crowcrastination

Oh, the Germanity!

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 04:55:00 +0000

My recent switch to digital television means that I no longer receive Saturday morning cartoons en espanol. I am pretty sure I can watch Spanish evangelists on one of my 9 religious channels, but somehow I feel as if this gringa could learn a broader vocabulary watching Las Aventuras de Piggly Wiggly.

I decided to fill the void with Spanish language tapes. So, on today's trip to the library I decided to put my latest obsession (cookbooks) to rest. It was beginning to get expensive considering all of the ingredients and kitchen gadgets this hobby caused me to purchase.

I looked through the aisles and I could not find a series that was at my level. Most of the books on the shelf were catering to the Introduction to/Traveler set. So, do I look at the Library catalog and attempt to find what I'm looking for? Maybe put something on hold that is more suited for my purpose?

Of course not. I decide to learn German. I pick out the Teach Yourself: Beginner's German and promptly play the accompanying CD in the car while I finish my errands. German has long been one of those languages that I know in bits and pieces-- mostly from music or from my sister (who is fluent in the language and would use her language skills to torment me). I saw the tape and thought, "Why not?"

It struck a chord of amusement to know that one of the very first phrases the series teaches (on page 5 of the book) is, "Ich habe Kopfschmerzen." Meaning, "I have a headache."

Is this a sign of things to come?

Sleepytime Buster

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 03:05:00 +0000

I have many good things to say about living in 500 square feet. It keeps me from spending even more of my life cleaning. It makes me evaluate what I hold onto more carefully. All things told, a 500 square foot apartment is more than enough space for me.

But I'll admit, sometimes it is a little small for both myself and Buster. When I first adopted Buster, I had trouble coping with two things: near-constant allergy attacks and the fact that I was sharing my small space. While both problems have subsided significantly since those first few weeks, every so often I am reminded that Buster and I are individuals who need our space.

Buster's new habit is sleeping with his face nearly planted into a pillow. He will do this on the bed or on the couch. I caught him napping this way this afternoon and took some video. My apologies. This video is shot on a point and shoot type digital camera, and I shot it holding the camera perpendicular. Now I can't easily rotate the file, and I have no editing software.

Please note that this video features the embroidered "MEOW" pillow that my parents bought for me many moons ago and is shot on my faded rainbow loveseat.

Although I hate hate HATE listening to my own recorded voice, I should say that I am asking him, "Are you pissed?" But I'm saying it "Pee-yust?" because I am always asking him that and I know he is not really a pissed off sort of a guy.

Yes, it does seem a little cruel to be waking him up from his nap. However, before I grabbed the camera, I noticed that one of his ears is turned back, so I knew he wasn't actually asleep. After this I ran a few errands to give him some private time. When I returned he'd moved from his spot here to the pile of blankets in my dining room/bedroom. At least someone gets to enjoy laundry day. He's still there now, see?

Be Still My Heart (Trader Joe's edition)

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 22:04:00 +0000

I think I'm in love. This guy deserves a cool kid fist bump and a big fat paycheck from the Trader Joe's Marketing Department.

If I Made a Commercial for Trader Joe's

It almost makes up for the fact that Two Buck Chuck costs a whopping $3 in Oregon.

via Boing Boing via Coudal Partner's Feed Blend

I saw the sign(s)

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 21:16:00 +0000

A recent errand took me out to the suburbs. Now, as you may know, it is no small fete to get me out to the 'burbs. My distaste for suburbia is great. Don't even get me started about strip malls, blurred boundaries or urban sprawl.

So, when necessity took me over the west hills to Beaverton, I decided to make it worth my while and try out the Indian food restaurant which so many have raved about, Abhiruchi's. The food alone is well worth the drive, but it was a couple of signs that convinced me to come back the next week for the lunch buffet along with my camera.

The first is inside the restaurant:

Ah, the homonym. Always a good source for amusement.

The second sign was located just a few steps away in the window of the Grocery Outlet:

I'm no marketing guru, but I don't think moving back in with one's parents was a good thing.

Masochist's Macaroons

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 03:12:00 +0000

I've never had a problem with the French. Being an American citizen, I am vaguely aware that there is some sort of obligation to hold a grudge against the people of France. But I figure that our cultural differences boil down the fact that Americans and French are self-involved in a way that doesn't overlap well. In any case, I thank my lucky stars that I was abroad in the era of "freedom fries." What a bullshitty insult. The French don't even call them French Fries, rather the more apt (for their language, at least) Pommes Frites.

In fact, as a connoisseur of carbohydrates, I quite like the French and all they have done in the kitchen. O, Culinary Gods of the Land of Liberté, égalité, fraternité, thank you for buttery goodness and the like. And while I'm on an homage kick... O, sweet sweetness of the proverbial Sweet Tooth. My dentist gives thanks to you. My waistline does not.

In any case, I decided to channel my newest obsession--checking shit out from the Library-- into my ongoing obsession with baking cookies. For good measure, I also combined my waxing and waning obsession with PBS, home of my favorite cooking show (sans Julia et Jacques or Yan Can Cook), America's Test Kitchen by checking out its cookbook, The America's Test Kitchen Family Baking Book.

But what's with this France business, you ask?

On page 192 is a recipe for French Sandwich Macaroons. I love Macaroons, particularly of the French and the Coconut variety. I look at the photograph on page 192 and the caption below says, "These French Macaroon Sandwich Cookies are well worth the effort it takes to make them and will even rival those you'll find in a French bakery."

"Oh, really?" I asked aloud skeptically. "As good?" I looked over the recipe. It wasn't as exciting as my more exotic macaroons from Portland's Pix Patisserie (the curry, pistachio and Fleur de Sel being my favorites), but it still sounded very tasty. I decided that I could probably make these cookies and it would be a lot less torturous than those evil Phonetician Walnut Cookies.

I turned out to be partially correct. I could make an approximation of the cookies pictured on page 192 and it would be a lot less torturous than those evil Phonetician Walnut Cookies.

Still, these cookies were a bitch. Not Hell and High-Water bitchy. More like Heck and Shoulders-Deep Water bitchy.

First of all, it required Almond Flour. When one bakes regularly, one learns that there are certain shortcuts not to be taken. If the recipe asked for Almond Flour, I was getting Almond flour. Luckily, I decided to pair this quest for Almond Flour with my "Minor Adventures" To Do List item #12, tour Bob's Red Mill.

The recipe also required some baking supplies I do not own. Namely, a pastry bag and (unbeknown to me for some odd reason) a food processor.

The pastry bag was a fiasco. In order to buy one pastry bag, one 1/2 inch plain nozzle and one screw top, I had to go to five different stores in four different corners of the city. Lame.

I tried to make due without a food processor by using the coffee grinder I'd received from Santa Claus. (Thanks, Santa!) Mixing almond flour and confectioners sugar by the two-tablespoon got very wearisome. I tried the blender, but my blender is of bottom shelf quality and is not good for much besides looking like a cheap blender. Nothing was working right and these cookies were turning out to be a pain in my tail feathers.

Eventually I went around and begged to the neighbors. The nice Italian lady didn't know what a food processor was or why I would want to use one. Luckily Upstairs Angela had a very nice one and was willing to loan it out. Dear Santa, I want one for next year.

Oh yes, I know it is oft mentioned, it bears repeating: Egg whites are persnickety bastards.

In any case. My cookies don't look or taste like the pros, and I almost set fire to my apartment building. Oops. Make sure your stove burners are off before getting lackadaisical with the parchment paper, kiddos!

The best of my cookies turned out like this:

I'd say my chemistry is off somewhere. Though they are still quite tasty.

Blech.

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 07:38:00 +0000

It's official. I have my regularly scheduled end-of-January flu. For some reason, I always seem to be sick for a whole in the latter half of January. It be nice if the my immune system was dependable enough to schedule my illnesses, but I know this is just one long-running fluke.

On the up side of attempting to recuperate, I have been drinking up my stash of blueberry herbal tea. I can't stand the taste of this tea. I can't throw it away. When guests are tempted to try it, I steer them away to another caffeine free alternative. Fortunately, I'm so congested right now that I can't taste a thing. Who said I wasn't a positive person?

Admiral Buster?

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 04:08:00 +0000

I'm attempting to write another entry here on crowcrastination, but Buster is letting me know that I am not respecting him by concentrating on something else (and thereby not paying enough attention to him). Perhaps I will have to get a Pets in Uniform portrait so he can get the respect he deserves. Everyone loves a man in uniform, right?

For those petless individuals, fear not! This website also provides signage for all your National Pancake Day needs.

Dubya & Critters

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 06:35:00 +0000

Earlier today I called up a University in Texas about some "missing" paperwork on my application. I was routed through a phone tree, and eventually was hung up on after an abrupt, "The University is closed for the holiday." This did not deter me from calling up the initial (very lengthy) phone tree again and again.

You see, they try to direct most calls to the Graduate and International Admissions website by reading out the entire URL. But, with a Texan drawl, their address begins, "Dubya, Dubya, Dubya."

Being that this made me laugh in a way that made my morning coffee gurgle about in my sinuses, I had to hear it a couple more times. It seemed like a timely send off for Georgie. Yes, I do have too much time on my hands. Praise be for free long distance, no?

After the phone time fun, I decided to give Buster his daily brushing. What do I see in his pristine white coat? Little black flecks? "What is this? Flea poop?" I ask aloud. I don't go through him with a fine tooth comb, but I do pick at him like a monkey. I find and squish two fleas. And I am a little bit peeved.

I decide to get him some flea treatment pronto because if I've found two critters, there's bound to be more. I think all the fleas have moved indoors for the winter because I went to three different stores that were sold out of kitty flea collars. Lame.

Buster is pouting about his new collar. Well, not pouting, per se. This video of a kitty named Capone is pretty much what Buster's been doing. But Buster is not an orange tabby, and his collar is not a lovely lavender color. Watch:

Poor Bebop. Someday, when Mama's not a Broke Ass Ho, she will buy you some Advantage.

Apply Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 06:09:00 +0000

My silence here on Crowcrastination has to do with the fact that I have been busy not procrastinating. My days have been filled with applications to both graduate school and to new jobs. Here's hoping the former is met with a little more success than the latter has been thus far.

Not to brag, but I even surprised myself by getting one of my applications turned in before the deadline. Here's a snippet of a conversation on this topic as shared with my dad when he called me up to let me know that he was playing hooky from church:

"Holy Moses, Miguel! I turned in my application three weeks early."
"Is it still considered early if you've been putting it off for years?"

Ooh. That stings.

I'm not sure how I feel about this new leaf. It means that I'm spending more time playing the waiting game. Plus, I missed out on some of my favorite delay tactics. In general, finishing early meant that I didn't have the same amount of steam built up for the grand finale. I submitted the application, breathed a small sigh of relief and promptly wondered, "What next?"

More job applications, as it turned out.

On the work front, I'm wondering whether it's too early to give up and go back to temping. I realize I've said that I'd rather die than go back to temping; but that was back in the days before Lexapro. And after all is said and done, temping proved to be excellent blog fodder. Sorry, dear readers. I am not sure if my delicate self is ready to endure that again.

Buster has been quite dismayed by this surge of my work ethic. He lets me know on a regular basis that all this time working on cover letters instead of worshiping the fur is NOT OKAY. He has taken up residence on top of my laptop as a revolt. This has only proved to be embarrassing once when I sent in a job application with an incomplete email signed 9j0 0999999999999-9oihiojjioluiilu. Viva la revolucion, eh Buster?

In the interim, I've been commissioned to write some skits for an elementary school assembly. It's very high brow stuff which is expected to be, "easy, didactic, using a small number of actual actors, and pulled off by 9-year-olds with zero rehearsal time."

This could be amusing...

How I spent my holiday vacation.

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 21:03:00 +0000

I spent a majority of my visit to my parent's house cleaning out my room.

It's been years since my parents and I agreed that-- no matter the circumstance-- it is best if I only come to stay as a visitor and not as a resident of their house. Not that I don't love Miguel and Mama Crow to pieces; it's just a matter of keeping everyone a little more sane and a little less angry. It works well, even if I don't live within easy driving distance (as Mama Crow would prefer).

Cleaning out the old room is no easy task. Instead of rooting everything out to create an office or a guest room (as is the case in many of my friend's old rooms), Mama and Miguel kept everything about the same. Finally the shrine to my younger self got to me (and my allergies were going nuts with all of the residual dust) and I decided to do a massive purge.

It's hard to imagine that everything (which hasn't crept its way up to the attic crawlspace) still managed to fit in this 10 by 10 space. Indeed, it seemed as if every nook and cranny held some matter of importance dating back to my birth to my teenage years, with whatever other detritus left over from summers home from college tucked into the corners. Also, after I complained about the number of newspaper clippings I received in the mail, my parents started shoving a majority of this in one of the empty dresser drawers.

It took longer than I anticipated. Partially because I had a nearly 2 year old helper who would dump out whatever exciting treasures I had just sorted. Also, because I went through everything with a fine tooth comb. I read every saved letter and birthday card. I suffered through the half-assed journals of my youth. I carved out the copious notes from coursework long since passed.

I started to think about why I had put this off for so long, and why my parents didn't take some action to reclaim the space. I've decided that it has to do with a generational trickle down effect. My grandparents (the nicer, deader ones) were raised in the depression. At their home, not one piece of wrapping paper or small bit of string that may be put to use at some point was thrown away. I can see the effects of this in my parents (who still have all of their college papers and notes tucked in rotting trunks in the garage) and a little in myself.

I think I was ready on an emotional level to get rid of this stuff long ago. But I didn't have the know how. It wasn't long ago that my friend Jesse taught me the joys and pleasure of getting rid of shit. It takes time and dedication to collect these things and keep them somewhere. He taught me about the satisfaction of having and using what you need and replenishing it when necessary.

So, after many, many hours spent cleaning and many more sneezes to accompany the cleanup of the millennium, here is an inventory of what I left in my wake:

+Two city issued recycling bins full of mostly paper.
+Fifteen shopping bags of give away.
+One large box of my fondest childhood keepsakes.
+The best toys from my younger days, now willed to my nephew when he visits.
+A drawer full of usable office supplies, given to my parents.
+One box of stuff to be dragged up to Portland at a later date.
+2/3 of shelf of my mom's copies of classic fiction books.
+My grandmother's bowling shoes.
+My entire hedgehog collection.

Not bad, eh?

New Name

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 06:03:00 +0000

Over Christmas dinner I realized that I had crossed the point of no return. I have officially teased my gullible brother-in-law so much that he no longer believes a word I say.

Brian gets a bad rap among my friends because he is often lacking in common sense and therefore "stepping in it" almost constantly. When I am feeling generous, I try very hard to think up something nice to say about him. Sometimes all I can come up with is, "It is fun to tease him." But believe it or not, I do sort of like the guy. I'm just a little incredulous that such a smart guy can constantly exhibit such tardtastic behavior.

Everyone had finished dinner and enjoying some conversation while dessert was being served. We were talking about a distant relative's new baby and the tradition of naming children after family members (this baby is named Xander after his grandfather). I just happen to be one of those people that was named after her father. But unlike little Xander, my namesake loaned and adapted his name for my middle name.

As it turns out, Brian does not know my middle name. As such:

Brian: You look like you could be a "Michelle"
Me: Really?
Brian: Yeah.
Me: Well, that is my name.
Brian: No it's not.
Me: It's one of them.
Brian: What?
Me: It's my middle name.
Brian: Not it's not.
Everyone: YES IT IS!

Then, because my sister and my nephew have two middle names, he asked if my second middle name was to honor my mother.

I lied and said, "Yes. Definitely."

What's a girl to do?

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 05:38:00 +0000

Despite my well-documented distaste for household chores, I seem to spend a good portion of my day puttering around my apartment doing those dastardly tasks. Most of it is routine upkeep-- stuff that is as much a part of my day as brushing my teeth. But the time I spend this stuff adds up. Soon enough it seems that these daily cleaning rituals seem to edge out those non-standard housekeeping duties-- stuff like polishing my 8 dozen pairs of shoes. Inevitably, those tasks end up on my to do list.

Ah, the to do list. The list which always seems to get longer before it gets shorter. It's a list I refer to on special occasions, usually when I'm procrastinating big time. And I know I'm not alone on this, everyone's list is infinite and unending. Right?

So, don't hate me for this ladies and gentlemen: I have finished my entire to do list.

I'll spare you a detailed account of the joys and wonders involved in painting the numbers back on my stove and oven dials, or repairing a broken lamp. But every errand has been run, every odd job is complete and every action item requiring follow up has been followed.

It took weeks to get through these things. True, none of the items on the list were particularly momentous. While I am glad I finally bothered to weed out the bad seeds in my sock drawer, I hardly believe it's contributed to any of my life goals.

As much as I'd to attribute my recent success of sloughing through ye ol' "To Do" to a cocktail of delicious caffeine and anti-depressants, I think the discerning mixologist would recognize this as boredom. And maybe a little bit of proactive procrastinating. Which is to say, without these things hanging over my head, I have no excuse when it comes to doing those things that will contribute to my goals (and will maybe bless me with health insurance).

Guess there's nothing left for me to do but go out and live life.

Running Out of Gas

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 19:37:00 +0000

Despite the fact that I am able to pack in an impressive 12 hours of sleep each day (who needs mornings?), this blog is not about running out of gas in the colloquial sense. Mama Crow is quite fond of the colloquial use-- a descriptor of the level of sleepiness that comes between tuckered out and zonked-- so if you want a story about a nap, maybe I can get the two of you in touch. This is my story about running out of gas in my car.

Not one week prior to this event, I was driving along and thinking about how I had yet to get a flat tire or run out of gas in all my years of driving. I knew it was about time for one of these things to happen, so perhaps I was subconsciously tempting fate or concocting some sort of preemptive strike. I wasn't about to go jab a nail in my tire, but flirting with the life cycle of the fuel light seemed like a decent idea. I thought about what I might do if I were to find myself in this sort of automobile emergency situation and ruefully remembered the many, many years that had passed since I earned the Auto Maintenance Badge in Girl Scouts.

Testing the limits of the fuel light is not a new story for me. I am one of those that has faith in few things other than the fact that the E on my dashboard stands for Enough. Or at least, "Eh, we'll make it this time." So my fuel injector is probably shedding a few tears about this. No worries. It's not capable of real emotion.

Once, on a late night road trip through New England my lax fueling instincts caused a bit of tension. One of my more Type A friends was at the wheel and started freaking out because we were in the middle of rural Massachusetts with just half a tank of gas. In her eyes, we obviously needed to find a service station PRONTO. I remember leaning in looking over at the fuel gauge from my spot in shotgun and telling her, "What are you talking about? We won't need gas for another 2 states." Not my most sensitive of moments, but I've lived with a Type A person long enough to realize that whatever I said wasn't going to allay her fears.

So, on Thanksgiving morning, I hopped into my car (it's called Pony as in "Ride the White Pony" or "Daddy Bought Me a Pony" which is only partially true) intent on going to the zoo. The Oregon Zoo was offering free admission on Thanksgiving, so even though my orange fuel light had been on for two or three days and the MAX is a short walk from my house, I wasn't about to pay for a light rail ticket. I was going to drive. I justified this maneuver by stopping at my friend's house to look after their cats on my way home.

So, I go up to the zoo (my favorite exhibits were the bats, the hippos and the baby elephant) and wander around for a couple of hours before feeding, watering and giving pets and playtime to my friend's two cats. I cruise home and round the corner for the primo parallel parking spot in front of my building. Then, with a slight shudder, I'm out of gas. No fanfare, or electric bells of congratulation. Just a few more lights flashing on my dashboard. I turn on my hazards, roll down the window and laugh on of those guttural, throw your head back and end with an ironic sigh sort of laughs that accompanies incidents akin to running out of gas in front of your own house.

I got out of my car, and pushed it up parallel to the truck ahead of the empty spot. I turned the wheel (now with a new admiration for power steering) through the window and backed into the spot. Some dude on his cell phone watched me the entire time, laughing and loudly narrating my plight to his friend. On my way into the building, I waved at him and said, "Thanks for your help!" This cued him to come over and ask if I needed help or something. Uh, maybe five minutes ago, buddy.

In true crowcrastinating form, I left the car parked there overnight. I didn't have any place I needed to go and I had a Feast for One sitting in my fridge waiting to be cooked. The next morning I walked the 2.5 miles to my friend's house to look in after the cats, stopping to ask if I might borrow a gas can at another friend's house at the midway point on my walk. While I was with the kitties, my friends returned from their trip a day early and I took out my keys in order to return the set to their apartment.

I walked back home, stopping for a cookie and to pick up a gallon of gas in a red plastic tub for half of the journey. I walk up to my house when I realize I don't have my keys. I call my friends, but they're tired from a 20 hour train ride and can't find them. I think about back tracking, but I'm tired and hungry. I need another solution.

For security purposes, I probably shouldn't detail the ease and faculty involved in climbing in through my bathroom window. Let's just say, it would have been substantially more difficult had I not accidentally left the window unlocked.

To end, Pony's back in the saddle again. My keys were located. I have a lovely collection of bruises on my stomach from the window frame. And this Thanksgiving, I was thankful that I ran out of gas so close to home.

For the love of beans!

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 00:11:00 +0000

For many years, I have put the same two items on my parent-requested Christmas gift list: leather gloves and a coffee grinder. If Miguel and Mama Crow request a list this year, I know it will be two items long and look a lot like last year's list.

I have you know that my cat is going to provide them with a seemingly greedier three item list. Were I to cast bets on this sort of thing, I would say that Buster will most assuredly receive the kitty fishing pole, laser pointer, and the obnoxious plastic ring of fun that he is requesting from either my parents or from that jolly old elf, Santa Claus. This is because I know that Miguel likes to spoil my nephew rotten and provides his own "damn cat" Charley with an allowance for treats. No joke. I owe that cat $12 or a package of Liv-a-Littles.

In any case, I'm never terribly disappointed about receiving something other than the items on my list. Except last year when I went to the trouble of providing the exact name, list price, color and retailer of the precise glove pairing and coffee grinder I wanted, while also providing feasible and acceptable alternatives in the price points below and above my preferred choice.

Honestly, were I not a self-proclaimed Broke Ass Ho, I would have bought these items for myself. Okay. I would have bought the grinder because I'm superstitious about losing the gloves I buy for myself within a week of purchase. But I am a Broke Ass Ho, hence my recent propensity for borrowing other people's shit. Thanks for all the books and movies, friends!

So, yesterday I decided to buy myself a pound of coffee. I was finally out of beans and I'd had a day filled with back spasms, two accidentally de-potted houseplants, and a tiff with my psychiatrist. This-- coupled with the fact that I'd been drinking awful to barely palatable coffee since last February-- meant that I decided that this Broke Ass Ho was going to spring for the splurge-tastic Stumptown coffee beans. It's locally roast, directly traded, and tastes like liquid magic every time.

What does one do when the very recently re-potted plant is again splayed across on the rug of your living space? One makes coffee with their new beans! Right?

Not so fast.

Here's where the problem begins. I forgot to have my beans ground. I was too busy trying to use my extensive theatre training to observe the appropriate level of flirtation in the exchange between myself and the espresso slinger that rang me up. I've applied to some seasonal jobs in retail, and I am convinced that a certain level of sugar is necessary in all retail transactions. Being that outward display of such flirty sweetness does not come naturally to me, I need to prepare for the role in the improbable case that I am actually cast.

So, how does one get coffee without ground beans and without a coffee grinder? There are two ways. One not so effective, but perfectly kosher. The other less legal route requires a little more strategy. I will share both methods here.

The first way to grind your beans is to take out your blender, rolling pin and tenderizing hammer to bash up your beans. This is both messy and ineffective. Plus, getting shards of beans in the eye is no picnic. I have not attempted this means of grinding beans since I first took note to avoid it about 2 years ago.

The second method is simple, but borderline legal. Essentially, it requires using a service without the purchase of any goods. It's not as shady as shoplifting, because your beans are bought and paid for, but the grinder you use has not been provided for your specific beans.

The first step to this process is dressing the part. The idea is to blend in with the crowd of shoppers. I suggest going for a business casual look as it provides enough comfort while also maintaining the practical edge of looking like you are there for legitimate business practices. Bonus points if this outfit can reveal just enough of one of your best assets to distract fellow shoppers and supermarket employees from what you are doing. I like to wear a skirt because I have nice ankles and shapely calves. When costuming oneself, it is important to bring a purse or some sort of bag in which to stash your beans.

Devise an exit strategy in case one is caught by any store employees. My current plan involves turning on the tears and intermittently blurting out the words "forgot", "prescription" and "psychiatrist" in some order between sobs.

Enter the store and pick up a basket. Head over to the produce department and select an orange or any other easily attainable piece of produce. Put this fruit and your handbag into the shopping basket. While you are walking over to the coffee aisle, remove the beans from your bag.

When you locate the coffee grinder, set down the basket. Locate the paintbrush that the Courtesy Clerk must use to clean out the coffee grinders in the store's closing rituals. It will most likely be located alongside the machine or up high on the coffee display. It may or may not have a chain depending on how many paintbrushes have wandered off in this store's location. Flip the cover on the grinder's chute a couple times and brush off any grinds debris. This step may seem unnecessary, but it is a pivotal part in establishing that you look like you belong there at the coffee grinder to any passersby.

Bend down, pick up your coffee, and grind as instructed. When coffee is ground and the bag or bin is resealed, drop coffee into open purse (still located inside basket).

Walk away from the grinder and over to the artisan cheese display. Pick up some Gruyere, cock head as if to say, "Am I forgetting something? Did I leave the oven on?" Remove purse from the basket and walk back to the produce department. Ditch your decoy fruit. Put the shopping basket back in the pile of baskets. Exit the store at a medium pace, enjoying the aroma of freshly ground beans.

Ah yes, and to cap it all off thank your liberal arts education for providing you with the appropriate tools to work the system while still producing the appearance of ethical standards. Woo! A cup of that quasi-illegally ground coffee tastes extra delicious while pondering the profundity of your deviance. Make a second cup and write about it on your blog.

Weekend trip to Cookieville

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 02:23:00 +0000

I went a little nuts with the cookie baking this weekend, ending up with a grand total of 9 different baked treats. Really. It is crazy to bake this many cookies in one weekend. I would say that this was the result of some sort of manic phase were it not for the massive amounts of lithium already coursing through my veins. I should still probably mention it to my psychiatrist. Would it be inappropriate to bring him a goodie bag?

The baking crusade began when my sister complained that all she wanted to do was sit at home and eat homemade cookies. But, being that her life is consumed by being a workaholic, mother of an 18 month old "demonic child beastie" (her exact words-- which, I happen to know is a term of extreme affection from J), and a chronic migraine sufferer, she had resigned herself to pouting about cookies instead of baking and eating them. I, being a bored, childless, and a chronic cookie baker decided that I could afford the postage required to brighten her day.

So, since my favorite recipes were feeling a little worn around the edges, I walked up to the library where I checked out a book of cookie recipes and a very tattered copy of Neil LaBute's The Shape of Things on DVD. If anyone is going to do a marathon cookie make, may I suggest having a movie lined up. It is quite a nice way to recharge one's batteries. May I also suggest parchment paper, particularly if you do not own a dishwasher.

I will be delivering cookies to willing recipients once I recover slightly from this sugar hangover. So, if I know where you live and I didn't see you this weekend, expect a knock at your door and a bag full of cookies.

I'll go through the cookies and describe them one by one.

Scandinavian Sand Cookies
These unfortunately named cookies (who wants to eat sand?) are basically a dry version of a snickerdoodle with cardamom. They taste great with milky black tea. My chances of writing down the recipe are somewhat high, but only because I have yet to find a snickerdoodle recipe that is up to snuff.

White Chocolate Oatmeal Cranberry Cookies

These are probably my second favorite of the bunch. Not only is the cookie a tasty breakfast substitute, it also taught me a trick to making your thick-grained cookies taste extra delicious. These also have the distinction of being the only cookie here that I mixed entirely by hand. Not because I am a bad ass, but because my little had mixer was starting show evidence of transmission problems. Oops. Remember how I've said that if anyone is ever dumb enough to get married to me I will only be registering for sharp knives? Well, I'm going have to add a Kitchen Aid mixer to that list, too.

Chocolate Crinkles
So I used to have a pretty gnarly allergy to chocolate. Or, really, since it affects my digestive tract rather than making my throat swell shut, I had a nasty intolerance to chocolate. Being that my eating habits were developed prior to the realization that I could eat chocolate again, the recipes I selected were not particularly chocolaty. As it turns out, this was a good thing. The dough for these cookies requires refrigeration. So, I went to town making the dough before I went over to a friend's house for dinner. I don't typically do a lot of tasting while I bake, but I do some. And I know I'm guilty of tasting this more than usual because I was worried that the ratio of sugar to unsweetened chocolate was not right. Fast-forward through dinner (and a slice of tiramisu torte that could not be refused) and it turns out that I still can't eat chocolate like the best of 'em.

Sugar Pretzels
I'm a sucker for the pretzel shaped cookies in those blue tins of Dutch Butter Cookies people start give at this time of year. I thought it would be nice to make them myself. Nope it's not nice at all. The dough for this cookie (even when refrigerated overnight) is pretty flaky. Thus, I made a round of pretzels before rolling out the rest of the dough to make cut out hearts. By the 100th heart, I was glad I switched.

Toffee Almond Bars
I'm typically not a fan of cookie bars, but I made these because I like almonds and I like toffee. This was the one recipe where my amateur baker felt that I could improve the recipe by using vanilla instead of almond extract, adding some cocoa to the dough so it was chocolaty throughout, and baking it a few minutes less. My friend's kid seemed to like them, but not enough to reprise this performance:

Benne Wafers
Crispy Sesame Chips that do not like humidity. They were delicious until they all stuck to one another. I am thinking of melting them down to try again.

Melomakarona
I made these cookies at the request of my friend Chrissy. She flipped through the cookbook and chose these because they had her two favorite ingredients: honey and walnuts. Even though the recipe looked difficult, I agreed to make them because Chrissy is the type of friend to remember that you want a new hair dryer even when you yourself do not remember such things. I was also intrigued because it said the recipe might date back to the Phoenicians.

I'm going cut out the niceties and just say that these cookies are a bitch to make. They required toasting and chopping about a million walnuts. They required zests of lemon and oranges and fresh squeezed orange juice and I don't have the right tools to do these quickly. It also called for me to cry a half cup of brandy tears. When all was said and done, I think these cookies took about 7 hours to make.

I didn't even want to eat one when it was fully "ripened" the next morning. When I did, I decided it was like the love child of Baklava and a dry cookie. I decided that I like the parents better than the child. I also decided never again to make me a cookie with a name reminiscent of skin cancer.

Pumpkin Ginger Pillows
These cookies were the last ones I baked. They are good, but I was in a bit of a cookie coma when I finished them. Their secret ingredient? Crystallized ginger. This turned out to come in handy when I was having tummy trouble from the near-lethal Chocolate Crinkle dough-tiramisu torte combo.

Chocolate Walnut Meringues
I love a good meringue cookie. This dates back to my days as a wee little Crowling. There was a family owned grocery store around the corner from my parent's house. We didn't go there often, partly because it was pricey, but mostly because the family's son had gotten into some trouble for shooting the neighborhood cats with a crossbow.

When my parents did shop there, they would often bring home a giant meringue cookie from the bakery department. It was piped into a perfect swirl and topped with rainbow nonpareils. I looked at this recipe and figured-- barring some huge meringue error on my part (meringue takes patience and an eye for what type of foamy peak one is dealing with)-- that I would be in love. I was right. I loved these cookies. Notice the past tense.

Smells Fishy

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 06:22:00 +0000

I know I am far to late to be jumping on the anti-Prop 8 bandwagon, but hear me out. It stinks big time.

Follow me now to Tangentville... Buster, a healthy eater, typically does not show any sort of enthusiasm for canned cat food with one exception. He goes nuts for this whole mackerel in gravy which is exactly what it sounds like: small, whole curled up stinky fish in an oily brown sauce. This is the only canned food that makes him lick his plate clean. It stinks up my entire apartment. My hands smell like fish even after a good soapy scrub. Forget aromatic cheeses. This cat food trumps all in its rank of smells offensive to my olfactory sense.

In fact, the only thing that I can think of that might smell worse is taking a dip in a jacuzzi filled with vomit. But even that would be a relatively bearable smell when compared with the injustice of Prop 8.

As a recovering Californian with two Californian parents, I usually hear a smattering about the state's political issues, even when they do not merit national attention. Everything I have heard about this proposition reeks of absurd levels of ugly.

My parents (who sent Buster a Frisbee in the mail today ?!??) have put to light some of the brand of crazy that propagated this stench-ridden issue. My mom, an elementary school counselor, spoke of a little girl who's parents participated in an official "re-commitment ceremony" of marriage in their church as a way to promote the measure. Religion mixed with ritual and spectacle. Seems quite literally medieval to this performance scholar.

My dad's reaction to Prop 8 almost caught me off guard. As the most conservative of the birds in our immediate nest, I thought he might be a hard sell. Instead, he had a lot of really fantastic and rational arguments against the passage of the measure. It was the sole reason he voted (he proudly wrote in "None of the above" for president, but that's another story). In fact, Miguel was sort of fired up about the whole thing. "Why is this even on the ballot? Does the Supreme Court even matter anymore?" he asked. He pointed out a lot of instances of organizations illustrating their lack of backbone by remaining neutral in respect to the measure. "Fucking hypocrites!" Mike shouted into the phone receiver. Fucking hypocrites indeed.

I tried to collect my thoughts on the matter, but between looking for a job and imagining a Japanese-style game show called Ichiban Alcoholic with my friends, I watched this video from MSNBC. It is far more eloquent than I can muster, and it pretty much says it all.

Anyway, I think it's time to do something about that awful smell.

Playing Dress Up

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 00:52:00 +0000

Happy Halloween! I am not planning to take Buster Trick-or-Treating tonight, but I did dress him up for a costume contest at the local pet store last weekend.

I didn't dress him up as a handsome devil, because that's his every day costume. Plus, my nephew was dressed up as a "speed demon" and I didn't want to get the two of them confused.

I almost dressed Buster as Snoopy in his Bloody Red Barron garb, but that was going to require a trip to the store. In true Crow family tradition, I'm a firm believer that Halloween costumes can be made from what you've got at hand.

So, I dressed Buster as a magpie! He's black and white and he's thieving bird who has stolen my heart.

I made him a beak, but he didn't like it and I thought it was a little cruel to force him to wear it. He didn't mind the feathers, but he didn't particularly care for them, either. He did like playing with the collection of shiny objects. So much so that it was hard to keep him still long enough to take a photo.

Still, I wonder if dressing up your kitty is somewhat abusive. I asked if I needed to get him some therapy for the abuse I have may have inflicted upon him. He didn't answer, but I noticed that he purrs in his sleep, so he must be feeling pretty jolly. Perhaps this means he will do a turn as Santa Claws?

Buster didn't win the costume contest. I'm not surprised, either. There were some dogs at the shop with outfits on that must've set the owners back at least $100. I would've awarded top prize to a Boston Bull Terrier dressed as Elvis complete with blue suede shoes. Buster was the only feline entry, so I think he should have gotten some recognition. Maybe I'm just lusting after a gift certificate.

Here's another shot for good measure. He can be so laid back. My former kitties would have been too feisty to have a necklace draped over their ears.

Back to the classics...

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 00:34:00 +0000

Marnee adjusted her modern coiffure, barely looking askance at the clock before heaving a defeated sigh. Her stomach growled in approval as she removed her shoes and her dress. No sense in mussing up her best clothes for a plate full of leftover spaghetti.

She descended the stairs, carefully stepping over her sleeping cat on the landing. Rounding the corner for the last few steps, Marnee noticed the approaching shadow of a man with a large bouquet in the frosted glass of the entry way. He was over two hours late. Marnee froze, and decided whether to or not she should open the door for Mr. Wright.

Quitting is for Quitters

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 05:20:00 +0000

Thanks to an act of bad parenting by Mama Crow, I have never been a smoker. So I don't really know what it is like to quit smoking. I have tried and failed at Weight Watchers several times now, so I can imagine what it is like to break a habit that is so intricately woven into my lifestyle. I also can sympathize with having the jitters but in my case it was from hypoglycemia, not nicotine withdrawl.

Quitting is what I should have done to my temp job long before I "left to pursue another opportunity." I might have been more satisfied with life if I had just jumped the ship without even turning my head to shout, "Good riddance!" over my shoulder on my way overboard. Hindsight. What a bitch.

The idea of not quitting has kept me motivated recently. For example I worked hard, I kept focused, and eventually I was able to adopt Buster without breaking the landlord's rules or having to get a permission slip from my doctor. Somehow, the pride I might feel about not quitting is totally overshadowed by the enjoyment I get from cuddling with kitty.

Awhile back, approximately week and some change, I quit. I hadn't intended to do so, but with my current state of brain health I wasn't surprised when I did.

My friend runs a small editing and publishing outfit, and she had asked if I would participate in her company's First Annual writing contest. I waffled about it for weeks because I didn't know if I was up to the challenge. However, I ended up filling out the entry form and submitting my $20 fee.

The contest was fairly straightforward. A writer or team of writers had 36 hours to create a work of fiction in English. Within that frame of time, each writer or team of writers went on a scavenger hunt to pick up four prompts at locations around the city of Portland.

I've never been particularly competitive, so contests usually aren't my thing. Scavenger hunts most certainly aren't my thing. I have traumatic memories of failed Easter Egg hunts. Now I prefer to search for things on a list I created for myself.

For some reason, I decided to do the list backwards to forwards. I looked at the potential scavenger hunt locations and decided that would be the best way to navigate the route. I arrived at the last location before the other participants. The gent manning the location was a little uninformed about how the hunt would work. He kept expecting that I would have a clue to lead me directly to the prompt in his care. I asked for the prompt, and he wouldn't relent. I was there for at least half an hour. I kept reading the clue, but there was nothing indicative of where to find the prompt once I got there. Was this a cruel joke? Was this guy holding out on my writing prompt in a sick way attempt at flirting with me (I'm oblivious to these things)? Was I even in the right place? Am I supposed to buy something here to get what I'm after?

I was getting anxious. I had a flashback to an Easter Egg Hunt in which a 3 year old me is throwing a tantrum about not finding any Easter eggs while literally walking on egg shells.

I finally told the guy this story and that he should pony up already with my damn prompt. The prompt happened to be the sentence beginning on the third line of page 86 of one of the many books on offer. Yeah. Like I'm supposed to magically discover this gem with my special divining pen. Lame.

Needless to say, I wasn't much in the mood for writing after that episode. I went off to the other locations with a chip on my shoulder. The final location provided some much needed focus and zen. I should have followed my gut and stayed there all day writing on the margins of my official rules sheet. Instead, I went home and considered the skeleton created by the four prompts. I did not like what I saw.

I wrote about 6 sentences before deciding to take a break. After some hemming and hawing, some general sitting down to think through a plot, some hardcore procrastinating and some ignoring the task at hand for benefit of adoring my feline friend, I finally quit.

Here's the thing. I hate quitting. Even though I was still able to show some support to my friend and her business, I still felt uneasy with my ineptitude for follow-through. True, quitting not the end of the world, but it was the end of something important. Silently, I was using this contest as an opportunity to gauge my readiness for going back to work. The fact that I failed to complete the task at hand makes me feel defeated. And a little confused. What am I supposed to do now?

I hope someday I will be able to have a chance to quit something and feel a great sense of pride and satisfaction. But, like Mick, I can't get no...

I went a little Internuts

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 17:18:00 +0000

If you've noticed a dearth of entries around here, I can explain. I've been making an effort to use the Internet less often.

Like many people, I spend hours at the computer and then I wonder where all my time has gone. The Internet is at best a time suck, at worst an addiction for me. I decided to cut back for two reasons. One, it would be nice if I didn't have to pay the bill anymore. And two, I'd rather spend time with people instead of a machine. I may also have been motivated by the headaches caused by my crippled computer.

After my initial scale-back, I find I don't miss very much. I still keep up with blogs, though I skim through massive blogs with 100+ updates per day. I am sort of relieved by the fact that I can allow myself to pass up the opportunity to reciprocate each little doohickey sent to me on a social networking site. Ironically, I think I am slightly better at responding to emails these days.

In general, I think the cut back has been a relief. I'm still not sure if I can cut the cord as it were. I'm not sure if I'm willing to give up the convenience of a home Internet connection. I mean, where else am I going to learn that sticky tape generates X-rays?

Trips around the sun

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 05:06:00 +0000

Today I am the age I have wanted to be since the seventh grade. For some reason, I've believed that 26 is the age where good things will happen to me. In light of my current circumstances, I can't help but wonder whether it will just be phenomenally better than 25.

I think I decided that 26 was the age I always wanted to be because it was the age of my seventh grade teacher, Ms. Bodenheimer. I think, in the thick of those murky and awkward middle school years, I could look at her and see a woman who had her shit together. She'd been to Harvard, Stanford and now enforced literacy to a bunch of apathetic public school twelve year-olds. At the time, I thought there was no more valiant volition.

In any case, I can hardly imagine attempting to be responsible for 30 tweenage twirps. I'm just barely squeaking by looking after Buster for the past week. Speaking of the handsome devil, I think he's enjoyed this birthday thing more than I have this year. I think he believed that each of my presents was a gift for him because they had paper to pounce, ribbons to tug and bags to hide inside for a game of "tough kitty." My sister was even so kind as to include 2 little mouse toys for him and he seems to think they are better for flipping around and batting under the couch than the ones I've provided.

I am not great at planning any fetes for my big day, but I'll be at Rimskys-Korsakoffee House late tomorrow evening to celebrate. I had hoped to plan an ice cream social for myself, but birthdays are hard for me for past 4 years. I used to share the day with my cousin, Matt who was one year my elder. Happy Birthay Matt. I hope I'm doing you proud.

On the sixth day of cat ownership...

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 01:43:00 +0000

On the sixth day of cat ownership, I made an emergency trip to the vet where I had a large-scale emotional breakdown.

I had planned to visit the vet sometime in the next month for a, "Nice to meet you. Here is my wonderful kitty," type appointment. Even though he had peed on my bed (twice!) on Saturday, I figured he was telling me he was stressed out not sick. And I didn't blame him. I've been a little stressed out since he's been here, too. It's not easy to learn to share your space.

What got me worried was the fact that Buster had been trying to pee, but nothing was happening. This morning he seemed really out of sorts-- not wanting pets and hiding under the coffee table. I called the vet's office. While I was on the phone Buster started crying and barfed up a whole lot of food. The vet's office said, "Bring him in NOW!" so I did.

Buster was snatched into the back to be looked at, and after filling out about half of a form, I was escorted into an exam room to speak with the doctor. It turns out Buster's urethra is partially blocked. They want to anesthetize him, put in a catheter and do a bladder lavage, which will cost me $1100.

This pronouncement was my cue for a significant emotional breakdown. The tears started flowing. My heart started palpitating, and with my sinus infection, I was a blathering snotty mess before you could repeat the phrase, "eleven hundred dollars."

For those who may not be aware, I would have adopted a cat years ago were it not for my feelings that responsible pet owners should be able to afford veterinary care for their animals. Needless to say, I could not afford this. Every fear that I had about becoming a pet owner seemed to be realized when I admitted this to the vet. To make matters worse, Buster is the one good thing that has happened to me this year. Hearing that I can't take care of him adequately was quite a blow.

I told the vet to put him on meds to help him relax his urethra. I drove home at about 2 miles per hour and I tried calling my Mom, my sister, the adoption agency and my psychiatrist. Of course I got the phone phobic's worst nightmare: six different answering messages for six different phone calls. I even thought about calling my Dad, but I hadn't admitted to him that I have a kitty yet and I knew his reaction would be along the lines of, "Kimberly! Did you even think about vet bills? Idiot." Not needing to hear that sort of criticism, and not knowing how the stock market was faring, I decided not to call him. I looked around for my Uncle Steve's phone number (he's a vet) to no avail before driving over to the adoption agency. There, I cried about Buster's plight and they asked why I didn't take him to their vet.

Much to the original vet's chagrin, I took Buster to the other vet. He squeezed Buster's bladder and made him pee in the sink. I'm no feline urine stream expert, but I would say that that squeeze indicated that things weren't plugged up in Urethraville. The vet said he was stressed out and needed a diet to make his urine more acid. Buster was given a cortisol shot and some special food.

We came home and took a long nap together. But I'm looking at the urinalysis from the first vet and I'm wondering if I've done the right thing.

Oh, Buster! Aren't You Grand...

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 02:57:00 +0000

A word to the wise-- if I am going to write your official introduction to the world, it is not a good idea to piss in my bed.

Turn the clock back to Saturday morning. I wake up with a killer sinus infection and a stomach ache (probably due the ratio of decongestant to food in stomach at 4 in the morning). In the days before Buster, my state of illness would be reason enough for me to leave by bed unkempt. After all, I will probably be crawling back under the covers shortly after finishing a mug of tea, half a bowl of Rice Crispies and the poorly edited piece of detritus I was going to post on my blog. But my world has changed. Look at me... I'm no longer kitty free!

So, I've got the mug of tea in my hands, and I'm headed to the desk where my computer now lives (also gone are the days of balancing my decrepit laptop on the edge of the couch) ready to write a Meet my Kitty entry when I spot my newly beloved, Buster. He's sitting-- no squatting-- on the bed just behind the mangle of sheets and blankets. I recognize that vacant stare, and it's best reserved for the litter box, mid-business.

My first instinct is to move him. But in my deer in the headlights moment of fear (cat pee is probably one of the most vile substances known to man) I realize that it is probably best to wait this one out so as not to have urine spritzed throughout my entire apartment. My teeth chatter with anticipation, and I'm saying silent prayers of "Please don't let it soak through to the mattress." Needless to say, I spent much of the afternoon at the laundromat.

Though I did not plan to do $12 worth of laundry, I didn't really mind having to clean up this mess. I figure that it's part of getting used to living with one another. I bought a new box with more real estate and a new, more diggable litter. It turns out Mr. Buster prefers to eliminate his waste in more plush environment. I think this potty drama is resolved.

I brought Buster home last Tuesday from The Pixie Project, a local rescue organization. I'd literally spent weeks upon weeks, hours upon hours poring over the shelters in the area before getting the go ahead from my landlord. Primarily, I was looking for a kitty at the Oregon Humane Society. I am really pleased with the work these organizations are doing, so if you know any Portlanders in need of a kitty friend, I could provide a list of good kitties looking for homes.

When I met Buster, I could tell he was a nice kitty. But what really won me over was watching him with the kittens in the Cattery. He let them cuddle with him. He let them nuzzle and nurse on him. When the littlest kitten of the bunch was getting picked on, he scooped her up by the scruff of her neck and carried her to safety. He was Papa Kitty, and I was smitten. Couple that with the fact that Buster is soft like angora and the employees at the Pixie Project insisted that he was their favorite, and I was scribbling his name at the top of my application.

Within minutes of bringing him home, I was pretty sure he thought he owned the place. I had been demoted to Buster's personal butler or valet; kept around only for the petting of the fur and handy tricks I can do with my opposable thumbs.

Buster is about 2 1/2 years old. He is at least part Turkish Van and he weighs a hefty 14 pounds. He is a professional Snugglepuss with a PhD in Affection. He will play with anything from a piece of tissue paper to a fancy catnip mouse. Likes: crunchy food, chasing me, getting his ears, cheeks, chin and belly rubbed. Dislikes: vacuums, Feline Pine original cat litter, wet food, the fact that I won't open the front door for him.

Buster is quite talented. Not only does he offer up a lovely soft shoe routine, he is also experimenting with other kinds of modern dance. He is a philosopher, often seeking answers to life's mysteries at the bottom of an empty Kleenex box. His first medium, however, is post-modern topiary sculpture. His art has affected my houseplants in a way that makes me reconsider both their form and function. He's really quite dedicated and talented.

So this is my kitty Buster. I already think he is pretty special.

Waiting game

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 19:08:00 +0000

I am currently sitting around waiting to take a blood test. It's not a particularly exciting one, but it's one I must take during certain window of time several hours from now.

It's made me realize that I've been doing a lot of waiting around as of late. I waited to come down from my Serotonin high. I am waiting for my guts to feel like they aren't being roto-rootered. I am waiting for both Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny to come visit. I am waiting for an answer from my landlord about my kitty situation.

To get everyone up to speed, I have basically offered my left kidney in order to keep a cat in my home. If the building owners aren't willing to accept my body parts, I am exercising my right to an emotional support animal. It's not the noblest of my battles, but dagnammit do I want a kitty companion. I also need a victory. I haven't had too many this year.

I don't feel bad when my favorite kitties at the Humane Society are adopted by other people. I can't take them all home, and it's nice to imagine that they are going to a good place. But it's been tough to look at the empty litter box every day. I would like to put what little energy I have into something else.

Even if I do get an answer from the landlord sometime soon, I realize that it might be best to postpone my kitty-getting for another couple of months. My sister is going on a 2 week business trip to Ghana in November. She's asked me to come look after my nephew while she's away. I can see that it might be a little difficult to bring kitty with me to Virginia.

I am tired of waiting. I think I'm going to need an ice cream after my lab work.

My quarter century love affair

noreply@blogger.com (k. crow) — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 18:20:00 +0000

From The New York Times Op-Ed. Oh, Statler and Waldorf. Be still my heart.