Cats Amaze Me

carpey flapjack

Because obviously I'm easily amazed. And I like shiny things.

I've spent a lot of time with our cats this year. Despite being around cats all my life, I still expect them to be aloof and cold, not needing any human interaction beyond feeding times.

And there are days when, if they had thumbs, I know they'd trip me so my head would crack square into the corner of a table and they'd no longer have someone nagging them about getting down off the counters or to stop stealing my socks and hiding them around the house, or to please cover the goddamn giant crap in the box.

But most days, they surprise me with how social they are. While they have bonded together somewhat as a tiny pride of living room lions, they still seem to prefer being with humans, or since I'm the one home all the time, me.

Neo, always a street-tough bulldog of a cat in my eyes, follows me from room to room, curling up near wherever I am. He doesn't have to be right on my lap like Nikita, but he's gotta be in the same room. He's a total badass yet he purrs the moment you touch him - that amazes me.


neo & nikita

With so much more observation time, I've seen much more of their personalities. They're all very different from one another - their only commonalities are bad breath, crapping in a box and loving ground up fish mush.

Ninja is the soft-headed gentle giant, content to play with a tiny carpet fiber or chase his tail on the couch. He doesn't rub his cheek against your leg, but instead gently brushes by like a fish in a lagoon, earning him the nickname Carpey.

He has a surprising range of expressions for a cat so mentally challenged. When he's happy the top of his head becomes rounded and fluffy and a ridge in his fur appears down his back. He's so at ease with the world he's totally comfortable sleeping flat on his back with his belly fully exposed. It's amazingly soft.

Because we see him as so, well, retarded, I was astounded one day when I figured out he was trying to tell me to clean out his crap box.

Like most cats, Ninja is particular about where he craps. The other two are fine with any box and any type of litter, but Ninja's gotta have it exactly the way he wants it or there could be trouble. Like a puddle of urine on the kitchen floor trouble. Or a box of books soaked in cat urine trouble.

As I sat here one day typing on this here computer dealie, he kept carping my leg and meowing softly - something he never does during the day. Normally right after breakfast, he's down for his all-day nap-a-thon - never up before 3pm when it's time to start bullying me into feeding them.

I watched him closely and he didn't look unhappy or stressed - he looked intent. We have two cat boxes in the closet behind me - that's the only reason he comes up here, except for bullying time.

Figuring it couldn't hurt to take a look, I grabbed a plastic bag and took the top off one of the boxes. Sure enough, it was due for cleaning. I scooped all the boxes and as soon as I finished, in he went to pollute it once again. And then he went back to his nap. Amazing.

I could go on and on about them, but if you have cats you know all the funny, weird things they do that make you wonder what planet they came from.

The scary thing is trying to stay on this side of the crazy cat lady line where I'm not talking to them like I know what they're saying back to me, but I gotta tell you, that line is getting blurry.

Maple-Dipped Ass Reaming

Hello Nootsmaakians!

When we last left you, our fearless author had just endured the early stages of a comprehensive rectal exam in an effort to register and insure an automobile here in the fine province of British Columbia.

Let's find out what happened!
..............

After 12 man-hours and a few more spent driving around to obtain forms, repairs and inspections, I'm happy to report the anal reaming is complete.

And now it's confirmed - British Columbia really [REALLY] doesn't want you bringing your car with you when you move here. Why, hasn't been made clear.

If it were just about the economy & wanting people to buy here, they could impose the appropriate taxes to compensate for that - that I would expect.

What I didn't expect was 2+ hours at the insurance agency to get signed up and insurance fees that are double what we paid in California - and that's AFTER a 40% discount for a claim-free record.

In California we were near an area where cars are stolen or burglarized all the time. David's car has a bullet hole in the hood from a random bullet fired somewhere in Emeryville when he used to work there. The East Bay is not without risk factors that can cause higher rates, yet we still paid reasonable fees for two cars driven all over the Bay Area (and beyond).

But here, I'm paying double what I paid in California, with the discount, and the coverage is about the same, though I think ICBC (Idiotic Corrupted Bullshit Corporation), includes an increased amount of general liability coverage.

Still, for a 10-year old car being used for "pleasure" only (I guess we'll have to keep the back seats folded down ALL the time) it's astronomical. Without the discount, I'd be paying $2,400 a year for BASIC insurance.

If I get a job and need to drive my car to & from work, that will cost me more. Can you believe that shit? If you have to drive your car to work, your insurance rates go up. And they want to know the actual mileage you'll be driving to/from work.

So, if I decide to take a long lunch and drive somewhere outside that route to run an errand and something happens, will they deny the claim?

The whole process is intentionally maddening, complicated and time-consuming. Even the wonderfully helpful and friendly folks at the insurance agency, who do this every day, struggled through the forms and the endless questions in the ICBC system.

Now I understand why some people, if they can, skirt this system. It's a full-on racket, from the numerous, bullshit fees you have to pay to different agencies to import to the inspection and its fees and the ridiculously expensive insurance.

Why the residents don't revolt and demand the laws be changed is a mystery. Perhaps this is one of those times when being too polite means we all get to take it up the ass. I've had about all I can take.

I think we'll seriously consider driving David's car back to California and leaving it there. I'm not sure I want to do this again or pay British Columbia any more money to live here. They're making it difficult to consider staying here permanently, but we'll see how it goes from here.

I have to say, I'm disappointed that something that should be so simple has been made intentionally very difficult and painful - and almost punitive.

We're not trying to screw anyone (or the local economy) by bringing our cars with us, but BC is definitely screwing us and as a result, we may not feel so great about staying here.

Import Export Stupidport

(from despair.com)

You know that guy (or girl) you've dated who, when you first meet him, you feel an instant connection - he's really cool, has a hot body, makes you laugh and dresses in his own style that you actually like?

That guy who seems totally into you at the party, chatting you up, flirting his ass off because you know he'd love to get you home, and you're fine with that because he's the best thing to come along since that guy you dated last year who dropped into a old-married-couple-like rut after the third date.

That guy who once you get to his place and have a look around you're thinking OK, his place is clean and cozy and you actually feel comfortable there and start thinking, This could actually be something...

And then you have a few dates, and just when you think things are clicking along nicely, he stops calling as often, telling you he's "got a lot going on right now" or he's "going through some issues" or "has his head lodged in his rectum and thus can't come to the phone."

Yeah, Canada is that guy. And Canada, I don't want to pull the plug on this so soon, but you need to get your shit together with this car import/registration bullshit, because I don't have the time or patience to deal with your issues.

Everything was great until I tried to take care of the car, and sure as shit, you went all High Maintenance Asshole on me.

Oh, sure, come on up and bring your car - sure - it's no problem. Oh, you want to KEEP your car here, oh, well, you didn't say that, but OK, well, in that case, there's some stuff you're going to have to take care of.

First - FIRST - don't bring your car. That would be the first thing to do. Don't bring it. Leave it in the states and walk across the border and either steal a car registered in British Columbia or purchase an automobile in Canada.

But if you've already brought your car, you'll need to first EXPORT the car from the States. The one you just drove here, the one that's already here in Canada - yes, that one - you're going to have to export that sucker first. So go back to the border to the US Customs office and fill out all that stupid paperwork to get it exported.

Oh, wait, I forgot - to actually export your car, you have to first file some paperwork with US Customs and leave the car in the States for three business days AFTER that paperwork has been filed.

So, go ahead and file that paperwork, verify that US Customs has received it and is is, in fact, ON FILE, then drive your stupid car across the border back into the States, sleep in it for three BUSINESS days, then you can drive back to the US Customs office and obtain the official export paperwork.

Easy, right? Excellent!

Now, with that done, we can start the IMPORT proe-cess. But first, if you wanted to, and this is totally up to you - your call - if you didn't want to bother with the EXPORT thing, you could - COULD - do a temporary import, which you can do if you're only going to be in Canada for a year or two. This is straight from the boys at Uncle Sam's customs office, so, I'm not just saying that to sound accommodating.

That doesn't mean that at some point, if you decided to STAY in Canada, that you may not have to someday bother with the whole export pain in the ass. So, you've been warned.

OK, so back to IMporting. If, like me, you were able to get away with the Temporary Import, Form 1 from the Canadian Customs folks, you can then bypass the RIV - Registrar of Imported Vehicles - proe-cess. The RIV bullshit requires another form or five and a filing fee of $200. For what, is anyone's guess - perhaps to pay for additional web pages full of confusing information.

Canadian Customs will give you the Temporary Import, Form 1 along with a B-15 form that documents the declared value of the car. You'll pay 7% of that value in taxes when you go to register your car.

Oh, you'll also need a Recall Clearance letter from your car's manufacturer (which for some cars, must come from their Canadian office). And you need to have current insurance and a Claims Experience Letter from your insurer that shows a claim-free history for the past eight years. With that, you get a 40% discount off the top. Off the top of a mountain of bullshit paperwork and forms.

Sorry, where was I?

Right, so with your Temporary Import Form 1, a B15, current registration, title, proof of insurance, recall clearance letter, claims experience letter, you'll THEN need to head on over to your local Canadian Tire - For Days Like Today (Really? So where do I shop on a GOOD day?) - where they'll do both a Federal and Provincial Inspection - awesome!

And if you're like me, you actually drive your car to places like Target or the liquor store and sometimes even to Canada, where along the way things can happen, like a chip or crack in the windshield.

And if you have a windshield with a crack or a chip, you can walk right back out of that friendly, neighborhood Canadian Tire because you're going to have to get that fixed before they'll even do the inspection. Which will cost you, for the Provincial Inspection, by the way.

So, where are we? You're going to have to pay taxes on whatever your car is worth, you're going to have to pay standard license and registration fees, you're going to have to pay for any repairs or modifications your car might need to pass the inspection, and then you're going to have to pay for BC insurance - and if you did the full export/import, you'll have to also pay the RIV fees (and another $100 if your car has air conditioning, just FYI).

Do you have a good salve and a rectum-friendly cushion? You may also want to keep your favorite alcohol or pharmaceuticals on hand to supplement the soothing effects of the anal salve.

Oh, and just so you know, your US insurance agency won't want to continue coverage for you once you've moved here, because BC won't recognize foreign insurance policies. Isn't that neat? So if you're not able to negotiate all this bullshit within 30 days, you'll be cut off by your US insurance before you're covered by BC's bullshit insurance, so, you know, good times!

So, no matter how hot Canada might look at that party, just know, if you're thinking about spending any serious time with him, there are going to be issues. He's cool about most things, but this one thing is like some twisted mommy-issue shit that might be too much to stomach.

I'm hoping he gets this shit worked out soon so we can get back to having some fun.

The Slop Line

Went to a bakery yesterday to get bread to go with our soup and picked up what I *thought* was a package of chocolate croissants for today's breakfast.

Oftentimes when cooking/baking something it's a good idea to put a little something on top of the item to help indicate what's in it. For example, almond croissants usually have slivered almonds on top - easy enough, yes?

These croissants, much like many chocolate croissants I've seen, had nothing on top but you could see the appearance of a dark filling at the corners. Unfortunately, that dark filling was in no way chocolate-related, but instead a spinach or pesto-type substance.

It's upsetting to bite into something like spanikopita when your mouth is ready for a sweet, gooey chocolate-filled pastry. Would a single pinoli on top be too much to ask? Or a spinach leaf? Something?

Disappointed that we had no sweet gooey treats for a Sunday breakfast, we went to Tim Horton's. At 9:30 on a Sunday morning.

The drive-thru line snaked around and out of the parking lot so we went inside. The line inside was only slightly shorter, with people joining from doors on both sides of the building.

We walked in and made our way toward the end of the line that weaved back through the tables. We joined the end of the line as two guys that came in from the other door cut in front of us.

These fine boys were sportin long, stringy hair and clothes that were mostly clean and both had summer teeth. Summer over here, summer over there.

With a scowl on his face, Dirty Stringy Blond Guy said "fuck this - just like the slop line in jail." Dirty Stringy Native Guy mumbled something in return.

I micro-stepped back toward David and stayed glued to him as the line moved along. DSBG kept grumbling about one thing or another while DSNG mumbled inaudible replies. David and I talked about the idea of working the graveyard shift there - they're hiring, if you're interested.

When it was their turn to order, the tough ex-con act disappeared and they were polite and friendly to the cashier. Watching a scene like this unfold, it's difficult not to burst out laughing like it's a live Kids in the Hall sketch.

After just a short time here, I have a whole new appreciation for their show. KITH fans might remember numerous parodies of Ontario Provincial Police, like when they're lounging on the hood of the patrol car talking about doughnuts or hockey while an old woman gets mugged right in front of them.

A few weeks ago there was a terrible car accident at a strip mall - a pickup driver crashed into a sushi restaurant. The police had the parking lot closed down for three days while they worked that case. SFPD would have been done with that in 20 minutes.

Last week two people were found murdered in a home in Surrey. Someone had called 911 reporting that they heard gunshots, but the police decided not to check it out.

This place is weird and funny.

Endless ____lits

In the local paper there's an ad for Crapplebee's endless favourites - all-you-can-eat entrees, such as endless chicken fingers or endless crispy shrimp.

I told David we could go have endless riblets for only $11.99, to which he said Sure, and then we'll have the endless shitlets.

Losing My Shit

That's literally losing my belongings and coming unhinged about it, so maybe the title should be Totally Losing All My Shit. But I digress.

I turned into Sherilyn Fenn yesterday, the character she played briefly in Wild At Heart where she's wandering around the strewn car wreckage, flipping out about losing her wallet/bobby pins/scalp/brain matter.

I wandered through boxes of crap talking to myself and swearing all day long. Where the fuck did I put that fucking thing - it was just there goddamn it - fuck. Shit. That fucking thing should be with the other fucking thing but it's not, piece of shit. Fuck.

This went on all day, one outburst flowing into another, and I never did find the one fucking thing I was trying to find all fucking day; the one goddamn thing I need to work the other fucking thing that's now just sitting there, a useless fucking paperweight without the fucking thing that makes it go. Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

Fucking irritating.

Ready for Teleporting

Or if not teleportation, would it be too much to ask for a direct flight from my house to wherever I want to go?

I'm done with marathon road trips for a while. They can be fun when there's time to stop for bacon maple bars along the way, but it's still too much time in the car.

I'd wanted to shave the drive time down to 12 or 13 hours, but without wearing Depends and an 80-gallon gas tank (and a jet engine in my Volvo), that will be difficult to do.

At any rate, I learned something new about northern California - The State of Jefferson - never saw or heard of this before last week (I slept through school) - a small region of northern northern California/southern Oregon that would like to secede and be its own state.

If they ever get that accomplished, they're going to want to make sure they get Crescent City and Mt. Shasta in there, otherwise there won't be anything worth stopping to see in Jefferson.

This is a snapshot of Jefferson as seen from Highway 5:

Drink it in.

With this recent trip behind me, it's time to settle in for real. This morning I found a pair of flannel-lined khakis I've had for many years and now I actually need them. They're two sizes too big, but they'll do for now. I wonder how cold it's gonna be in February...

Heartsick

I have to admit that I might be hormonal at this moment, or it could be an accumulation of stress, but I can't believe how sad I am about being away from the animal kids.

When I rolled into town Sunday night, I realized I wasn't going "home." No one would be at this house - there's no home here anymore - just the house.

A house that now smells like it did before we moved in - like someone else's house, with someone else's things in it. Not my house. And no one in it.

That first night, every noise I heard made me expect a cat to be right behind it. No cats. When I made pasta and put it into a bowl, I automatically thought to find a small dish for Henry. No bird.

This year has been difficult with David away for most of it. I hadn't realized until now how much more attached I'd become to the fuzzy kids. It's killing me to be away from them. I want to leave right now to race home to them. Because home is wherever they are and they aren't here.

Road Trip Workout

A long drive can be difficult to get through, especially on a straight, boring highway and nothing but bad AM radio (forgot my iPod - whoops).

It was like getting through a long run - stay hydrated, eat healthy snacks and take it in phases. And talk to yourself. And make fun of Washington.

It gets old fast just sitting there. Just sitting there working your right calf, ever so slightly. You can feel your muscles turning to mush. And it also lets fatigue creep in so quietly you don't even realize it until you wake up five minutes down the road. See previous post about Washington.

To work other areas besides the right calf, try these mini-exercises and see if they don't help you stay alert (and help burn off the bacon maple bar - or five - that you inhaled before leaving Portland).

Leg Shakers
Either to your own count or to a song on the radio, shake your legs back & forth like you have to pee so bad you almost can't believe it. Count to 30 (seconds or so), rest for 5, then repeat as many sets as you like. Works the groin, upper quads & hamstrings. Makes you look anxious and disturbed to other drivers, resulting in a greater space barrier with other cars.

Leg Presses
Press your knees together for a 30 count - works the groin. Depending on your car, if you can press your knees against the door and center console, that will work the abductors and glutes. Can also help air out the crotch, and that's always a good thing.

Butt Crunches
Tense your butt muscles for a 30 count, rest for 5, then repeat two or three times. Can alternate or "super set" with Stomach Crunches for a more robust exercise.

Stomach Crunches
Tense all stomach muscles and use them to crunch your body forward slightly toward the steering wheel - hold for a 30 count, rest for 5 then repeat, or super set with Butt Crunches. Focus on the lower abdomen by "pulling" the pelvis up into the stomach. Believe me, do enough of these and you'll feel it the next day. The gentle rocking makes you appear possibly deranged, resulting in a greater space barrier with other cars.

Bicep Curls
Starting with your hand resting on your lap, make a fist and tense your entire arm as if you were holding a dumbbell in your lap, then slowly curl your imaginary dumbbell up to your chest. Do 30, rest for 5, then repeat. Switch arms and repeat. Do not - DO NOT - do both arms at the same time. You'll have to move to Washington.

Tricep Press
This one is a little difficult being that you can't get good enough extension above your head to do a traditional tricep press, but you can put both hands on the wheel at 9 and 3 and press against the wheel for a 30 count. You have to focus on tensing the triceps while pressing. Keep your hands relaxed so you can keep steering the car. Kindof important.

Shoulder Raises
Starting with a bent arm raised in front of you like you're holding your mic on American Idol, fist at chin level, raise your elbow to the side, keeping your fist at chin level - like doing the Funky Chicken, just in front of you instead of at your sides. Focus on tensing the deltoids while raising your elbow - do 30 raises, rest for 5, then repeat. See above note about switching arms and repeating.

Pectoral Press
With both hands on the wheel at 9 and 3, press your hands toward each other, squeezing your pecs. Do a 30 count, rest for 5, then repeat. See above note about keeping hands relaxed.

Kegels
Enough said.

Cardio
Turn up the music and dance in your seat. See above notes about appearing disturbed/deranged. When making pit stops, don't use the drive through - park as far away from wherever you're stopping as you feel comfortable (with all that crap in your car), and walk vigorously to/from your destination. If desired, do jumping jacks, plyometrics, or go for a run around the rest stop/gas station/starbucks/wendy's.

Nutrition/Supplements
Traditional road trip snacks tend to be Pringles, Gardetto's, Oreo's and such - lots of salt to ward off frequent pit stops and fat, well, because it's fat and it's good. But too much of that, and you'll be flagging by lunchtime. Some of that is good - you need the fat/calories for staying power, but too much sugar is the killer.

Keep a variety of snacks on hand - whole grain bagels, granola bars, protein bars, nuts or seeds, the bacon maple bar for extreme fat/calorie loading and the one sugar rush you shouldn't deny yourself, water and coffee.

I was surprised at how little coffee I wanted/needed for the drive. I usually have too much blood in my coffee stream, but staying hydrated with plain ol' water helped ward off fatigue better than caffeine.

It's a delicate balance - drinking just enough H2O to be hydrated but not so much that you're stopping every hour to pee behind the car. You'll have to figure out what's enough for you.

Soda can work, but I wouldn't recommend it. The sugared stuff is mostly poison and the diet stuff is all poison. It's fluid, but full of shit your body has to work to break down or use water to break down/process, negating the liquid it contains. And the acid eats your teeth.

Brain exercise is also important. Count the number of highway patrol you see by state and the overall total. Keep track of political bumper stickers. For example, 5 Obama to 2 McCain with 1 for Impeach Bush. Do the math of figuring out how long it will take to get from where you are to the next city based on your average speed. Then try to beat that. Safely, of course. Of COURSE!

Coming to America

Ever drive for 15 hours straight? I have! Yesterday I drove from Port Coquitlam to Alameda - 7am - 10pm. Whaaaahoowwww!

While I wouldn't jump up on a Sunday morning and say "Let's go driving until Monday!" it didn't totally suck. And it was pretty much stress free, thanks to constant tapping of simulated wood and quiet conversations with The Universe.

I wondered if driving through the state of Washington would be as stupid as the last time I suffered through that state, and it almost was.

There wasn't as much traffic this time, but there was a stupid amount of law enforcement all up everyone's ass. From the time I crossed the border 'til I rolled into Oregon, I counted 11 highway patrol, most of them handing out tickets.

Eleven. At 9am on a Sunday morning. What a bunch of shitty bitches.

The other stupid thing? Almost no road signs telling you which cities are coming up & how many miles to them. Because evidently no one in Washington is going anywhere, so what the fuck do they care if there are other towns somewhere and how long it might take to get to them?

You drive along and after a while you see a sign telling you "Entering [name of town]." Surprise!

And like always, Washingtonians are the worst drivers in the Pacific Northwest, possibly North America.

Just as slow and oblivious as Jenna Bush - camping in the fast lane going 50, yammering on a cell phone. See above about not going anywhere.

Even with all the signs that say "Slower traffic keep right" - they stay locked in the fast lane, holding up drivers from everywhere else in the world. It would seem they don't know how to read, either.

Oregon isn't much better when it comes to road signs, but the drivers are better, I saw only one highway patrol, and Portland has Voodoo Doughnuts - well worth the detour. It's just five minutes off Highway 5. Get the bacon maple bar - you'll thank me.

Ceramic Cooktops = Ass

To the inventor of the ceramic cooktop - you're an asshole. And you must love scrubbing things every day - sometimes twice a day if you're lucky. I hate your invention. You probably microwave everything.

Too afraid of a little gas-powered flame? Can't figure out how to control it with the big, controller knob? Think it's going to leap up and char your face off? It just might, if you get close enough. That's the fun factor.

More frightening to me than a big ol' gas burner on "high" is a cooktop glowing bright lava red like it's actually on fire.

But the thing that really irritates me is how EVERYTHING burns onto it, even water, requiring a vigorous scrubbing with a "safe" scrubbing thing, which is code for "it doesn't scrub for shit and you're going to work up a sweat trying to clean anything."

Every range should come with a personal scrubber monkey to keep the damn thing clean. Time to buy a grill.

Wifing is OK

That's pronounced "whyfe-ing." I'm doing a fair amount of wifing these days and I have to say, I'm starting to like it.

Wifing is different than being a Lady Who Lunches, which from what I hear is a fine way to pass the time, but I'll have to work up to that.

As we settle into our new Canadian lifestyle, my day is largely filled with wifey duties such as managing the household, thinking up things to make for dinner, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the pets.

Now, you might remember an earlier post where I wigged out about the prospect of loading and unloading the dishwasher every day for the rest of my life. I pushed past that, realizing one doesn't have to load and unload the dishwasher at the same time every day, or even every day for that matter. It can be a flexible schedule. Whew! That was close.

With that situation resolved the stress disappeared and now I'm enjoying puttering around the house taking care of things, running to the store for supplies, organizing the house. I dare say, I like the wife thing.

Yesterday I realized we needed groceries so I happily went to the store and shopped. In the three weeks I've been here, I've already been to the grocery store more times than in all of last year in Alameda.

My new favorite store is spacious, very clean, has a great selection of stuff and it's never crowded (and has fantastic Muzak). Contrast that with Alameda's Trader Joe's which at anytime of any day is always loud, cramped, often out of the good stuff and crowded full of rude people. So I stopped going.

When people ask me how I lost 20lbs this year (now closer to 30), I tell them I just stopped going to the store, and it's partly true. When there's no food in the house, you don't eat very much.

There was no magic diet or silver bullet hoodia pill endorsed by Leslie Stahl of 60 Minutes. David went to work in the UK for four months and I didn't feel much like eating. When I did eat, it was whatever I could make from what was left in the cupboard, like tuna and crackers. Or tuna and spaghetti. Or tuna on a fork.

By the time my appetite returned, my stomach had shrunk and there wasn't much I could fit in there. Before I knew it, none of my pants fit. Susanna made fun of me, seeing me wearing pants two sizes too big held up by a big ol' belt. It's a fine hobo look.

Then we decided to move. Try working full time and packing an entire house for a month and see if you don't lose some weight. Best workout ever and no time to cram anything into your mouth.

But now things are finally settling down and I'm a happy housewife who last night when her husband got home, cheerfully made him a ginormous cocktail then cooked him a steak dinner with baked potato and tasty salad.

As he said last night, having a stay-at-home wife is expensive, but worth it.

Kickass Wednesday

I dunno, maybe because I'm getting old, or the world is getting old, or we're all getting old, great days are fewer and far betweener than they used to be - or seem to be - so when one comes along, I can't help but get all giddy and sickeningly cheerful about it and want to tell the whole world what a great day today was (and still is, technically).

Nothing momentous happened - I didn't even wake up feeling particularly refreshed - but the day was great, nonetheless. Beautiful day with perfect weather, good mood, nice people, no stress.

I won't bore you with the details, but the best part of the day was watching Ninja, or Carpey Flapjack*, watch a bee buzzing around just outside the window screen.

The way his head bobbed all around, tracking his new friend who sounds just like the noises in his head - I couldn't stop smiling. I think it was the sweetest thing I've ever seen.

*He'll silently "swim" through the house and very lightly brush up against your leg - sometimes you almost don't feel it - like a giant carp. Flapjack is for being just so big and dumb, like a big dumb flapjack in a giant skillet.

I Love Me Some Organics

Today I stopped into an organic market just up the road from us hoping to find more probiotics. It has *everything* I could ever want in an organic/healthy/healthful/whole foody sort of way.

There was an entire wall of organic flours in every variety you could imagine, organic and fair-trade coffee, high-quality supplements, probiotics, greens formulations, natural cosmetics - everything. Everything everything everything I like/want/need from a tree-hugger store.

As Helen Madden, a well-known joyologist says, "I LOVE IT I LOVE IT I LOVE IT!!!"

Doin' The Flagpole

(image from http://dylan.iamstillalive.net/notes/16-the-tallest-flagpole-in-calipatria)

Today was Flagpole Day! No, not run my panties up a flag pole or climb a flag pole. I got to drive to the border, cross into the U.S., get a form, then go back through Canadian Customs to get my Work Permit.

When I was told this procedure is called the "flagpole," I thought that was just a cute term used by the HR folks in David's office.

Turns out, "Flagpole" is an official immigrations term used by both the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol as well as Canadian Customs.

At the U.S. Customs station, I told the uniformed lady I needed to get the right paperwork from Canada, hesitant to tell her I was "doing the flagpole," but then I said, "I guess they call it 'the flagpole,'" and she said "Oh, sure - the flagpole!"

On her little orange official paper she wrote "Flagpole" and showed me where to park and go inside to get the form I'd need for Canadian Customs.

The U.S. Customs office is all business - very brightly lit with clear queues cordoned off and stony-faced officers giving off a very serious vibe, like they might have to draw down on everyone at any moment and defend the entire border on behalf of all Americans everywhere.

I waited patiently in line until a salty officer barked at me to come to the desk. I told him which form I needed and he went about hand-writing my information on it, including the word "Flagpole," underlined, next to the reasons why I was not being admitted back into the U.S.

With my official Flagpole form in-hand, I drove over to the Canadian Customs to complete this fascinating process.

Inside the Canadian office, the vibe is totally different. The lighting is subdued, there's one general area to queue up and all the officers are talking and joking with each other. They also offer public washrooms and have vending machines with snacks & sodas. There's none of that civility provided on the U.S. side.

An agent waved me over to the counter and as soon as he started talking, it was like working with Patton Oswalt. He sounded just like him and was about as funny. He reviewed my U.S. form and laughed at how they wouldn't allow me back into the country.

I had stacks of paper and forms to hand over, so I asked him which forms he might need - he said probably none of it. He just used David's paperwork to get mine in order, gave me a temporary import form for my car (that's a whole other process/story) and sent me on my way.

It was all supposed to be very official business, but it felt like I was amongst friends. I'd totally hang out with them anytime.

Now the next customs party we get to have is officially importing our cars, which means handing over some forms and leaving our cars in the U.S. for three business days prior to *exporting* them so they can be *imported* into Canada.

Trouble is, our cars are already HERE, so that means we have to drive them back THERE and leave them, one at a time, obviously, and then we can officially import them and get that paperwork taken care of.

It would seem the U.S. Customs folks are either totally stupid or totally stoned or both, because NONE of that shit makes any sense whatsoever.

As I overheard one U.S. Customs agent say while waiting in line, "I guess I have to do something today, or make it look like I'm doing something..." No shit.

Whose Crap is This?

I keep unpacking box after box of crap and stuff and junk. Even after getting rid of so much stuff before the move, it's obvious we had no idea just how much crap, stuff and junk we actually had.

Evidently I have a bag problem. And a bit of a shoe problem. And most likely a jacket/coat problem. I knew about the shoes, but the bags and jackets were sort-of a surprise.

We had a lot of hooks in our closets in Alameda. Things have a way of blending in when they're hanging up. Very different than when piled one on top of another in a large box.

And David has a book problem. A book and games problem, but I bet that's not a surprise to anyone who knows him.

The cats have a bit of a toy problem. Faux mice and tiny sparkly balls have been pulled out of the cat tree cubbies and littered all over the house. Countless more were found while unpacking and have been tossed.

All this crap seems to attract more crap - it's a friggin crap fest. I'm not even done unpacking and already I have a pile of stuff to take to Goodwill.

Housewife - Day One (Day Last?)

Today was my first official day as a housewife. After I stopped working late last month I became a full-time mover, which was way harder than any job I've ever had. That didn't feel at all like housewifing to me.

Plus, my husband was already "moved," so there wasn't much wifing going on - just being a full-time pet au pair. They'll run you ragged, those furry little bastards.

With the trailer finally unloaded last Saturday, resulting in more bruises, extreme fatigue and scuffed up limbs, now I don't feel like a mover anymore but more like a housewife. A housewife with bruises all over her inner arms, making her look like she moved to Canada to kick a nasty heroin habit.

This morning my husband got up early and went to work and I dozed for another hour before getting up to feed the cats.

With the cats fed, I scooped out all the cat boxes then cleaned and refilled Henry's water dish. As soon as I finished that task, Nikita barfed up her breakfast. After spot cleaning the carpet, it was time to make coffee. Had my coffee and checked email.

By the time I finished catching up on email it was late morning and I needed a shower. But first, the shower drain needed clearing. Drano-ed the shower, then after rinsing the poison away, got into the shower and proceeded to scrub the entire shower/tub.

With the shower finally clean and draining properly, I then showered myself, got dressed and got to work on the Boxhenge in my office, so tall it obscures the windows.

Unpacked several boxes, then took a fridge inventory to make sure dinner was covered. Thankfully we had enough on hand to not require another trip to the market. Restocking a pantry is a lot of work.

I kept unpacking boxes until David got home. That was my day. I know what you're thinking - I can see the gun barrel resting on my bottom teeth too. Because after the unpacking/nesting, what the hell am I going to do all damn day?

I emailed all my clients a message saying "HELLO! READY TO WORK - NOW!!!" Good lord please give me something to do other than load and unload the dishwasher or do laundry or scrub the toilet or vacuum or dust the blinds.

Like a scene from a corny TV show, the best part of my day was when David got home and we could talk about his job - something other than "you'll never guess what I pulled out of the tub drain today."

Even better than grown up work talk was the bike ride we took through the nearby wooded trails. Coming out the other side of a park onto a city street, we saw a guy on the corner who promptly warned us about a couple of black bears down the street.

Of course we had to ride over and check them out. We found a small gathering of neighbors chatting excitedly about the bears, though they were long gone by the time we got there.

Had a great time talking with the neighbors like we've lived here all our lives, then we finished our ride, on high alert for bears. Got home and had a nice dinner, refreshed and invigorated.

Now I just hope tomorrow's minutiae doesn't send me running for the Shelter of Her Mother's Little Helper. Can't wait 'til it's time to change the sheets!

Labour Day Canadia

We went to dinner a couple of nights ago and I got to order, with a straight face, "The Ribber."

A guy was killed in Vancouver the other night - the 14th homicide in British Columbia this year. There were at least that many in Oakland last month.

Wherever there are teenage girls hanging out together, they are *always* in groups of threes. Always.

The Save-On-Foods, my favorite new grocery store, plays the very best Muzac ever heard. From Duran Duran's Girls on Film to 10cc's Dreadlock Holiday, one of my all-time favorite songs.

The people really are nice. Checking out of the Save-On-Foods, the checker asked if I had my Save-On card with me - I said no & I needed to get one. Without missing a beat, the woman in line behind me offered hers so I could get the discount. Then the woman behind her pointed out the forms to sign up for a card. No one was bunged about the line or a brief delay.

Riding my bike around town yesterday, it really did feel like I'd gone back in time to my childhood. Kids out & about playing in neighborhoods, families working in the yard together and a totally relaxed vibe everywhere.

Canadia

(as in, Hazel Nootsmaak - my alter ego and name of this here bloggie blog)

Random notes since arriving:

An woman came up to me at the Esso station and asked me to pump her gas - said she didn't know how.

She started walking back to her car and I said, "Hold on there, don't go anywhere - what is it you need help with?"

She said she didn't know how the machine worked. You know, the credit/ATM card thingie that's been on gas pumps for hundreds of decades - that thing billions of people use every day - sorry, that thing billions of COMMONERS use every day - my mistake.

I showed her how you put the card into the slot exactly as the picture shows how, then choose the type of gas you want, push the button and GO. She nodded along and then said she's from the U.S. and doesn't know how to do it.

I leaned over and pointed to the license plate on my car and said "So am I - see that? I'm from California." Then she said she wanted to pay cash. I told her to go inside. Moments later she came out with one of the employees - she was trying to get him to pump her gas, but he wouldn't do it.

Moments later she drove off. Her car had British Columbia plates on it.

The traffic radio station plays ads for a 1-800-Got-Junk competitor - Rubbish Removal. According to the voice over, two guys in blue come to your house to get your crap. They're "happy to take your crap all day," and their tag line is "Taking your crap all day!"

Home Depot doesn't carry fireplace screens. Says no one really does up here. Go ahead & build a big ol' fire and set it ablaze - don't worry 'bout those giant sparks flying out onto your clothes - just roll around a bit - you'll be fine.

Wondering if I should worry that every day the lines to get into the U.S. are two-hours long, while the lines coming into Canada average only 15 minutes.

Upon arriving I was given a Visitor's Permit, even though they had David's Work Permit and immigration paperwork stating I should receive a Work Permit.

To fix this error, I cannot just return to the Customs office where I cleared our trailer (with my Visitor's Permit) and have them issue the proper Work Permit. I must cross back into the U.S. then return to Canada and get the right paperwork. Let that wash over you for a few minutes.

The trash pickup schedule is complicated enough to warrant a calendar poster with color- and icon-coded dates showing trash days, green waste or recycling days (which change every month and sometimes by week), and all the different zones and holidays. I had to put it down after a while - none of it was making sense. I'm just going to look out the window every day & see which bins the neighbors put out.


Related to an earlier post about the driving/traffic here - yesterday someone drove into the Frasier River, requiring a "hover craft" and other rescue vehicles to save the driver/sailor.

Today several cars were reported to be flipped over onto their roofs. That's astounding given the terrible traffic and how slowly those drivers must have been going when they lost control, yet they still managed to tumble over like stranded turtles.

There are few (if any) local coffee shops in the suburbs. There are quite a few in downtown Vancouver, but out here, you gotcher Tim Hortons, some Waves, a Blenz or two, and more Starbucks than you can shake an unprotected fire at, and that's it.

Riveting, no?

So Much for Trophy Wifing

So, here I am in Canada, trying to be a trophy wife and fuck if I'm not still *working* on this move. I'm supposed to be hanging out at Tim Hortons and shopping for lingerie, but NOOOO. Instead, I'm driving all over town running my ass ragged and listening to an all-traffic radio station.

I'm not sure what's wrong with Canadian drivers or if it's that few people have full time jobs here, but there's a SHITLOAD of cars on the roads at ALL TIMES of the day and there are ACCIDENTS or MAJOR CONSTRUCTION going on all over the place, resulting in fucked up traffic all the time.

If you move to an area that has a radio station devoted to constant traffic updates, that's a sign. Sure, Canadian drivers are very polite, but maybe that's how these accidents happen - maybe it's a result of too many people saying "No, you go," and then no one knows who should go and they all go and BLAM - four-car pile-up that blocks an entire intersection.

And then there's the border crossings. You'd expect them to be backed up at rush hour, but at 11am? Seriously? A 90-minute backup at 11am? WHY?

This morning I had to go back to the border to clear our moving trailer through customs - something I thought ABF did for you, but apparently not.

You have to go down to the ABF office at the border, get their copies of your customs forms you gave to the driver when he picked up your trailer, then walk them across the street to Canadian customs, get them cleared, then walk them back to ABF so your shit can be delivered.

Now, on these forms, there's not much instruction about how to fill them out, but it looks like they want you to itemize every last thing you own. One Oral-B electric toothbrush: $75; 47 pairs of underwear: $218, etc. No one has that kind of time or patience, but being that they're official forms, I tried to be as detailed as I could without losing my mind.

I listed stuff by room, e.g. Living room items: two couches, one coffee table, one television, etc., and after all the stuff I gave a combined value. Nowhere on the form is a "Total" line and there's no way to know how they might want to verify what you have or its worth in Canadian play money.

So, with my forms I head into the customs office and just like Sunday night, I speak only when spoken to, give clear answers and do not fidget. I do not look nervous nor do I look too relaxed. I do not look too interested in what's going on in the quiet office where most agents are having a laugh with each other or watching the U.S. Open on the TV in the lobby.

A soft-spoken agent reviews my paperwork and my passport with the Visitor's Permit stapled inside. He asks me how I can be a "settler" if I only have a visitor permit. I tell him my husband has the work permit and he doesn't bat an eye. He doesn't ask to see this work permit or my husband, who may or may not exist.

Continuing with my paperwork he asks me if I have the title for my car. I tell him I don't have it and he quietly asks "Where is it?" Does it matter where it is right now? What difference does it make where it is - it's not HERE, is it? Because I don't have the title with me, I cannot "import" my car at this time. OK, thanks very much.

While leafing through my forms he finds a log book in a drawer and opens it up. In it are hand-written records - it looks like a restaurant reservation book. I'm wondering what this book is for - it can't be part of the official importation/customs process.

As he looks over my paperwork, he asks me if I totaled up all the values. No, I tell him, as I think, How would I know to do that? How would I know you want a total value when there's no TOTAL line on the form?

We add it up together and agree on a number. He writes that number in that log book as I tell him I came to that number without including the declared value of the car. He gives me a look, like Dammit, now I have to do it again and he grabs some WHITE OUT from the desk.

HE WHITES OUT the number he just wrote down in the log book. There is no computer data entry, no triplicate forms with carbon paper - just a hand-written book listing a total dollar value of goods imported, per importer.

No one asked where the trailer is to maybe have a look at the stuff I've said is inside of it, no one wanted to see the car I said I'm driving. At this time, only I know what's in that trailer and what I've said it's worth.

With a few official stamps on my paperwork, I was on my way back across the street to ABF and headed back to PoCo to continue a marathon of errands with the traffic station helping to avoid delays all through town.

The traffic station is incredibly useful for not only avoiding accidents, but for knowing where the radar speed traps are set up. They play the Dragnet theme song and tell you exactly where they're trying to catch speeders. THAT I like.

Driving to Canada Hurts

Holy jesus am I tired. Getting to Canada has been a marathon on top of a triathlon on top of a decathlon while wearing ice skates and a lead suit.

We did the drive in two days, stopping in Oregon for a couple of nights to let the kids (and me) enjoy a crate-free day. It'd have been better to spend a week between legs of the trip - the second one almost killed me.

We left Bend at 9:15am and didn't get to Port Coquitlam until almost 11pm. The entire goddamn state of Washington had endless, bumper-to-bumper traffic, without any reason. No accidents, no fifty-car pileups, just a bunch of slow Sunday-driving turds flushed onto the roadways all at the same time.

Then we got to the border. For over an hour we crawled slowly toward the checkpoint where we expected the car to be thoroughly inspected and all our paperwork closely examined. Not so much.

At the first checkpoint we were waived through without a glance from the burly dude in black kevlar. At the second checkpoint, a lovely recent high school graduate politely asked us if we had any firearms, gifts for Canadians or more than $10K in cash with us. She never looked past our passports or asked about pets, booze, drugs or plants/vegetables.

Once past her checkpoint, we had to go inside so I could get a visa/work permit/visitor permit - I'm not sure which one I'm supposed to have and they don't seem to know either, but after a relaxing 20-minute wait, I got a pretty piece of official paper stapled into my passport and we were on our way.

We tried to sleep that night, but the cats were wigged out, meowling through the house as if to ask Where the hell is our shit? Where the hell are we? Why the hell did you hold us captive in that car for over 13 hours?

Overall, it was a day I'd never ever like to repeat. Not until they build a bridge over the state of Washington so I never have to sit through that bullshit again.

Horsey Pill Monday

Neeeeeeeeeeeyyy! [paws ground with her hoof]

While I love me some homeopathy, I'm glad I didn't try to fight this nastiness with 11 herbs and spices. The horror forum was right - cats are the Komodo dragons of our living rooms.

Within just a few hours of the bite, the swelling spread from the wound point across the back of my hand and pinky finger and sweet chocolate christmas, it hurt like a bastard. My left hand has become a throbbing Smithfield ham.

If I weren't on these horsey pills, that damn cat would be waiting for me to drag my diseased body into a corner where he could start gnawing my flesh.

The pharmacist was right about taking them with food. They're a little rough on an empty stomach, resulting in wooziness and stomach cramps. Tonight I followed the dosing directions and wrapped my big pill in an entire pizza. That should do the trick.

Just nine more days of this and I'm cured!

Werekitty Kitty Kitty

Just when you think you've gotten through a rough patch, something else happens and you're dealing with another problem. It's always something.

Yesterday I was under the weather all day dealing with either mild food poisoning or a lower GI bug - either way, it wasn't a fun day. I like a good purge as much as the next girl, but a full day of cramping and weakness was a killer, especially with so much left to do for the move.

I went to bed a little early and got a good night's sleep. Until the big, retarded cat started making noise as only he can at 6:30am. As he woke me up, I realized I felt a lot better and would be able to catch up on the stuff I couldn't do the day before.

El Gato Retardo found his way into an old, empty moving box - a weird one that folds over on top and tucks into handles on the sides. It was up on its side, propped open, so the cats couldn't get trapped inside it, as had just happened the day before (two got inside then the third curled up on top, holding the others captive - an impressive trick, when you think about it).

He was sitting inside the box, pulling old tape off the cardboard with his teeth. I really wanted to go back to sleep, so I got up to remove him from the box.

As he typically does, he becomes three times heavier and sinks down into the bottom of the box, refusing to vacate. So I did what I always do, I tried to upend the box to help him find his way out.

Unfortunately, the dumbshit stuck his foot through the hole in the side and FLIPPED OUT because the WORLD WAS ENDING WITH HIS FOOT IN THE HOLE. Meowling like he was being branded with a hot poker, I tried to free his leg, and that's when he chomped down on my hand like it was a tuna steak.

As I screamed bloody murder, he got free and tore out of the bedroom and I ran to the bathroom sink. The cold water felt like kerosene in my pretty puncture wounds. I bled and bled, then washed the wounds with soap and poured four gallons of hydrogen peroxide in them.

When the foaming subsided, I found a band aid and went online to refresh my memory on treating puncture wounds. That's when I found the website with user posts about the WORLD ENDING BECAUSE OF A GANGRENE HAND AS A RESULT OF A CAT BITE.

Totally freaked out, reading about super strong IV antibiotics, tetanus shots, days in the hospital and hand surgery, I called the 24/7 nurse line. A kind, sleepy RN recommended I skeedaddle right down to my local clinic for some of those antibiotic horsey pills.

But wouldn't my oregano oil and probiotic capsules knock it out? Maybe, in time, but since I'm about to drive to Canada in a matter of days, I thought it smarter to get the big guns and nip it in the bud. I'll slam the pills any day if that means I don't have to get that effed up tetanus shot.

Now I'm on the horse pills - Augmentin - staggering that with probiotics in hopes of avoiding the yeast infection side affect. If things continue in this manner, I suppose I can look forward to starting my period with a yeast infection as I drive to Canada with a throbbing hand the size of a football.

Huge thanks to Cameron for letting me drag him to the Walgreens after lunch to pick up my Rx, and for his help choosing the right Monistat - there's the One Day, the Day & Night, the Three Day, Five Day, Twelve Day All Day, Gentle Applicator Day, Topical Anti-Itch Day and the Six Nights and Three Days varieties - they all look like so much fun, I wanted to get them all.

Trolls Secretly Love Trees

As I've mentioned before on The Nootsmaak, we have a troll that lives next door to us and she's only happy when she's bitching at me about our beautiful oak tree.

If she could, she'd chop it down with a serrated butter knife, but she strikes me as terribly lazy, so maybe that's why she sticks to verbal attacks that don't take much physical energy.

I ignore her now and rarely speak to her, but every time I see her I know she loathes me and our tree, which is why she's going to end up in a heavily forested region of hell.

This afternoon while working in the front room I heard a guy next door speaking in a loud, enthusiastic voice and I thought Who the hell is this jackass and what is he going on about in the front yard?

I looked out the window and saw a guy with two big cameras around his neck taking pictures of a guy in a tux. The tuxed-up dude was casually leaning against our tree just like a JCPenney's model.

I thought that was funny - not just the JCPenney pose, but that the folks next door were using our lovely tree for a photo back drop.

After that shot, the photographer grabbed another suit and maneuvered him in front of our house for a red-shingled backdrop. It was too much to resist.

I skipped out onto the front porch and in my very best Cheerful Happy Neighbor voice said, "Wow, this looks like a very important day!" [translation: If you keep shooting your wedding photos in front of my house, I'll need your billing address for invoicing.]

The photographer looked a little startled and replied, "Uh, yes! Someone's getting married today!" I told him I thought that was FANTASTIC NEWS and CONGRATULATIONS!

To that he said he was using our tree as a backdrop. I told him I thought that was WONDERFUL! and my grandmother would be SO PLEASED!

He went on to say he had a tree just like it at his house and how he hires a guy to clear out its deadwood. Riveting, no?

I cheerfully responded that we just had that big, gorgeous tree pruned and ISN'T IT BEAUTIFUL?! He said it was and that it was a wonderful complement to the house. I thanked him heartily and repeated my congratulations and well wishes for the happy couple. I was so incredibly sweet, everyone had an instant cavity.

As I talked to the photographer, I noticed the groomsmen, who had been scattered about the driveway/outer area of the neighbor's lot had all drifted back to the patio, behind the fence. The photographer followed and they didn't come out from behind that fence again until it was time to go.

Won't it be wonderful when they see the pictures of the happiest day of their lives, our tree will be right there with them every time.

Cat Lady Goes to the Vet

And what does she wear? A white t-shirt. Because I'm the crazy cat lady and I don't care how much black cat fur ends up all over me. I don't mind walking around with a sort-of black angora shirt with tufts of hair drifting off of me into the breeze.

It was just a simple trip to get their vaccines updated and the requisite paperwork to import them into Canada, but after what Ninja did, I think we might leave him here with a bag of food and a deck of cards.

He's 60 years old in cat years and it shows. What a ferocious, cranky asshole he's become. Couldn't weigh him, couldn't check his temperature (in the dignified way every cat loves) and almost couldn't get the shot in his leg.

As he lay there on the table, scruffed to the limit with a towel over his head, he suddenly grew four extra paws with straight razors at the tips and his teeth were ginormous. He almost chomped me twice and I had to apologize profusely for my big, angry retarded cat ass.

The vet and the vet tech backed away like, "he seems fine, bye!" Meanwhile Neo, the street-tough thug, was all sweetness and love, meowing calmly as he explored the exam room and all its surfaces. He didn't flinch when he got his shot and later rubbed against the vet's legs.

The best part of the visit was the small bottle of kitty tranquilizers they gave me - some for them, some for me - for the drive north. We very well may drug the cats, mainly to see how they behave all doped up, but it might make their trip a little less stressful. I'll want to put a gun in my mouth if I have to hear 16 hours of nonstop meowling.


Neo & Nikita, inspecting the equipment


Neo, thinkin' about dinner


Stack O Cats

p.s. I would like to add that it's all David's fault for collecting cats like souvenir mugs. I happened to find a stray one day, but the other two were intentional "go out and adopt another cat" acquisitions. But who do people point and laugh at? Me.

Update:
Everyone seemed fine yesterday, then this morning, little Nikita didn't get up for breakfast. She stayed on our bed all morning and into the afternoon before finally getting up around 2pm to slowly amble into the kitchen for a nibble.

She looked like she hurt all over and ate only a few bites before heading right back to the bedroom to where she spent most of the day.

I followed her and massaged her a little, checking the back leg where they injected the vaccine. She mewed loudly at that - she wasn't a happy kitten.

I called the vet to find out if hers was a normal reaction to the rabies vaccine - she's not reacted like this before and with only a few days before we move, she'd better be OK.

They called back and said she was having a "borderline normal" reaction, but for next year's vaccine, it might be a good idea to give her some Benadryl before she gets the shot.

Really? So, she's already having trouble with the vaccine, which is administered "one shot per cat," not adjusted for weight differences, and you're telling me I should put additional substances into her tiny body before you shoot her up with too much of the thing she's allergic to? Really?

This is why I don't like taking healthy cats to the vet. Sure, sometimes it's necessary, but like human doctors who are happy to hand out Rx meds like candy, most vets don't seem to care much about how they're treating different animals - just slam the shot in there and if that doesn't work, throw another chemical down there to even it all out.

No wonder Ninja wanted to rip her hand off - maybe he's not retarded after all but some sort of idiot savant with the ability to sense quackery from a mile away.

At this point, I'm happy to report she's doing much better. Stupid shitty vaccines, and for cats that are exclusively indoor cats and well cared for, they definitely do not need annual shots, no matter what the vet says - even mainstream Prevention magazine agrees.

Persistent PMS

That's what I have. Acute, persistent PMS. It's not coming from my lady parts - it's a byproduct of this move. I totally underestimated the stress factor. Jebus, it's a pickle.

All the emotions are simmering just below the surface of my typical "everything's great!" face, while I stand in the cereal aisle at Trader Joe's getting teary-eyed about missing the cereal aisle at my favorite store.

And why am I loitering in the cereal aisle? Yup - carbs. The soothing, warm blanket of natural serotonin - I'll have a large bowl, please. I bought cereal and dark chocolate caramels. The only thing missing was the giant slab of frosted cinnamon rolls, but I have *some* self-control.

The Olympic synchronized diving is making me angry. What a boring boring boringly stupid sport. I don't caaaaaaaaaare if they're not spinning and twisting the exact same way.

But man, that men's swimming relay sure was fun. I stayed up too late to watch it, but I'm glad I did. And watching Aaron Piersol seems to help elevate my mood.

It's down to the wire and I have just five more days to pack - I have to work a couple of days next week, which is going to be interesting. Speed shooting, is what that will be, then rushing home for another bowl of cereal.

Snarktacular Wednesday

I had to go up to Sonoma this evening for a "dusk shoot," which I never enjoy, because when "dusk" arrives, I should be at home in my sweats watching the news or enjoying post-news reruns whilst eating my dinner.

But because I have to go, I went, at the peak of rush hour. I anticipated bad traffic and left early. Early enough to stop and get a sandwich at Whole Foods - the easiest thing to eat while driving (and texting, changing CDs and painting my nails).

Why is making a sandwich so difficult? How is it that only one sandwich in ten is made according to the order? I either get the wrong bread, the wrong meat, the wrong toppings - something - something is always wrong.

Tonight it was the bread. Instead of sliced sourdough, they used a baguette. Maybe it's just my wussy mouth, but I can't eat a sandwich on a hard roll without tearing up the roof of my mouth. So irritating.

Also irritating? Peppered roast beef. Who came up with this stupid idea? All I could taste was pepper. Are these ideas hatched in a food lab staffed with heavy smokers?

At the shoot, the agent followed me around from room to room the entire time. Like a nervous puppy, he hovered behind me during every shot. I wanted to smack his nose with a lead pipe rolled up newspaper.

Not any better was the hovering stager who kept asking if I wanted to move anything. If I want to move it, I'll move it. See these things hanging off the ends of my arms? They allow me to pick shit up and move it somewhere else - it's fucking brilliant - watch me do it.

In one room she asked me if I'd heard of a guy - a photographer she's worked with before - you know, because at night they round up all the photographers all over the county and put us all in one big room where we can't get into any trouble.

I told her I hadn't, but what I *should* have said was, "Oh John, the guy who takes all the great photos of naked children? I love that guy's work!" She continued and said, "I've worked with him in the past - he's pretty good."

That's great. What am I supposed to do with this information? I left my random chitchat diary at home and I've nowhere to record this exchange. Have you heard of not loitering in the room where I'm working? It would be super awesome if you could move your ass the hell out of the way so I can finish up this job and get the eff home.

But hey, if you want to pay double for an evening shoot that won't make your generic house look any different than it would at 11am and follow me around like an anxious chihuahua, to each his own. Good luck to ya.

The Nervous Crapper

A nice salesman from United Van Lines came by last week to give me a quote for the move. That morning I made a point of not only scooping out the cat boxes, but also cleaning them to ensure the house would not smell like a cat-crapping emporium, not even a whiff. With three cats, it's a daily battle.

Right after kitty breakfast time, as I walked through the house with my coffee to turn on the laptop & check email, BLAM! Smacked in the face by one of the worst cat shit stink bombs ever set off in a domestic kitty litter box.

They know something's up and they're not happy about it. The anxiety has a less-than-desirable effect on kitty's digestive system.

I re-scooped and re-cleaned the offending box, opened the windows, turned on the fans and then found the super-powerful deodorizing air spray. It took a while for the toxic off-gassing to dissipate. Thank god the salesman wasn't coming for a few hours.

After he arrived, we went through the house room by room so he could build an exhaustive list of all our stuff. As we moved into the bar, a terrible smell crept up on us. He'd done it again! Neo jumped out of the box and ran through the bar like his butt was on fire, which apparently it was.

Not only is our little kitty bear cub a nervous eater, now he's also a nervous crapper. I can't wait for the 16-hour drive to Vancouver with him in the back of the car.

But that little, stinky cat growler was an omen. When the salesguy was all done with the estimate, he printed it & showed me the bottom line. He'd documented all our stuff accurately, and the estimated cost to move a 3-bedroom house, a greatly pared-down 3-bedroom house - really more like a 2-bedroom with a tiny office house, was $8,500.

$8,500. I couldn't believe it. I was expecting $3K, maybe $3,500 - that seemed likely - but almost $9K??? I thanked him for his time and showed him the door. I wanted to curl up on the couch and stay there in a catatonic state.

Instead, I went to the bank, then I went to the store and bought some groceries in a daze. I got home and ate a potato and some chocolate. Then I did some laundry. Then I googled for more information that might help get us moved for under $5K.

Lo and behold, there's this little company called ABF/U-Pack Moving. They drop off a commercial trailer at your house, you load it, then they drive it wherever you want it to go. Their estimate to move a 3-bedroom house? $2,500.

They couldn't have been any nicer on the phone and they have great reviews on epinions and Yelp. I'm very encouraged and no longer feel like I need to shield my rectum from large moving companies.

And if we don't use as much space as estimated, the cost goes down. One of my many talents is being able to pack a car (or a dishwasher) so tightly and effectively, every square inch of space is used. This might actually be a little bit fun.

Cathartic Cleaning

Moving is usually just a pain in the ass, no more, no less. That's still true in this case, but this time it's different. It's been a cathartic purging of crap - actual crap and emotional baggage.

Yesterday I sorted through all the stuff I'd squirreled away in a cedar chest - things I thought I would always keep with me, like a paper trail of my existence or a time capsule for others to find after I leave this world. Old SAT scores and report cards, travel souvenirs, journals, stacks of newspaper clippings of momentous events and a few letters to/from friends.

What a surprise - most of that crap wasn't worth keeping. The program from the skating show at the Coliseum when I was 12! I MUST have it! It was fun to look through it and remember what I used to be so attached to, but a relief to throw it out and be free of the clutter.

Amid the papers, playbills and cards I found a few letters from a friend I lost touch with years ago. We had our ups and downs as any friendship does. Unfortunately I'd saved some letters written during the downs.

But reading those letters now, for the first time it became clear that the friendship I thought we had was mostly what I'd imagined it to be. I thought it had been much more than it actually was.

It's hard to lose a friend and even harder when it's not clear why it happened, but seeing the situation with the clarity of hindsight and time makes it easier to let it go. It was never what I thought it was, so I didn't really lose what I thought I did, if that makes any sense.

I still miss her and the connection we had, but it feels good to finally see things clearly and move past it in a new way. I kept only one letter, a funny one that made me laugh. I put the others through the shredder.

What a Difference a Bob Makes

After seven years of never-ending Bobness, he's finally gone and the entire block has come out of hiding.

Yesterday I spoke to a neighbor across the street I've never said a word to before because she's always been securely contained inside her car or rushing into her house - much like everyone else on our block, myself included.

We started talking about landscaping and within seconds remarked how much nicer the neighborhood is without Bob. She, like me, stopped spending any time in the yard because that creepy freak was always all up in everyone's business.

One down and one to go. We still have the Shitty Bitch on the corner who tried telling our arborist to cleave the oak tree in half so there wouldn't be any branches on her side of the property.

When he told her he couldn't do that or else the tree would fall onto our house, she said she didn't care about that. What a sorry sack of shit. Her broken hip/stroke/heart attack can't come soon enough.

And here's the kicker - when we had the garage sale a few weeks ago, she waddled over to chat with some of the neighbors. When she heard we were moving, she enthusiastically asked if we'd be renting out the house. I told her most likely, yes, and then she asked if we had anyone lined up to rent it. When I said no, she said her son would love to rent it.

Her son, with two of the brattiest kids I've ever seen. Those kids would destroy the house and that shitty bitch would be over here every day looking for something she could steal.

When my grandmother died, I mentioned it to her in passing one day and the first thing out of her shitty bitchy mouth was that my grandmother had told her she could have an antique tea cart. Klassy, eh? But yet, she was allowed to breed.

At any rate, the moving process continues. Selling more stuff (what did we do before Craigslist?), donating a ton of other stuff - soon there won't be much to pack other than a large bag of cats.

Super Sunday

Thanks Miriam, for a fantastic Girls Day Out and for helping me run 6 miles with no training. Sure, I'm sore and wondering where I left one of my lungs on the race route, but I did it, and I'm sure I'd have walked the whole thing had I been there alone.

The 2-mile walk back to the car was nice - a long, gradual cool down that allowed me to feel just how tight my right Achilles tendon had become. How it didn't explode in my ankle and roll up into my ass cheek I'll never know.

So, kids, here's our lesson for today. When you sign up in February for a race in July, you should train for it. It's better that way for all involved.

However, doing it without training will allow you to feel a special sense of accomplishment you wouldn't have otherwise, and you'll treat yourself with a delicious piece of pie afterwards.

Peeved

Last night I was excited about having all day Saturday to focus on the kajillion things left to do for the move when I got a phone call.

Someone needs an urgent photo shoot - a test shoot to help sell a new contract. Greaaaaaaaaat. I called the agent and right from the start it was clear that she has a ginormous bug up her ass (in the shape of her own head). Not only is my Saturday going to be ruined, but now it's going to be ruined by a total asshole - even better.

We finally agreed on a time and while I was trying to get her to tell me the address, she asked me where I'm located. First, what the hell does that matter - is she planning on coming to my house to make me breakfast?

I tell her I'm in Alameda and she says, "Oh that's so far away!" The job is in Tiburon. I told her that's only about 30 minutes from me. "Oh no, that's at least 45 minutes." Again, who gives a shit? Is this really important?

Trying to lighten the mood, I told her it doesn't take that long if I'm driving. Then she says without any trace of humor whatsoever, "What are you driving, a helicopter?"

Yes, as a matter of fact, I have my own chopper and heliport here in my back yard. The neighbors hate me, but I think it's important to have options.

This agent is supposedly one of the wealthiest in the country, selling homes to celebrities and billionaires, and unfortunately, she's a humorless troll. She started asking me about equipment and how much time I could spend photographing this house, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I suspect I'll get there and she'll immediately start telling me what to do and how to do it. And just like the other day when I couldn't hold my tongue, I'm not sure today will be any different. I couldn't care less about this house, its views, how much it's listing for or what she wants me to photograph. She can have a big giant poster print of my colon.

Had she been at least polite or in any way flexible about timing or not grilled me on where I live and how long it takes me to drive, she might have been in for great service, but right now, it's all I can do to not call and cancel.

But just like Cameron in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, because if I don't, she'll just keep calling me, and then I'll end up killing her with my tripod.

If she turns out to be just as shitty as she was on the phone, I'll quietly gather up my stuff and leave without saying a word, because all I care about is getting this move behind me and starting the next chapter far away from this bullshit.

Update:
She arrived over a half an hour late, which is funny considering how concerned she was about me being able to get there by 11am, and she lives five minutes away. Amazingly enough, she camped out in a small corner of the house and made numerous phone calls, allowing me to work without distraction.

Many times she mentioned that she has two chateaus in France. Two. Chateaus (or chateaux, if you want to be really frenchy about it). In France. She asked me if I could scale a 6-ft. tall property fence to get a better shot of the front of the house, to which I said I would not, but I would gladly ask the neighbors up the hill if I could use their deck. They weren't home, but I tried.

While trying to weakly explain a particular shot she wanted of the back of the house, I thought about pushing her down the stairs right into the pool, but I didn't want to spare the extra time. At ten after 1pm, I said I really had to get going, to which she quickly replied, "Oh I have to go, too, I have clients waiting for me..." She was probably very late, but who cares about time when you have two chateaus in France.

So, About That Job...

...The one I mentioned a few posts back... I had a little photo shoot a few weeks ago that I couldn't talk about, but now it's old news. And if you cruise my Flickr photostream, you already know the scoop.

I was hired to get a head shot of Kay Ryan, our new poet laureate, who lives in Fairfax, but I couldn't tell anyone until the official announcement was made (which I think was last Thursday).

She is so nice and really funny - it was an honor to work with her and I was thrilled to do this for the Library of Congress.

Check it out on Time.com.

Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak

I need to go to sleep and wake up in Canada, all moved and settled in whilst I was snoozing. Doing all this by myself is bullllllshit. Not feeling so positive today, obviously. I'm overwhelmed and every time I turn around there's another issue/problem/whining cat/deranged garage sale lady.

A few days after the garage sale, which was a couple of weekends ago, a weird lady came back to the house asking for a transformer for a lamp she bought. I should have told her then I wouldn't go looking for it and I should have shoved a $5 bill into her crabby, wrinkled mouth.

But I thought we might actually have it somewhere, so I told her I'd see if I could find it and asked if she lived in town. She said she didn't and that she'd be back the next day. Great! After she left I closed the curtains and locked the porch screen door.

Sure enough, she came back the next day and when she couldn't get the screen door open, she knocked/clawed at the front window. Funny, but that will never make me want to come to the door, so I kept working and eventually she left.

She came back again when I was actually not home and left a friggin' note on the door. I'm no accountant, but if she doesn't live relatively close by, she's just spent another $5 making repeated trips to my house.

I'd have gladly given her money back the first time, but I honestly thought she'd find the transformer on eBay or elsewhere, rather than keep stinging me like an angry wasp.

Came home today after a shoot and guess what was sitting on my porch? The goddamn lamp she bought with a self-addressed, stamped envelope taped to it. I know what you're thinking because it was my first thought, too - What should I send her in that little envelope?

Of course I'll do the right thing and send her money back, but it might be graphically enhanced and very securely taped to another piece of paper, or it could end up soaked in tuna oil right before it makes it into the envelope, because these things happen sometimes.

What a giant waste of time and energy. She must be a joy to live with. Speaking of joys, people have GOT to stop walking in front of the lens when I'm trying to photograph their goddamn properties.

Do you not see the big tripod and the shit attached to the top of it that makes the pretty pictures? Do you think we can just photoshop out the blurred vision of you obscuring the view, oblivious to the rest of the world and the people in it? Is my job somehow not as important as yours?

Unfortunately, because I'm a jangled mess of nerves right now, I actually told a guy today to please stop walking in front of the camera and to either come up or go down the stairs - one or the other, because I need to get the shot and move on.

Speaking of moving on... I had the flying dream again last night, but sadly, I was flying in and around a house to survey the best shots. Right after that, I was talking to Jennifer Aniston at a party. She'd had a major face lift and was still in recovery. As one might expect, she was aloof and not at all as friendly as you might hope she'd be.

Selling Your Crap

I think it was George Carlin who commented on how strange it is for Americans to sit in their yards surrounded by their crap, selling it to passersby who are happy to trade you $10 for something you don't think is even worth dropping off at Goodwill.

But by golly, it can be worthwhile if you can endure the pain of standing around in the blazing hot sun all day to earn a little gas money.

We parted with a basement full of useless crap - useless to us anyway - and cleared about $700. Not a bad wage for a Saturday I'd otherwise have spent watching HGTV or napping on the couch.

Oh, to nap on the couch. I can't wait to do that again someday, especially now, when my legs can't support my body's weight and I'm so stupid tired I'm actually enjoying an HBO boxing pre-show.

The whole garage sale scene is fascinating. What you think will be a big seller is oftentimes not, and what you think should probably go straight into the trash can goes like hotcakes.

And then you have the Bargain Bettys. No matter what price you quote, they want it for less, even if what you quoted is ridiculously under-priced.

One woman obviously didn't want the sweater she was holding, as all she could do was tell me everything that was wrong with it. I was ready to rip it out of her hands and tell her she wasn't allowed to buy it.

It seems like people are happy to find a treasure that doesn't cost much - a momentary source of joy, and no more. Things that might bring long-term value, like antiques, aren't popular. Few people are willing to barter. I kept saying "make me an offer, this isn't Macy's!"

Thankfully, we got rid of a huge amount of stuff and nearly broke even on the cost of my trip to Vancouver last week. Not too shabby.

And one shopper told me I had great teeth - who doesn't love to hear that? The best part of the day, by far, was David making a run to Peet's for me. Best husband ever.

It's Been Too Long...

And I've missed you so... please forgive my absence. I wasn't breaking up with you, I just needed some space. You know, time to think. It's not you, it's me.

But I'm back, at least for the moment. There's so much going on right now, it's tough to sit down and write about it, as I was just telling my good friend Rooty yesterday.

Rooty called me with a most interesting job offer. A single job that is, as in "gig," which I enthusiastically accepted but cannot talk about until next Wednesday. Curious? I hope so!

I'll do my job this afternoon, then maybe, just maybe, you might see the results of it next Wednesday. That's all I can say about it.

On the moving front, things are progressing, though now I feel like it's happening *to* me, because I've been so slammed with work, I've not had time to actually pack anything or even think about how we're going to move a whole house and four pets.

But I have thought about how to make it a bit easier - give up a little control and let my husband help. WHAT? I know - it's a big step for me, but I'm all about growth.

Today I asked him to clear out a giant bookshelf for me so I can sell it tomorrow in our moving/garage sale extravaganza. I don't know what he put where and I don't care. I wasn't reading all those books right now so it doesn't matter.

The biggest hurdle for now is getting four metric tons of crap moved out to the driveway/front yard where the bargain shoppers of the world can pick it over and take it all away.

So what I'm I doing writing a blog post? Procrastinating. And now I'm done. Back soon, I promise. Call me. Miss you love you bye.