OFV #1

I thought I would start off the OFV series chronologically...

I packed up the car on Christmas Eve morning and set off for Boston en route to New Hampshire with one very happy furry traveler. We were doing great. I was singing my heart and lungs out to my supercool travel compilation and Jack was loving a week without a single minpin in sight. Somewhere in Connecticut, I pulled over to stretch, get a cold beverage, and use the facilities.

The gas station at the rest stop had only single bathrooms, and, as always, the ladies line wound around the chips and candy and hot dogs and the men's line...well, there was no men's line. And I really, really, really had to pee. So there was a choice: risk potentially fatal damage to my kidneys, risk a "clean up on aisle 2," or just do what I did.

Obviously, I would never enter a non-single men's room. But a single? It is the exact same bathroom with different icons on the front door. And, when you gotta go and it is Christmas Eve and you gotta go and you have family waiting and you gotta G-O, you don't particularly care which icon has a skirt.

I did my thing. I exited. And I got spat upon by the Hasid in a one-person queue for the men's stall.

Spat. Upon.

It missed. But that is irrelevant.

Now, I spend quite a lot of time with a whole bunch of Conservative Jews with very specific opinions on American Hasids: their theology, their blatant unrepentant exploitation of the welfare system...their utterly ungodly and unnecesary meanness to non-Hasids. So I wasn't confused that a purportedly religious person would do...that. Confused, no. Pissed (pun intended), yes.

But I can guarantee you this: I left that fella with zero confusion about how I felt about his actions.

The advantage of hanging out with Jews is that, along the way, you tend to pick up a little Hebew - the stuff sung at Shabbat and the stuff relating to one's degree of marital prowess in relation to the size of one's...prowess.

Ahem.

Not that I would ever let a few choice phrases fly on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Not when I was feeling Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Men and such. Never.

I'm a firm believer that, when met with something utterly reprehensible, a less-than-mannerly response is usually - but not always - a poor, poor choice. Something about "stooping" and "levels" and such. But want to experience the exception to my rule? Use the word "retarded" in the wrong way. Use the word "faggot" in the wrong way. Or aim a wad of spit at my head.

Clearly, an auspicious start to the holiday weekend.

I walked back to my car, shaking mostly because I was angrier than I have ever been in my life but also because I was famished and wasn't about to go back into that station for a stale egg-n-cheese. It wasn't until I walked out of the rest stop and into the parking lot that the fact that someone spat at me hit me. Suddenly, I wasn't so angry. I was hurt - that kind of hurt that knocks the breath right out of your lungs and kicks you, hard, in the gut and tickles your eyes into flooding your face with those terrible hot salty tears and generally threatens to reduce you to a red-faced sniffly snotty thing for the next 6 hours.

Back in my car, Jack gave me a sad, mournful look of, "I don't know what just happened, but you're sad and I want to make you happy." He tried to squeeze himself over the center console but instead rested his big ol' block head on my shoulder and snuffled his sweet wet nose through my hair. As luck would have it, the loser who missed the day in kindergarden when we learn to keep our bodily fluids to ourselves parked next to me.

Now, Jack is a Lab, which means he loves everyone, and I have no explanation for what happened next. Among his multiple different types of barks - the "I need water" bark, the "pay attention to meeeeeeee!" bark, etc. - he has what I call his "big boy" bark. I've only heard it twice in my life - when it sounded like the house was getting broken into at 2am - and nearly peed my pants and had a heart attack. Simultaneously. There is no baring of teeth, no raised fur, no menancing attack posture - just a scarily calm warning that someone Means Business.

I heard it for the third time that day.

So did Mr. Loser. And he heard it at the precise moment that Mr. Loser's foot hit a patch of ice, which he didn't notice because the "I mean business" boy in my backseat, um, distracted him. He slipped, causing the body attached to the food to land first on his sorry rear end and then, as he tried to stand and steady himself, back down again.

I guess that's what we call "comedic timing" or something.

And I swear that I can't make this up, but...I promise that by now Jack had a big evil dopey grin on his face. Seriously.

I've said it before, and I say it nearly every day, and I will say it again: the dog is far too smart for his own good. But, when he isn't laughing at my child-proofed cabinets or popping the bread out of the toaster or ...when he isn't doing any of that, sometimes he actually earns his kibble.

I forced myself to resist the temptation to run out and help the man up and hand him a business card . But because I'm a nice person, I paused to be sure Mr. Loser only suffered a bruised rump before driving away.

Hopefully a bruised conscience, too.

But I'm not holding my breath.

we're back

This guy is, hands down, the best traveler ever. He should totally be confined behind a gate in my trunk, but traumatic memories of an unfortunate incident involving his tail and the trunk door linger. No matter. He settles right into the rear seat and stares out the window. And, here, gently rests his weary traveler's head as we are at a standstill on the Mass Pike on Christmas Eve afternoon. (You didn't think I'd start snapping cell phone photos while moving, did you?)

Being such a good boy and traveling 1000 miles through six states and back in less than a week is exhausting. So is dealing with those with whom we graced with our presence visited. After inching through a snowy Connecticut and sitting for an hour on the Garden State Parkway today, we are home. A big pot of my latest addiction - bok choy, celery, and water chestnut soup - is simmering away as the washer, dryer, and dishwasher do their respective duties with their respective faint white noises. I finally, finally, finally lugged back most of my books from my parents' house this trip, and have a ton of organizing* to do tomorrow. And, well, because my books are dear and close to my heart, a similar amount of reminiscing as well.

But that can wait.

For now, I am snuggled in fleece and down, sipping tea, and looking forward to watching a little television before an early bedtime. Such a nice warm cozy end to an interesting weekend.



* Is anyone else so particular about organizing books as I am? I feel just dreadfully out of sorts if Novel With Cocaine, Frankenstein, The Stranger, and The First Man are not snuggled in together or if my dear Tess is on the same shelf as The Razor's Edge...please tell me I'm not the only one.

Ok, so I have a few not-yet-completed drafts on frugality in travel, clothing, pet care etc. but it has been a very hectic few days of deciding to change my Thanksgiving plans, arranging for dog care, scrubbing my house so my dog sitter doesn't realize think I'm a filthy slob, packing in secret so the dogs don't see the luggage, making my train, and...I'm tired and my brain is fuzzy. The tired, fuzzy feeling may or may not be related to the fact that last night I ate lots and lots of the best Indian food I have ever had and/or the fact that I got talked out of water with lemon and into a vodka and soda. Or two.

But I'm going somewhere so exciting today, and I think the camera can come along. It's wet. It's a little geeky. And some of the stuff there could kill you 'til you die with venom or teeth, some of it will do it with utter ridiculous heart-melting cuteness. Any guesses?

On Thursday, I get to hold a baby girl. I may or may not return her to her parents.

Then somewhere nice and tranquil on Friday. Ever see that Simpson's episode where Marge and Homer go to a fancypants gala and Marge makes Homer promise he will stay away from the donkey because Homer + donkey = trouble?

I have a donkey. And poor impulse control.

I have a dear, lovely, kind-hearted friend with just a bit of a devious streak. Nothing malicious. She and her equally dear, lovely, kind-hearted sister have a tradition of going to Black Friday and instigating. I'll leave the mechanics of it up to your imagination. One sister calls it "psychological research" and the other calls it "wicked fun."

I went one year. It was wicked fun. (Maybe not "in the holiday spirit," but, honestly? You're not going to find the Chrismahanukwanzaa spirit anywhere on Friday).

But then I couldn't help notice - because I have a pronounced fetish for safety, because my parents never let me learn how to ride a bike, because ambulance-chasing puts kibble in my puppies' bowls - that, in the past 3 or so years, Black Friday has become downright dangerous and even deadly.

The "donkey" invited me this year. I was tempted. So very, very tempted. But either due to increasing maturity or simple scaredy-catness, I had to decline. Fortunately, declining that invitation meant I could trek up to my parents' frozen artic tundra of a house for the weekend. (Please note that I did not say "frozen artic tundra of a state." This is directly relevent to an upcoming post on keeping home energy costs reasonable. Thank you).

So that is my week. I hope you all have a lovely Thanksgiving, wherever you are and however you recognize the day. At some point I'll teach you how to make holiday travel cheap and peaceful, how I feel about skinny jeans, and the best ways to work Fido into your budget.

And - because I have a pronounced fetish for safety, because my parents never let me learn how to ride a bike, because ambulance-chasing puts kibble in my puppies' bowls - please be safe. Be sure you have a working fire-extinguisher on hand and a few working smoke/carbon monoxide detectors. Don't do anything stupid. Don't drive if you are too tired or tipsy. Wash your hands. Never leave a candle unattended. Keep your critters away from splintery turkey bones, chocolate, onions, and raisins.

here kitty kitty

This is Tuna.

[Hi, Tuna.]

Tuna is either 9 or 10. I can't remember when I got him. A science teacher had kittens (well, you know) and I offered to take one. Despite my mother's very firm rule of No Kittens. What can I say, I was a wild child.

Not really; this was as bad as I got.

I walked in with a baby Yoda and promptly renamed him Tuna. My mother was absolutely adamant that little baby Tuna go somewhere else.

He's been living with my parents ever since.

He is a massive kitty. All muscle. He is keeping down the population of rabbits, birds, and mice. With frightening precision, he guts them and leaves the carcass, intestines, and liver...and gifts them on the front walk.

He also has a severe catnip addiction. He will sit by the cabinet where it is kept and howl. And howl. And hooowwwwlllll. Then he gets high as a kite and becomes rather testy for several hours.
Tuna loves Christmas.

LOVES.

He looks rather stern, but he is quite sweet.

Unless you're a rabbit, bird, or mouse.

He has a spot under his chin.

And he Does Not Like cameras. Particularly when they flash beneath him in an effort to snap that delicious little chin. "Tuner, you're a suppaa staaaa!" In a Boston accent, please.

Note: I do not have a Boston accent. Never have. Never will.

Thank you.

Last chain/rust/water photo, I promise.
Except I don't. Possibly more tomorrow. Send help. Clearly, I have a problem.

I just want to announce that I wholly disagree with the sentiments of this magnent. (I also wholly disagree with Every Single World Being Capitalized, but I am trying really, really hard to just let it go). I really do. However, my parents put me through years of schooling, and I thought I could repay them with...a $2 magnet.

Metal, concrete, wire, water. Sigh.

I'd marry this chain, I think. Is that wrong?

Actually, don't answer that one.

post-exam musings

1. I have no clue how the exam went. I walked out of there feeling like I failed, which is, allegedly, actually a sign that one has passed. I walked out of two other exams (that I passed) also feeling as though I failed, so we shall see. In mid-November.

2. My hotel is insane. I was seriously upgraded because my room does not have water views (also, I think, because I told the concierge that I was in town for the bar). While it may not have water views, the upgraded room, does, however, have more square footage than my apartment and several more bathrooms and televisions than one person would ever need. I am immensely tickled that I am sitting in a massive suite with little more than a backpack crammed with books and sweatpants, my Nalgene, and a laptop. I feel like accessories more appropriate to my surroundings would include the following: (1) large quantities of cocaine and (2) high-priced escorts.

3. After the last day, everyone goes out to celebrate. I didn't know anyone there and really just wanted to go back to my hotel and shower using a shower "system" that requires a manual to operate. Which I did. But I got antsy. I threw on a pair of jeans and headed out with (1) no idea where I was going and (2) unfamiliar with the area. The concierage and valet both had shots waiting for me when I left, bless their hearts. Somehow, I managed to wander smack into some kind of ethnic/cultural festival. I don't know what precise culture we were celebrating - eastern European? - but a central part of said culture definitely included handing out copious amount of free liquor. At some point, I got lost and had to phone a Philadelphia friend who grew up in Boston for directions on how to make it back to my hotel without walking off a pier.

4. Yesterday, I met my sister's boyfriend and then my mother and I got pedicures. I somehow only got my first pedicure a year ago and promptly fell in love. I don't particularly enjoy the process, but there is nothing quite like waking up and seeing pretty toes. Attached to one's own feet. That makes me happy.


5. Oh, and a funny exam story...

Scene: about 1200 people standing in line after 2 days of testing, waiting to retrieve checked bags. We had just finished 10 essays in 8 hours, and 200 multiple-choice questions the previous day. The sweet Midwestern girl who sat next to me and I were chatting in line. She asked for advice as to where a sibling moving to Philly should live. I said something to the effect of "basically, all of Philly is bad except for certain areas," and rattled off the names of safer neighborhoods. Mid-rattle, some girl several people behind us started yelling. "That's not true!* It is not a dangerous city!** Stop telling her lies!*** I went to Temple!****"


Ok.

I looked at her. She looked at me. I cocked my head. And I burst out laughing. "You're going to start a fight with me now? After two days of testing? Seriously?"

And then I peed my pants at the absurdity of it all.*****

* Yes, it is.
** Yes, it is.
*** See above.
**** Which is in one of the worst areas.
***** Ok, that is a lie. Sue me.

Boston

Looking across water at World Trade Center (site of exam).

I'm back...with a PSA

Well, I'm back. Earlier than I thought. And while I wish I had oodles of pictures to share...I don't. I was holed-up in a conference room. Clear view of the Space Needle, nonetheless! I managed to pull out the camera once. For this. That's it. Sorry. Not that I even went inside. Too busy. With bunches o'stuff you don't wanna even know about.

So...my, what happened while I was gone! I'm not going to comment on Iran, because I'm no expert on the Middle East in general, let alone Iranian politics. (Though feel free to give me a basic, as-neutral-as-possible run-down on either). Or Michael Jackson, because Thriller came out the year I was born (1982, to save you a Google trip), and I never really got into him. My classmates were more into Snoop Dogg than Michael Jackson and New Kids on the Block. The first CD I ever purchased for myself was Doggystyle and, no, I just thought the dogs were cute. All I have to say about that is that if I have kids, they will only be allowed to choose their own music at the same age they'll be allowed to date: 40.

Moving on.

But I am going to step on this little soapbox right here and give y'all a lecture on anal cancer.
Farrah Fawcett died of anal cancer. And I don't want any of you to die of anal cancer.

Now, at this point, I'm going to tell you the homework assignment from the first day of sexual education from my5th grade science class. (I went to a school where sex ed was a part of science, and I believe - as much as a non-parent can believe - that this is the way to go). Assignment: stand in front of a mirror. Say the following words: Penis. Vagina. Breast. Sex. Semen. Anus. Repeat until you no longer smirk. Thank you.

Anal cancer. It is very nasty stuff. Gay men and people with HPV are especially at risk, but you know what? Straight women who do not have HPV can get it, too. Like my mom. Anal cancer may be tough to self-detect, so just go on and tell your ob/gyn to do a super-fun anal exam while she is down there. Most ob/gyns do not perform a standard anal exam. Uncomfortable? Youbetcha. But you know what is more uncomfortable? Getting your anus zapped with radiation.

My mother was very, very fortunate to have an ob/gyn who performs an anal exam as part of the standard vaginal exam. Because it was caught so early, the cancer was treated before it could do something icky like spread to the liver. But, let me tell you: those few months of treatment were terrible. She had to kick my father and brother out of the house - and ban any daughters from visiting - due to her low white blood cell counts and risk of infection. Sitting and lying down were impossible. Bathroom visits required an intricate, painful sterilization process. No fun. And very, very fortunately, my mom is ok. She did not lose her anus. That's a big deal. And her kids didn't lose their mom. Thank you, Lord. Did I ever think that "anal" and "God" would make it into the same sentence? Nope. But they did. Thank you, God, for saving my mom from anal cancer.

So, please...ask your ob/gyn to do a little poking and prodding around the anus. I'd rather you not associate "Allison" with "anal prodding," but...I'm totally willing to take that risk.

*Trips while stepping down from soapbox*

---

Usefulness of the day: Breast self-exam kit.

off to...

Seattle.

See you in a week or so!

Picture credit.

October Flowers

Evidently, the phrase "October flowers" is not an oxymoron.


These are soft, fuzzy grasses. They remind me of Charleston's palmetto trees. Or Sideshow Bob.

A single cosmo in a milk glass vase. Cosmos and morning glories were actually the first flowers I grew. I transplanted them to a small corner and use them for cutting. Cosmos look like spiky weeds - but just when you get ready to dig them up, pink blooms explode on top. Loveliness.


Fragrant sunny mums. These are from the grocery store. I accidentally lopped off a few branches with the car door. They join rich red mums on the front steps.


Grasses, ferns, and what I suspect are weeds. I know ferns are common fillers, but I think they are beautiful on their own. These ferns are shabby and small, but at the height of their glory they were massive green fans.

***

I made approximately forty more gallons of tomato sauce tonight. I can't even recall the last time I ate pasta - but something tells me I will be eating plenty of it soon!

Missing South Carolina

I grew up in New England where we avoid eye contact and pleasantries unless absolutely necessary. We are also scared to venture south of New York. As we shiver and wrap our cold hands around Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, we imagine hordes of proper Southern ladies in fancy flowery hats plying us with sweetened tea and sugary pies who mispronounce “merlot” as “devil juice.” I felt nearly reckless choosing a college that broke the New York rule. My mother would call during a blizzard to inquire about the weather “down south." When she tagged along with me to a grocery store recently and witnessed me respond “very well, thanks. How are you?” to a cashier, she remarked, with a wry tone, “how chatty we are today.”

In August, Roommate and I both found ourselves in the enviable position of having almost an entire month off work. Roommate chose Charleston largely because Roommates’s sister recently moved there with her husband. Because her husband’s employment with the Coast Guard required him to be at sea for several months at a time, and because she was lonely, and because she was more than happy to offer up free lodging, Charleston it was.

On our first night, I needed to make a late-night toiletries run. I walked into a Walgreens and was *greeted* by a lovely teenager who graciously inquired into my well-being in a *genuine* tone. I was floored; after all, I didn’t think that Walgreens clerks worked on commission. I had been warned about Southern hospitality before, but remained suspicious. I made a quick check that her sweet friendliness hadn’t, say, been a ruse to divert my attention from my wallet. Still there. The strange sweetness continued at dinner. A young man *held the door* for the three of us. “What a bizarre thing, “ I thought. You see, we don’t have chivalry in Boston, but I had encountered it in my English studies to know it when I see it. Strange when a trip intended for nothing but pure Relaxation turns into an anthropological expedition…

The three of us spent weeks exploring old plantations and swamp lands. Mostly, I was me urging the other two on, and demanding they Appreciate assorted views, architecture, plants, and animals.

I fell in love within mere hours. Even now, I am half-considering a move there in the next few years. I moped around for a few days upon our return to the city, ruefully noting that I could never have a palmetto tree here. It was downright challenging to feel stressed in South Carolina (stress is a miserable by-product of being a trial lawyer), and I fantasized about strolling along the Battery at as a work break, watching the pelicans swoop and dive. I miss the palmettos, I miss the not-so-rush-hour traffic, I miss the fact that *everything* was half the price of what I'm used to, if not more.

I also miss the alligators.

Yes, I could live here.

***

The baddogs and I had a lovely autumn weekend. On Saturday Jack slipped and fell while "dominating" a chocolate lab and split his nail. After thirty minutes at a vet Emergency Room, we were clean and bandaged. Jack *adored* having all the triage nurses fawn all over him, and I similarly adored the $20(!!!!) bill. (Jack, of course, would have you believe that the split nail is a "battle scar" endured while gallantly protecting Coco'nut from...something.)

We spent Sunday afternoon at what I maintain is the best dog park, ever. It's huge, hilly, and has a creek. The hills are fantastic for wearing the kids out, and the creek cleans off any muddy pawprints. Jack took a particular liking to a beautiful Great Dane - since his new sister will be a Great Dane, I was especially happy to see two romp around :)