Oh Weekend, my Weekend!

My weekend was simple, with easily-described activities.

Friday night, I made this Vidalia Onion Pie by the queen of Southern cooking, Paula Deen:

MMMM-Yeah!  That be some bacon!

I then ate said pie with some carmelized brussels sprouts and wild rice and drank a tall bourbon & ginger w/lime, while watching this fine Woody Allen flick:

The correlation of this movie's name
to both my food and beverage
did not occur to me at the time, no.

Saturday morning I stayed in bed until this time:

And yes, that is NOT p.m., smartass.

After which I donned rubber dish-washing gloves and wrestled my boy cat (the wheezing and sniffling Tusker) into carrier to visit his favorite place -- the x-ray machine at the Neponset Animal Hospital -- to discover, after 3 hours and $350, that he "just had a cold" and that I could give him steroids to ease his congestion while he "waited it out." 

Have you ever tried to give a cat steroids? It's easy and fun!

Here's how excited Tusker was to take his drugs.

The day looked up after that.  I did the last of my marathon training runs....this time up Mass Ave through the Cambridge squares to Porter, then back down through the downtown and home.  Incidentally, running on a major thoroughfare at 8 on a Saturday night is wicked cool .... no drunk folks, no groups of 6 walking abreast, no college students passing footballs on the sidewalk .... no, none at all!

After a lite supper and bath, I enjoyed some more bourbon & ginger and spent 5 hours in conversation with the Man from San Francisco.  Yes, we did have a lot to talk about and I do understand that 4 a.m. is late, but it wasn't a work night.  Yes, we had a pleasant time.  We're getting along just fine, thank you.  There are no photos of this event, sorry.

There are also no photos of me today ... singing in the church choir on 5 hours of sleep.  Or eating seconds and thirds of Paula Deen's pie with full-strength sour cream.  Or napping.  Or running 4 miles around Southie.  Or changing the sheets on my bed or riding the 9 bus uptown or typing this blog entry.

I also have no photographic proof that I tried to give Tusker his steroids today either because, well, I did not try to give him his steroids.

Just wait though; the weekend ain't over yet!

Vacation Journal VII: And then there was none....

Notes from a 14-hour travel day:

1) If you're standing in the duty-free shop at the Budapest airport deciding whether or not you need a 300g Milka bar for the trip but are wary because you think you might eat it all .... you do, and you will.  

2) Budapest is almost as cool from above as on the ground.

3) I don't recommend descending 36,000 feet of altitude with a freshly-acquired head cold.  Twice.  Now my ears can describe to you why babies scream and cry at same.

4) Charles DeGaulle Airport in Paris has friendly gate agents.  Which helps because everything else about it sucks.  Sucks with a capital S, actually.

5) It stands to reason that the only seat available on the 8-hour Paris/Boston is on the aisle one row from the only lavatory in coach class, which is right next to the flight attendant food-cart storage area.  Holy knee bumps and toilet lines, Batman.  Extra bonus points for the 6'5" man in the seat behind whose knees prevented seat reclining.

6) The best thing about American Airlines leaving my bag in Budapest until tomorrow is that I don't have to feel bad about not starting the laundry tonight.  Even if I also don't get to brush my teeth.

7) The best thing about coming home is my very own pillow on my very own mattress.

8) And the second best thing about coming home are, officially, these sweet faces.

Basic algebra

First, let's say you sleep on the same side of the bed every night.

Then, let's say you have a cat who likes to sleep on the same side of you every night.

(Do also factor in habit of said cat to never jump on bed directly from floor; he must jump onto nightstand before climbing past your face to settle his massive rear end against your hip.)

Then, add the first really cold night of the season, a night where you might choose to light a votive candle in the candleholder on the nightstand next to your face because it cozies up the place.

Knowing this, please calculate the odds that when you climb into bed, said cat will jump on the nightstand and catch on fire before leaping onto the bed, causing a brief vision of a charred bed and cat skeletons and the phone call the police will make to your parents in Minnesota, informing them that their daughter made it to 36 without knowing how to put 1 and 1 together.

Oy. Oy, indeed.

Angst?

This is the look a cat will give after escaping down the patio stairs and crossing the yard and climbing over a fence and, in apparent confusion, up on the neighbor's patio, then mewing loudly enough so that his owner would be compelled to crawl through said fence (and a garden of weeds and gravel) before trespassing onto said neighbor's patio, thrilled at thought of possible neighborly discovery at 12:42 a.m., to scoop said cat, only for said cat to lose his cool on the way down the neighbor's stairs, windmilling claws and torso, tattooing said owner (not smart enough to wear a long-sleeved shirt and pants before attempting said trespass) with 7 punctures on 3 separate limbs and 1 set of cleavage, including this bloody 3-inch gash on the right calf that actually has a texture.

I'd suggest it might be guilt upon viewing his owner's possible 6-8 week healing time during the end of short skirt season.

Although it could also be angst at the realization that his owner will most likely never allow him outside again in either of their lifetimes.

Monday at the OK Corral

So........Monday.

Market tanked hard. Seven inches of snow with a nice breeze to whip it around in.

Let's talk about online dating, shall we?

1) First, the morning....

....as I recovered from date #1 Sunday night with the young scientist. Who indeed is young, but tall. Ivy League undergrad on his way to Ivy League PhD. Spends his days manipulating strands of DNA in search of vaccines.

He evidently spends all other waking moments running. As in 110 or so miles a week of running, very quickly, several times a day. As in.....for fun, he jogged the Boston Marathon one year just to pace his brother.

Ergo, Young Scientist very much likes the fact that I run. Even moreso marathons.

Our primary difference:

He: Focussed solely on his research and running (with sidetracks to women). Perplexed how I pursue multiple interests... play piano for musicals, write, go to church, train.....spending so much time on things not remotely related to my full-time job.

Me: still trying to compute how one runs 110 miles in 7 days and otherwise has a life.

Nonetheless, good chemistry. The date was dinner in Chinatown, followed by a long walk in the cold and some making out (post-Benadryl by necessity, FYI....) at my apartment. He took the bus home in the blizzard. And we talked online today about getting together again.

I'm pleased to report all this.

2) Then, the evening.....

...where the fun never ends. As you might recall, the drywalling canoer and I enjoyed 1, brief, enthusiastic date on February 11. He was allergic to my cats. He didn't understand why anyone would ever write a blog. It was OK. But that was that, and that was OK, and there was no more.

Today he marshalled his powers and re-entered my life, via e-mail, with his charming entreaty:

DC: "Tonight?"

Hmmm. How to reply to someone physically attractive but who, in all other ways, has little idea how to butter my bread.

Ambiguously. Sure.

K: "Hey blast from the past! Tonight not ideal. Rain check?"

DC: "Rain check would be great.... I'm not sure how tonight is very realistic for me either... So, how's the boy search going?"

I tell him about my recent dates...briefly. The conversations that never turned into dates....more briefly. I joke about his silly made-up screen name and how it makes me want to remember him as that, rather than by his given name. Tell him how I enjoy learning a lot about the mix of folks one meets here.

He continues the charm offensive.

DC: "Why do I have a feeling you are having all these experiences to fill the pages of the book!? ...You may hate me, but I actually forgot your name / Nonetheless / i think i would like it if you made one up too ;-)"

Loverly.

All that and a slice of baloney to sleep on.

Ode to a kiss

As a coda to my recent eventful Thursday night of many men....on a whim, and very late in the evening...I kissed a young engineer I met for the first time a few hours before.

It was dynamic kissing. It was kissing with legs. It was kissing that should be filmed for the big screen.

We would have kissed much longer, if I had my way. Alas, extenuating circumstances cut things short....the second of which was his violent allergic reaction to my cats and need to depart in order to continue breathing.

(Note to self: stock up on Benadryl. Stat.)

(And no, I'm not going to tell you any more of the Young Engineer story. Even if you ask.)

I forget how much I enjoy the act of kissing until I'm kissing someone I enjoy kissing. How when enjoying a kiss I can't help but run my fingers through his hair. How I want to grab his shoulder blades to the point of pain and then feel all the muscles in his back. How when it is a good kiss, there is no part of the kiss that is wrong. Nothing is gross. Nothing is too much or too little.

As a kisser, I will confess I often err on the side of overenthusiastic. This I chalk up to being single: by the time the occasion to kiss someone comes along after droughts of varying length, I have been known to act like a desert-walker spotting a cactus. Once I even got pushed away for, as he put it, "being too passionate"....or more passionate than he wanted to be, perhaps.

There was no such slobbering with Young Engineer. He wanted to kiss me. I wanted to kiss him. Someone taught him to kiss well....and I just followed his lead. And to my benefit, his lips were strong. I grabbed his head. He grabbed my head back. I grabbed his shoulder blades. He grabbed mine. I discovered every muscle in his back.

Alas....due to the transient nature of our meeting and interaction...odds are high I will never see this man again.

But I cannot stop thinking about kissing him. I spent most of my 12-mile run this morning thinking about kissing him. I spent the better part of the party I just came from wishing I had been kissing him instead of being at the party.

Bummer to the max.

Typing lessons

If my cat is going to attempt to write on her own, perhaps I should first teach her the critical nature of leaving the keys on the keyboard.

Beautiful Sunday-morning surprise.

Oy.

Update, Monday morning. Evidently there is a God: my 3-year-old laptop has a 4-year repair warranty. Bless you, Dell.

We now take a cat-sponsored break....

11:15 when I got home from work last night. Happy Hour ran long....having begun at 5:45

Five hours of conversation is not unusual when it comes to me and my longtime friend, A. Commonalities include a Midwestern background, similar age, love of Barack Obama, masters degree from the same institution, single status, and countless tales of romantic woe just dying to be rehashed. We had a lot to hash out.

Needless to say, that much relationship hashing got me in the mood to write a blog entry about my CFO date on Thursday night. A is, if nothing else, a sage listener and helps bring out the stories.... Then I had ridden home on my bike and the night was cool. I was primed to curl up with the laptop.

Well, I've had excuses before for not writing....but none as good as walking to the dining room table to find my computer in disarray. The wireless connection disabled. Four separate programs activated from the desktop icons. The screen orientation......upside down. (Ever tried to touch-pad mouse in reverse?)

A-ha. The cats had been busy once again. Seems the keyboard is a warm place to curl up....more comfortable than a blanket, couch or bed.

Last night my writing mood did not extend to troubleshooting whatever Velvet and her big paws had wrought. Today it took me 20 minutes of upside-down scrolling just to find the Dell customer service phone number, and another 20 minutes with the Dell rep to discover the key combinations to unlock the havoc.

And now I have to go for a run. And then go to a party. Such is the life.

So the CFO and I had a good date. It did, as usual, cause me mild emotional confusion. Which I promise to write about tomorrow.

Oh, so romantic....

Tonight is martinis, oysters and and the Red Sox season finale (on tv) at Davios with the CFO.

Three weeks since our last date. Which--due to my current lackadaisical efforts--means three weeks ago was my most recent date, period. So tonight's company is welcome, even though I have to pay for it.....we're celebrating his recent birthday.

Last night I did a cursory sweeping, dusting and de-cat-hairing of furniture in anticipation of a likely nightcap at my place. Thus, after those efforts, it was a treat to wake up this morning and see that one or both of my cats had regurgitated a multicolored hunk of coagulated Meow Mix in the center of my laptop keyboard.

I have no idea if the digestive fluids had enough time to soak between the keys into the hardware below.

Gorgeous! Sanitary! Appealing!

Focus, girl, focus.

I know you're all dying to know about the CFO date on Wednesday.

Patience, pale flowers.

What you should know before that....is that proof officially emerged last night: I'm turning into my mother.

Not that she would leave her back door open before leaving for work yesterday...then return home 15 hours later to find it ajar. Wondering why her two cats had left the apartment to explore the wilds of Southie. Thinking an intruder was in her closet. Calling the police, her landlord, her upstairs neighbors to warn them of the invasion.

And then, after some pretty real hyperventilation in front of the policeman who arrived to help, remembering she had taken out the trash through that door at 8 a.m. and, in some haze, did not pull it shut. Sitting on the kitchen floor in relief, but still wondering how she was going to track down the cats....only to watch first Tusker, then Velvet, saunter up the patio steps, damp from the rain, mewing to be let back in.

No....of my two parents who gene-ified me, this situation would have happened to my dad. We share a few DNA of flakiness.

But if it had happened to her, my mom would simply not hesitate to tell you the story. Even at risk of her own mortification. What she passed on to me is the desire to share mortifying stories with the masses....perhaps diluting how silly she occasionally feels herself.

Therefore, I do the same.

The cat lady...

Scene, Winter 2003. I was telling then-FwaB Adam about my plans to adopt two cats from Judith Scofield's Save-A-Cat League in New York City. At the time Judith was 87, suffering from chronic heart disease and, before she died, wanted to find homes for the 40-plus rescued animals she sheltered in her Manhattan apartment. We had come to mutual attention via a string of intervening acquaintances; as a result, the brother/sister pair, two-year-olds deemed "capable of socialization," were to be transported to Boston via taxi-cab.

Perhaps it was because he is mildly allergic to dander, but Adam responded by shuddering:

"Karin, you will NOT become one of those cat ladies!"

(One of Those Cat Ladies Definition: Woman of a certain age who depends on her pets for own sense of well-being and enjoys their company alone, sometimes to social and psychological detriment.)

Last night I was one of those ladies, watching strung-out little Velvet run laps over the fireplace mantle. And the tops of the kitchen cupboards. And into the sink to lap milk-stained water out of a cereal bowl. Stopping only to make dry, hissing noises at Tusker if he walked in her path.

And this, hours after I paid $2300 ($2300!) to release her from the vet's office after 11 days of boarding, lots of intraveneous drugs and a quadruple tooth extraction. (Tusker, at least, only cost $363.)

I did not want to go to dive bar down the street to watch Celtics Lakers Game 6 in good company, as I had planned. I did not want to go for a run to release the stress. I did not want to troll match.com. I did not care if my two outlying match conversants wrote me or not. I did not want to water the impatiens.

All I wanted was to drown myself in raw spoonfuls of peanut butter and drink Fresca--which I did for four hours, even though I had already eaten supper AND dessert--and sit on the sofa, watching the kitties roam, contemplating the second job I now need to find because of the bad luck of Velvet's medical necessities coinciding with my 10-day vacation.

T & V. Look at these $2663 faces!