on the end to better fit it into the cone. Yes, they tech this. Yes, I still scoop ice cream this way.)

Four movies I can watch over and over:
Strange Days (I know. It's pathetic, isn't it? "I'm the Santa Claus of the subconscious," indeed!)
Wings of Desire ("To smoke, and have coffee - and if you do it together, it's fantastic.")
Amateur ("If you think up something really dirty...really perverse...I mean, really disgusting and gross...give me a call. OK?")
Office Space ("Yes, I am also not a pussy.")

Four places I've lived:
Philadelphia, PA
Ocean City, NJ
Elkins Park, PA
Upper Darby, PA
(Boy, do I get around, or what?)

Four places I've been on vacation:
Ireland
Seattle
San Francisco
England

Four websites I visit daily:
Go Fug Yourself
IMDB Gossip
Bloglines
SiteMeter

Four of my favorite foods:
Pan-fried mashed potato cakes with brown gravy
Real diner onion rings
Scrapple/sausage/bacon
My grandmother's (and now my sister's) chocolate meringue pie

Four places I'd rather be:
Soaking in the tub with good-smelling bath salts, a juicy mystery (or copy of Star Magazine), and a big glass of Riesling
On the couch with my loving cats surrounding me (oh, and husband, too, I guess, sure)
Back in Ireland, seeing all the stuff we missed on the first go
On a nature hike in late spring, or, barring that, in my garden

Four bloggers I'm tagging:
Zed World
Izzy
Shell
Pugawag

So ... tired

I am being a good little soldier this week: we're having a large family dinner for my parents at my sister's house in Harrisburg, wherein we will present them with the scrapbook that killed my knee joints as well as an iPhoto presentation of family photos set to music. I trimmed down the iPhoto presentation last night so that the images would fit the music, and I completed my tasks of buying wine and salad stuff, as well as making rolls from scratch (because why not overdo it?) for the big do. But we're also getting them a gift: tickets to The Lion King, a nice dinner, and an overnight stay in a B&B in downtown Philly. Since I'm the one who actually lived in the city for a number of years (South Philly represent!) and I still work there, I'm viewed as the local authority on restaurants and whatever else might be available there. Which is great and flattering, but it also means I have to trudge over to the Kimmel Center after work (I refuse to pay an $8.50 per ticket "handling charge"; cheap, I know) to buy these damn tickets, and then follow up by reserving a room at La Reserve B&B and seeing about a gift certificate at a local BYOB, which only takes cash, so if they don't do gift certificates I guess we'll be going with the envelope of cash option.

And I just realized I didn't defrost anything for dinner. Shit!

And I'm having a job performance review this week.

And I have PMS. Not that I should care, since I was supposed to be taking the month off from frenzied, calculating sex-for-procreation, a memo which my husband apparently did not receive.

And I sort of promised myself I would bathe Clyde tonight, which will not be any fun at all, though he is quite a love, and stretched himself across both our laps in luxurious abandon last night while we cuddled him.

A repeat of that, plus the fact that I bought myself ladybugs for the garden today (say goodbye, aphid infestation), are the only bright spots I have going right now. Oh, and a new Lost is on, right? Thank fuck for that.

OK, crybaby post over. Better post soon!