It's Raining Cats

I've mentioned before how important Brozhy has been for me.  He was there for me at night before my surgery when things were still terrible.  He was there for me to calm me down when things were crazy at school or with Sam.  And he was good for Sam too, who never liked cats until now, never wanted one, and never understood anything about them anyway.  In a way, Brozhy's kind of like a child, or a close companion, something.  When he goes, however that may be, it's going to be really hard for me.

Ach, just a wee thing then...

Maybe all of you don't know this, but before Sam & I got Brozhy, he was feral (with only a couple of weeks of socialization).  He was mellow and calm (as much as a kitten can be anyway), but a few months later he started getting a little aggressive.  It got to the point where it went past playing stalk/hunt for fun and got to the point where I couldn't walk anywhere without him leaping out at me and digging into my calves with his teeth, or lying quietly on the bed and without a warning he'd lash out at me again.  He does it sometimes with Sam, but more often than not, it's me he attacks.  Why?  No idea, but we came up with all these theories:

He's spoiled.

He's lonely.

He's not eating right.

He thinks I like it.

He thinks he's higher in status than me.

He does it to get attention.

Sam plays too rough.

And on and on.  Brozhy's behavior is actually a common topic of discussion in our house and out.  So we tried things:

Better discipline.

Don't let him sit above your head.

Find the right food.

More frequent & active play.

Don't act afraid.

Ignore him (ha! Better stock up on bandaids)

Try socializing him.

The socializing was hard.  The first thing we tried was to let in a lost cat that wound up on our porch one cold night.  Brozhy flipped.  The other cat walked in and Brozhy hissed and spat and booked it into our bedroom.  I decided the cat couldn't stay, even though it was cold, so I turned him back out, washed my hands, and went to go check on Brozhy.  He was sitting on the dresser growling.  I calmly approached him, but when I got close, he hissed and lashed out at me.

Obviously that wasn't a good way to go about introducing Brozhy to new cats, but I wanted to gauge where he was (which I've learned is negative bajillion) in his desire to meet new cats.  So we thought maybe if it was done slowly, or something, it would work.

The next try was when we went to Connecticut for the summer.  We left him with my sister, who has two cats.  He seemed okay at first.  By the time we were at the terminal, things had gone way, way south.  I wasn't there, obviously, but apparently he was hiding in the littler box, he hissed and attacked anyone who came near, and wouldn't eat.  They took him back to our apartment after one night and decided to check on him periodically for the two months we'd be gone.

As you might imagine, he went a little crazy having to be alone all the time.  We came home to chewed-off paint on a spot on the wall, a ripped up cloth lantern, and a general mess.  My sister told stories of how he was "Demon Cat," leaping from afar to attack her husband's face, biting viciously whenever anyone went near the door, and who knows what else.

We knew he was feral once.  We knew he had issues.  But when we got home, he calmed down a bit.  A day or two later, it started again, worse.  His "welcome home" gift was four nasty gashes on my right shin (from his teeth, mind you) that are still healing.  Every time I got on the phone or sat quietly too long he would attack.  My mom told me over the phone when she heard it happening that I needed to get rid of him.

Something had to change.  I was scared of him.  I was scared for any future babies we might have.  So we decided that maybe, just maybe, we could try introducing a young, small kitten, who would not be threatening, who Brozhy could adjust to at his own pace, in his own territory.  And then they could play together and Brozhy could redirect his attacks to something that wouldn't mind.

So we got little Addie.

Briefly calm...

She was an adorable grey and orange tortoise shell with a white dip on her tail tip and a voice like a megaphone.  We got her off of KSL from a nice family who hadn't spayed their cat in time and came back from vacation to a litter of kittens in their son's hockey bag.  She was 6 weeks old, eating solid food, but still relying some on her mother's milk.

Tuckered.

From the second we brought Addie inside, Brozhy went postal.  I'm not going to recount everything, but over the next four days, there was very minimal interaction between the two, and yet they both hated each other.  Brozhy hissed, growled, hid under the couch, hid in his litter box, jumped and hissed when people came into the room unannounced or startled him, and bit and slapped.

Once I went into the bathroom to hang up towels and he heard me too late, leapt up from behind the toilet where he was hiding, hit the toilet paper roll and sent it flying everywhere, slipped around and landed in the shower behind the curtain-- all in a two-second period.  I looked at the floor and saw it was covered in urine.

Another time when Addie was out, he ran into the bedroom and hid under the bed.  When I went to check on him later, he hissed and latched onto my arm and wouldn't let go.

I must add that during all of this, Addie, the most vocal and dramatic kitten I've ever encountered, was having her own issues.  She would hardly eat (Brozhy was barely eating either).  And when she wasn't asleep, she was screaming.  If she was alone locked in the bedroom she would scream and scream like she was being killed (I am not joking) and ram into the door.  I've never known a cat to do that, especially not a 6-week old kitten.

Monday afternoon I was at my wits' end, I had a huge list of chores and things that needed to be done that I couldn't do because I had to juggle that in addition to checking on Brozhy every few minutes, and, if she wasn't asleep, sitting and playing with Addie until she got tired and fell asleep so she would stop screaming and ramming the door and making Brozhy freak out more.  It felt a little like having an infant during that stage where all they do is cry while simultaneously trying to take care of a sick toddler throwing a tantrum and clean the house, on little to no sleep because the kitten kept us up at night.  But what do I know about that?

We'd put up a listing on KSL when we got Addie just in case things didn't work out and we had to give her away.  But after 4 days, we hadn't had any serious calls.  When Sam got home Monday evening and saw me in tears from the stress of the situation and heard Addie still screaming and found Brozhy again cowering in the litter box, he suggested we got to the Humane Society and give her up.

I'd considered this, and had for some reason posted a question regarding our situation on Yahoo Answers (a note about Yahoo Answers-- don't ever post a question unless you want to be publicly ridiculed with no way to retaliate).  All I got were people yelling at me about my ignorance to the ways of cats, how cruel I was to consider "ditching" Addie at a place where she'd be euthanized in 3 days, how stupid I was for not just putting them in the same room together and letting them figure it out (really?), yada yada yada.  Awful stuff.

Sam reassured me that she would find a home quickly because she was cute and young and impressionable.  So we put her in a basket and set out on our way.  A little way down the road, Sam decided to double check the shelter hours, and saw that we had missed the time by 45 minutes.  Addie started screaming louder, in that murderous-cry way.  And loud enough it was hurting my ears and making me crazy.

Poor Sam.  He has to deal with all these crazy people and animals all the time.  And no doubt he felt a little guilty because pushing the kitten idea was his thought the other day.  After sitting in the car for a minute, he decided to call the woman who had originally given us Addie and tell her that Addie wasn't eating and it was possible she needed to be with her mother a week or two longer, and besides that, our cat was getting sick with the stress of having her around.

Thank goodness people in Utah are so kind.  She agreed to take Addie back without question, so we made the drive back.  It was the longest 25 minutes of my life, with Addie still screaming and the stress still ebbing.

In retrospect, I know we should have considered the kitten idea a little longer, but it had to be done at some point.  Now we know that Brozhy can't be socialized.  He is still attacking me today, but I've found that as long as I talk quietly and calmly to him, myself, Sam, and inanimate objects, then the likelihood is lower that I'll end up with bleeding welts on my arms and legs.

We've talked though, and know that if things don't get better over the next few months, there's a good chance Brozhy will have to go, and that upsets me most.  But for now, I'll just (softly) stroke the sleeping dragon by my side and hope that things will get better, and that somehow he'll be my cuddly, purring Brozhy again.

Je Suis un Singe

You know that feeling of hopelessness you have when you're speeding down your friend's hilly driveway on a razor scooter at 50mph and it's the first time you've ever used a scooter and you don't know how to stop and you know that no matter what you do, you are inevitably rushing full-speed and head-on into a painful situation?

That was me today.  And all of yesterday.  Also me when I was 15 with the scooter, but that's another story.

Here's the sitch:  

Wednesday evening I got a call from a man at one of the places I interviewed but didn't get the job.  He said that a friend of mine (who did get the job) had recommended me for a job involving customer service for Canadians, and that they needed French-speakers.  During the course of the brief phone call, I heard myself agree to an interview and he gave a bunch of information, all of which leaked out my ears except "And part of the interview will be in French."  Of course.  What did I expect, Swahili?

Now, aside from the two years in high school and the one semester I took in college, the only French-speaking experience I have is a day in Paris, and random conversations with my mom.  While I can get by in basic conversations, I don't really speak French.  I speak Franglais.  You can't do customer service with frustrated customers whose native language is French when you speak Franglais.

Tra la la... c'est moi, c'est moi!
No speaka-de-Fronch!

The moment I hung up the phone, I dashed to the bookshelf that (thankfully) contains all kinds of readers, stories, dictionaries, and grammar exercises for learning French.  I planted myself on the couch and yelled in slight hysterics for Sam not to bother me (which was irrelevant because he was quietly studying in the other room).

The next day I woke up and decided it had been some kind of weird dream, and I didn't actually need to interview for a job.  I thought "Heck, I just won't go."  But instead I dragged myself again to the couch to do pages from a review workbook.  All day long.

By bedtime I was on the verge of panic.  It wasn't so much that I wanted the job and I knew I would fail, it was that I felt that by accepting the interview I had led them to believe that I spoke French super well and then I was just going to go in there and stare blankly at the French guy's face with my mouth hanging open and drool hanging from my chin.  And that's just embarrassing.

This morning I wasn't hungry for breakfast and went through the morning routine like I was preparing for a funeral.  On the way out the door I freaked out one last time, and Sam tried to reassure me by saying that, for arguments sake, Lamarckian Evolution is a scientific truth, and that this interview was the leaves at the top of the tree, and that I, as a short-necked giraffe, needed to stretch and stretch to reach them.  I probably wouldn't reach them now, but if I kept stretching and trying, eventually I would get the leaves I wanted.  (Get it?  Get it?  Geez, my whole life is obscure.)

SEE???

Let's fast forward.  So I got to the place and, despite wanting to barf and run away, I went through the motions.  Most of the interview was in English, which was awesome.  Finally, the native speaker (from Paris) asked me to tell him what I put on my resume/CV, so I told him a few things.  Then he asked where I learned French, and I told him about school and my mom.  Then he asked where my Mom learned French.  I wasn't sure of the answer, so I said she learned it from a friend (safe bet, right?).  He then asked if I'd been to France and I said yes, Paris.

I thought I did okay.  And then he asked me to write some stuff from my resume in French.  Yikes.  Let me tell you, writing a resume in French is different than English.  And I tend to use big/persuasive/whatever words in resume to make it sound awesome and impressive that I can't even think of close synonyms for in French.  And I don't know how to say "database" or "volunteer" or "intern" or "inventory" or anything relevant, really.

I think that was the only way I really felt that I made a fool of myself, because I'd talked up the writing skills.  Shouldn't've done that, eh?  (HEY! I speak Canadian!  Ok yeah, that was lame.)

I don't expect that I'll get the job.  I don't even think I want it, really, because then it'll be the same thing as today every day.  But I've stretched my little neck, and I'll keep stretching, and one day (soon I hope) I'll get the job I need and want.

Hie to the Post

The past couple of days have been really interesting.  I had my first day of training at that new job.  This morning I quit.  It wasn't because I had to talk on the phone or ask people for money.  It's because I had to lie to them, and to make people in a very dark place already feel even worse.  I can't do that to people, not for a million dollars.  Then last night was a surprise party for my sister.  It was so great to have family together laughing and eating and having a good time on a day that wasn't Sunday.

Today was a little rough, despite feeling better that I'd quit.  I am bored again, and I hate being bored.  My cat keeps attacking me.  There's nothing to do or clean or organize.  I went to lunch with my sister and spent some time haunting the museum where I used to work.  And now I'm eating cookies.

I read a post that my sister-in-law wrote about her September 11th story.  It was interesting to read her perspective as an east-coast transplant to Texas.  It got me thinking about things though.  And since I've been wanting to write down an "in retrospect" post for a while, I figured I'd do it today.  One thing I want to say, though, is that as you read this, I know you'll be thinking about your own story.  That story is just as interesting to me.  I want to hear it.  Because everyone's experience, unless you were literally under a rock, is important, and adds to the fabric of emotion that was that day (too prosaic?).  Anyway, the point is, think about it, because at the end I want you to share yours with me.  Do it in the comments, post on your own blog, email it to me, I don't care.  I want to hear it.  And here we go:

Tell your kids to keep a journal, seriously.

I was in 7th grade on September 11, 2001.  I remember what I wore to school that day.  Khaki overall shorts, if you're wondering.  That morning, my parents had the TV on during breakfast, which never happened.  My dad watched the news before we got up and then that was it.  Not only was it on, but my mom was watching it, which never happened in the morning.  My sisters went off to seminary.  Later on, my mom told me she'd be taking me to school, which normally my dad did.  We picked up my older sisters from seminary and once all four of us kids were in the car, my mom told us that an airplane had flown into one of the towers of the World Trade Center in NYC.  It was suspected it was a terrorist attack.  She wasn't sure about the status of the other tower, but she thought she'd heard it'd been hit too.  We went to school.

In every class I went to, the TVs were on.  We did nothing in any of our classes.  The teachers just sat and watched the news, as mesmerized as we were.  We watched the towers fall over and over.  At lunch my friends and I speculated.

"It's a terrorist attack.  And we're next."

"Why would we be next?  You're crazy.  What are they going to do, bomb the avocado groves?"

"No, stupid, Fallbrook is practically on Camp Pendleton, and that's like the biggest marine base on the west coast." [side note: is it?]

And on and on.

In band, one of my friends (actually just an acquaintance at this point, but I still remember it vividly, and she later became one of my very best friends) was pulled out to go home.  She had family in New Jersey that worked in New York and hadn't heard either way about their safety.  In my next class, another girl got pulled out, told something, and burst into sobs right there in front of the classroom windows.

Finally school ended and we went home.  We were allowed to watch TV for the rest of the day.  I remember the CNN newscaster looked scared.  He was disheveled and had the hiccups.  There was a stack of papers and a bottle of Tums next to him.  They showed recap footage all night, including people jumping out of the buildings.  Those particular images scared me the most.

I don't think I had ever felt more grown up as a 12-year-old than I did that day.  I wrote in my journal how tragic and awful it all was, but I may not have entirely understood everything that it meant.  It meant that people would lose members of their family in our town for a while as hordes of troops were shipped to Afghanistan, Kuwait, Iraq, everywhere; for years to come.  Test bombings would shake our windows far more often than they had before.  No one would be allowed on base without military ID.  Travel by plane would become far more difficult.  The news would be on far more often in our house, in peoples' cars, and I would start to pay attention.  For me, September 11th was a realization that there was a huge, enormous, and scary world beyond the hills of Fallbrook, and it was brought right there to me, and I had to learn to deal with it.

---

PS I just got a phone call from the Prophet Manasseh Jordan, telling me he knew how hard times were but that I could find salvation in God.  I feel so blessed now.

How to Keep Your Kitchen From Resembling Gollum's Cave

You may have been wondering what I do with all my free time (more likely not, I can't see you sitting, brow-furrowed, contemplating my possible activities, while your tots tear apart your living room for the twelfth time this week).  Well, stop biting your nails in anticipation-- I have been organizing and cleaning the apartment.  Yaaaaaaayyy...

The biggest beast was the kitchen.  I haven't really touched it (aside from the weekly cleaning of visible spots) since we moved in.  And it developed into rather an unpleasant place to be.  It was dark and dusty and smelled vaguely of lurking onions.

They know where you eat...

I made it my personal crusade to make the kitchen once again a pleasant place to bake, cook, eat, and be.  Heretoforth, the steps, in case you want to do the same:

1. Organize the cupboard under the sink.  Get rid of rusty old dish rags, that broken ceramic bowl you thought you might make into a mosaic someday (never mind you've never made a mosaic in your life), and old cat things.  It might help, if you have plastic bags taking over, to take an old milk jug, cut a hole in the side, line the sharp edges with tape, and thereby create a plastic bag holder that you can have easy access to.  If you are curious about this, I can give you further detail, but it's really simple.  Anyway, get a box or tub and put all your cleaning supplies in it, in order of which you use most often (front to back).  Done.

2. Tackle your food cupboards.  Put all the cans in one cupboard, all the breakfast/bread/cereal stuff in another, all the baking mixes/dinner things in another, etc.

3.  Organize your other cupboards.  All the pots should go together (plus I did it by stick and non-stick) and all your frying pans together (same same).  Take that expensive Fontagnac pot from above the fridge and put it with the other pots so you will actually use it.  All gadgets should go together and all bakingware that doesn't make sense to go under your oven should go together too.

Excellent progress, fellows!

4.  Do the dishes.  Yes, the dirty ones in the sink.  Then put them away.  Then go into those places and get rid of the 37,000 mugs that you will never use, and the extra colanders, and limit yourself on what you keep for sentimental value.  I saved three mugs, two bowls, and a handful of plates from my childhood.  That seems excessive, but trust me, it's improvement.  And your friendly neighborhood greasy/dusty thrift store will be glad to receive them.

5.  Next go through your utensil containers and drawers.  Aside from getting rid of doubles, melted things, bent things, things you never use, etc, rearrange drawers so that like things are together and everything makes logical sense.  I'm still dancing around trying to remember where I moved the silverware, but it really does make a lot more sense where it is now, promise.

6. Organize your junk drawer, your trash drawer, your towel drawer, whatever.  If you need to (like for the junk drawer), buy organizers.  They're cheap at Target.

I forgot to mention that this organization and such took place over the period of a few days...

7.  Move counter appliances around.  We got a Kitchenaid when we got married.  It's very pretty, but it has, until now, been hiding in a corner behind the fridge, wasting its pretty green color and not getting much use because we didn't want to lug it to the other side of the kitchen where the counter space was.  The microwave was sitting skiwompis (does anyone even know how to spell that word?) in a corner with the toaster shoved behind it.  And it was ugly.  And the outlet it was in wasn't a high-power outlet, so every time we used the microwave it sounded like the fuse box was going to burst into flames, and the lights flickered like we were in the middle of a haunting and I hate hate hated it.  So.  Sam came home and did the heavy lifting.  We moved the Kitchenaid temporarily, then picked up the microwave and moved it behind the fridge where the Kitchenaid was.  And there, behind where the microwave had sat... A FRUIT MUMMY!!!

THE HORROR!

While I stood there yelling about how disgusting it was that there was something so creepy and gross sitting in our kitchen this whole time (yes, I'm very mature), Sam picked it up and threw it away.  It was essentially a dried up, desiccated fruit thing.  Sam thinks it might've been a plum.  We've never bought plums.  The mystery deepens...

8. Put heavy things where you can reach them.  I am not a short person.  But I am a weak person.  Therefore, it was ridiculous to put our 50lb sacks of stuff on the highest shelf (above the fridge, no less).  It got a bit embarassing every time I needed something up there to call out sheepishly, "Sammy...can you get down the flour/rice/ten-ton weights for me please?"  I'm sure he has better things to do when I'm not in the room.  And so down they came to the bottom-most shelf.

9. The spice cupboard.  Ugh.  I put this off for ages.  But eventually I pulled everything out, consolidated or threw away duplicate bottles (trust me, you will never have reason to own three bottles of poppy seeds), and when I was done, EVERYTHING FIT! And you could actually see every label!  And I don't have to live in fear that whenever I open that cupboard I will be buried in an avalanche of scented plastic bottles!

10.  I might've done other stuff too, but this post is already too long.  Pour some vinegar down the garbage disposal and run it, light a scented candle or something, hide the broom behind the fridge, organize your bulletin board and hey-ho your kitchen is actually nice!  The lighting is still bad so you probably still have shadows, but you know nothing is growing--or mummifying-- anywhere.  Also we have a lot more counter space now (and have room to make yummy things like this!), which makes me very happy.

THE END.

Conundrums Abound

Sometimes Sam thinks he's Antonio Banderas dancing a flamenco.  He's not.  After I had convinced him of this and he set about finishing getting ready for school this morning, I got a phone call.  It was a woman from DLG Law asking if I'd like to come in for an interview.  An interview!  Me!  My very first since losing my job at the museum and applying to every job known to mankind.

I dropped Sam off at school ("Make good choices!") and headed to about 4 different stores looking for interview-appropriate attire (threadbare jeans and flowery skirts don't cut it).  Let me tell you that apparently the size 0-10 work force is very well-dressed.  At the first few stores I went to there was NOTHING smaller than a size 12.  At the last store I found that most people apparently believe that leggings are pants, and everything in the size 2 section showed it.  Until Lo!  Three pairs of grey trousers, and only one a little ugly.  I snatched them up and ran to the dressing rooms, only pausing to scowl at a row of discounted knit (as in needles, not that stretchy/flowy stuff) garments passing as shirts.

The first pair fit alright, albeit loosely.  The second pair came to a few inches above my ankles ("city fit" my foot).  The third pair was a size 6 masquerading as a 2.  I decided the first pair would have to do, overly long inseam and baggy rear aside, and it was only $20.  I then wandered the store considering discount scrub brushes (TJ Maxx has great deals on scrub brushes guys) until I realized it was almost noon and my interview was in two hours.

With a little safety-pinning of the hem I was in the car and on my way.  The interview was in Draper, just past Ikea.  Once inside the building and announced, I sat down and stole furtive glances at the employees I could see.  Nose rings.  Threadbare jeans.  Hm...

I interested myself with an oversize encyclopedia of horse breeds where most of the pictures showed horses with alternately majestic and surprised (yes it is possible) looks on their faces.

See?  Nevermind that it's a statue.

I was snickering to myself when my interviewer walked in-- in cargo shorts and a polo.

The interview was easy-- he asked the usual questions about what my strengths are and why I deserve the job and how good my water cooler chatter is and yada yada yada.  And then he offered me the job and asked me to pick a shift, right then and there.  I sat there hemming and hawing before picking a 9-6 shift and agreeing to show up for training on Monday.  He then shook my hand, mentioned that the dress code was very relaxed (thank you Captain Obvious), and showed me the door.

On my drive back home I got to thinking, as Daddy Yankee provided philosophical input.

"Ok, so it's a full time job at $10 an hour, with benefits after 3 months..."

Na na na na na na na na na na na na na Daddy Yankee!

"But it's all the way up in Draper, that's a lot of gas money.  Plus, to be there at 9am I'd have to leave at like 8:15..."

Rompe rompe rompe!

"We really, really need the money.  And I get weekends off!  And they buy us lunch once a week..."

No escondas todo eso que traes; Yo baby, que es la que hay?

"Ugh but it's 100% on the phone, all the time.  All incoming calls, but still.  I'm so awkward on the phone.  And that headset would give me a headache..."

The way she move ella lo; rompe rompe rompe; break it down; go go go go

"Thanks Mr Yankee, you're a real pal."

So it pays the bills.  And it's a good paycheck.  And Sam and I have decided it's time I weed out the awkward phone bit.  What better way to do it than work in a call center?  I just wish it were a lot closer.  I'm showing up for training on Monday, but in the meantime, I'm praying real hard something better will come up in the next couple of days.  If not, at least I don't have to go hunting for any more dress pants.

PS Our new manager just came to collect our rent and indirectly insulted the painting I did for our kitchen.  Harumph.  Maybe I should take it down.

Give Me Problems, Give Me Work

It's Monday, and the first day of fall semester at BYU.  The only thing that means for me is that I get to spend the day alone while Sam is away educating himself.  So it's just me and the cat, twiddling our thumbs (yes, the cat has thumbs).  Sam's only been gone a few hours and I've already reorganized the bathroom and most of the second bedroom.  I've looked up recipes for baked goods I can make with all the Greek yogurt we have (who knew those giant tubs only last five days before they expire?).  Guys, I need a job.  I can't say it enough.  Being graduated is both awesome and lame.

Fortunately, I finally have a space where I can work (oh, right, I mostly did it for Sam so he could do his homework here, right).  We have been saving and planning for this since Sam moved in a year ago, but my pickiness put it on hold until LO this amazing find came up on Friday!

Only slightly styled, promise.

I'm talking about the table.  I wanted something already kind of crappy because I plan on doing my painting on it since doing it on the floor just doesn't cut it anymore (did it ever? how many carpets have I painted on by accident?).  I also wanted something sturdy, preferably real wood.  Sam said a thousand times he'd just make me desk, but he never has the time he thinks he does.  Thus, enter this old chemistry table, complete with initials, hearts, phallic symbols, and declarations to "eff the homo" and that "Chere Hood sucks!" scratched into the surface.  Don't worry, an aptly placed Philips screwdriver and a bit of elbow grease got the nastiest bits off.  But you were in high school once.  You know how it is.  And it's perfect for what I wanted, honestly.

Maybe I'll go make zucchini muffins with the yogurt.  That'll be something.  Oh look, the cat got bored waiting for me to be interesting:

Dog Park

Occasionally I take Spot to the dog park (there's not a ton to do around here sometimes, and Spot loves the dog park more than life itself).  Spot enjoys sniffing and licking other dogs, but I prefer to watch the people.  If you've ever watched people interact with pets or children, you discover a whole different side to them.  People will talk in crazy voices, do crazy dances, who knows what else.  Do you know what I'm talking about?  Do you have some great gems to share?  Please do.

Only pretending to be normal.

In the Dark of the Night

Yesterday I spent the morning searching for Caity's lost childhood stuffed animal.  I searched through countless tubs, boxes, closets, and cupboards.  Eventually I did find the elusive Jojo, but in the mean time, I found some strange stuffed animals.

Exhibit A:
I remember seeing ads for this cat on tv when I was little.  I begged and begged Mom for one, but she staunchly refused.  Now that I've seen how creepy they actually are through an adult's eyes, I'm kind of glad she didn't let me.
Here it is...

What a beautiful half-plastic face you have

What's this?

Ta da!!

Nom nom nom.

Exhibit B:
I was feeling around in a dark armoire and discovered this bear.  Wearing a wig.  A green wig.  What.

I hair you're looking for something...

Son of Man

I've been sorting some old photographs and putting prints into albums for Sam's Mom lately.  I ran across these pictures of Sam when he was in high school, teaching some Tarzan song and dance moves to some little kids at a day camp.  They are totally adorable (the pictures...although I guess that little girl is kind of cute), in my completely and utterly unbiased opinion.

All Is Not Lost!

Last Monday evening the Wasden gang loaded onto a plane for a surprise family trip (in honor of Peter's return after a two-year absence) to Orlando to hang out at Universal Studios' Harry Potter Land for three days!  Our flight was scheduled to leave around 7pm.  We boarded around 6:40.  The plane started to taxi, and three hours later, we were still taxiing, durn the durn fog.  There were about 30 planes ahead of us in line, the wind was two knots over the allowable limit for takeoff, planes that needed to land were being given priority because they were low on fuel, the air conditioning was turned off for taxi, the flight attendants were yelling over the intercom for people to stay in their seats (apparently the law is that while taxiing, everyone must remain seated, even though little children and some adults have apricot-sized bladders and really hadn't planned on taxiing for three hours), and we were within minutes of reaching the legal time limit that passengers can be on a plane without taking off.  Emotions were running a little high, to say the least.

At long last, we were rerouted to a different runway, the wind died down, the rain stopped, the planes ahead of us in line timed out and were forced to return to the terminal and wait for another flight, and we were free to leave.  All the passengers cheered and applauded and we were on our way to Florida before we knew it, albeit three hours later than planned.  At least there was no traffic at that point?

The next few days were fun-filled although boiling hot.  Harry Potter Land (is that even what it's called?) was a lot of fun and really cool, but too small.  Maybe I'll blog about HP Land separately another time.

Thursday afternoon we dragged ourselves to the airport again for our 4:30 flight.  We got there maybe two hours early.  Around four o'clock they announced the flight was delayed an hour.  Awesome.  An hour later, they announced it was delayed another hour.  The next announcement informed us that La Guardia airport was closed indefinitely to all flights due to inclement weather.  Yep.

I think it was around 10pm when we heard a boarding call for a flight to LGA.  We raced from the Delta lounge we were lucky enough to be able to crash and ran to the terminal.  It was sort of like this:

The flight wasn't ours, but we were optimistic that ours would soon be leaving too.  They told us that our flight wasn't ready to leave yet because our crew had timed out and we were waiting for another crew so that we could leave.  Another hour later, the lady at the desk told us that there was a chance the flight might be cancelled if they couldn't find another crew.  At that point, the people who had been waiting since 3:30 that afternoon with screaming babies and rowdy children and whatever else had had enough.

People stood and waved their arms, people rushed the desk, audible "Aw come on!" "You've got to be kidding me!" "What??!?" etc could be heard in the except-for-us empty terminal.  There was one guy who had the screamiest baby for the past four hours (I shall call him hereafter "wifebeater" because he was wearing one) who started slamming the desk and yelling "You have to communicate with us!  We have children!"  The woman at the desk sounded very emotional when she spoke.  A few people gave up and left.  Then the Orlando Police showed up (well, three of them anyway).  At that point, the woman at the desk announced the flight was cancelled.  It was shortly before midnight.  The crowd yelled and roared.  People left in droves.  I heard an angry men yell "Come on, let's get out of here!" in a voice of death.  After a few minutes, most people were focused on yelling at the woman at the desk to get them on another flight.  A group of thirteen-year-olds on a basketball team or something gathered the rest of the similarly-aged kids in the terminal and started some sort of stomping/clapping/chanting dance circle that was obnoxiously loud.  Just as Wifebeater had gathered his brood and started to head out, the crew from our flight, who had been clocked in the entire time, high-tailed it out of the terminal.  He chased after them yelling "Oh now you decide to show up?  Blah blah blah obsecenities and such!"  But the police gave him the eye, and he quit.

We had to spend the night at a random hotel (and got the very last two rooms they had) and sat around all day until an afternoon flight that honestly I don't even remember taking.  La!

PS Can I say how proud of myself I am right now?  Saturday I went over to help some people organize/clean/unpack in their new house.  My task, besides sweeping and vacuuming, was to organize the kids' playroom.  It was a bombsite beforehand (the movers had classily dumped everything from the boxes onto the floor, and a lot of it wasn't even toy-related, ie toiletries, underwear, electronics, what??), and the before picture shows the mom's initial attempt at organization.  The after shows the results from my five hours' hard and continuous work.  And all those tubs were disorganized and had to be dumped out and redone.  So you know.  I can't stop looking at these pictures.  It makes me feel so awesome.  And I got paid $75 for it!

Luniversary

When I originally wrote this post, it was a little too personal; and while I'm trying to be more honest in my blogging, I think it was just a little too much.  So I'll take the good parts and try again.

June 17th marks six months of Sam and me being married.  It was also around a year after we decided to get engaged.  It's odd to look back and think about how much things have changed.  I've always been perhaps overly nostalgic and thought too fondly of "how things used to be."  But this time, I don't feel that way.  And it's definitely not because things have been soooo good OMG since we got married, because to say that would be a big fat lie.  It's because I've changed, we've both changed, and I really like the changes.  We are nowhere near perfect, still.  To say that after only six months of marriage...hoo boy...we'd be ready for ascension or something, let me tell you.

There comes a point when you decide that your love for someone outweighs all of the other stuff, like thinking you're a swell person or always needing to be right.  That point for me was some time a couple of months ago.  Sam was at a meeting, and I was thinking about a disagreement we'd had.  I suddenly thought of "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac, particularly this part:

"Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above?

And can I sail through the changing ocean tides

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Oh oh I don't know, oh I don't know

...Well, I've been afraid of changing

Cause I've built my life around you

But time makes you bolder

Children get older

I'm getting older too"

I'll spare you my detailed mental analysis, but essentially, I decided that I was the one I had built my life around, and that if I was going to think about what it really meant to love someone, I was going to have to stop being a child and grow up in order to take what life threw my way.  And I really do love Sam, and I'm pretty sure he would shrivel up into a raisin if I ever did anything drastic, so I sat on the bed until he came home and talked to him about it.  I confessed to him that I had no idea what I was doing half the time, and he said he had no immediate solution, so we just hugged and called it good, promising to work on it.  You can't win every battle.  We just try our darndest to be aware of our shortcomings and work around them, and I try hard to always give Sam the benefit of the doubt.

We still have our disagreements.  Like the time we fought about whether or not people in the 1920s were better at reading body language because of their exposure to silent films.  Geesh.  And I wish I could talk to him about environmental or political issues without feeling the need to prepare for battle.  But all of the other stuff I don't worry about as much anymore.  Because we are far from perfect, and even if I don't know what to do sometimes, I don't have to worry, because that's okay.  Just take it as it comes.

All in all, I'm happy I got married.  Sam makes me a better me.  And he's pretty fine looking too, if I do say so myself :)

He's growing a beard.

A Whole Year

Some birthdays are just regular birthdays.  But I think your first birthday is a very important one.

Happy birthday to my darling niece Maya.  Here's to many, many more!

Oh, and a happy birthday to my sister Caity, should she ever read this.  I've only been 23 myself for a few weeks, but I can attest that it is a good age to be ;)

And happy flag day.

A Witty Fool

I often get insomnia.  Bad.  Thank heavens for melatonin and a bedmate who also often gets it, so at least you can be bored and sleepy together, and do things like read or talk about how to get the cat to stop biting peoples' legs when they walk by.

But sometimes when Sam is snoring away and I'm lying there staring at the inside of my eyelids, my mind wanders.  I let it, because concentrating on going to sleep never helped me, and if I'm thinking about designs for chicken coops for the chickens I don't have, maybe it will turn into a dream, and then I'll be asleep!  Plus, as long as its not the repetitive lyrics to an obnoxious 90s song, it's nice to think about random things.  Last night my mind wandered to memories of early summer a few years ago and I thought of a time when sometimes we make a fool of ourselves, but it's funny in retrospect, namely as with the time I call My Worst Date Ever (or, Shortest Record Time I've Had a Crush on Someone).

I googled "Awkward Date" and this was the best picture, sadly

I'm going to call this guy Greg, because I don't think I've ever met anyone in my decade named Greg, so it's a safe name (but sorry if I have, Greg, correct me).  Greg and I ran into each other after church one time, and I'd known him from back in California, but only on a professional basis (vagueness is important here, I promise).  Anyway, he proposed that I hang out with him and his friend, who I also knew.  I was moving to a new neighborhood and in need of some friendship, so I was excited about it.  I also decided this Greg fellow was my new crush.

A week or two later, we met up and had dinner (all three of us), then Greg's friend left the state for the summer.  A week after that, Greg and I were texting.  I figured with Greg's friend out of the picture, I had the opportunity to make some kind of hint of a move.  So, we decided that I would walk over to Greg's house to watch a movie.

I think my first mistake was that I was under the impression that this was some kind of date.  I may have been a skoshe desperate for one.  I mean really, I was young and single and in Provo and I hadn't had a single date that wasn't a set-up since I'd moved there (if you know me, you know I've been asked out on all of 1 actual date total, which ended up in marriage).  Whatever.

Anyway, so I got to his house, knocked on the door, anxious (and wearing perfume).  I heard a shout of "come on down" from the belly of the house, and did so.  There was Greg, sitting on the couch watching basketball with his ripped jeans on and bare feet on the coffee table.  If he drank bottled beverages, I bet there was one in his hand.  I sat on the opposite end of the couch and crossed my legs, trying to make small talk, which didn't happen, because clearly he was more interested in the basketball game than anything else.  After a while, I started to notice that his feet were the source of most of the stink in the room and wanted something to distract me, so I said "...Well, can we watch that movie?" and he was like "Oh sure, they're over on the table, pick one."

There were a handful of movies scattered on the table, so I picked through.  I saw Master and Commander, which happens to be one of my favorite movies of all time.  I picked it up, unable to control the "Ooooh!" that escaped my lips because, hey, a guy who likes Master and Commander is awesome in my book.  Greg reacted to my noise by saying "Oh, that, yeah, I borrowed it from a girl I know.  It was really boring."  Oh.  Hrrr....

Finally we settled on Hotel Rwanda, the only one that we could agree on (because neither of us had seen it yet).  And that was a bad idea.  Genocide and such...not great date material.  I was trying not to cry because I'm a sap, and I have no idea what awkwardness was going through Greg's mind.

Ten minutes before the movie ended, Greg's roommate came home (it was now almost 12:30AM), and said "Oh hey, Hotel Rwanda, that's a good movie" and thankfully joined us in watching the ending.  It ended, and the roommate said something about the time, which prompted Greg to turn to me and say "Yeah, if it wasn't Friday night, I would've asked you to leave a long time ago."  Yikes.  Curfew's not til 1AM, son.

I couldn't get out of the house fast enough, let me tell you.  And before I'd reached home, I'd recovered from crushing on the fellow-- good thing, too, otherwise I'd be stuck with musing about chicken coops.

Memorial Day Weekend

First there was a wedding:

And then a beautiful stormy lake:

And then a fun game of croquet:

Strangeland

This blog isn't really about any one thing in particular.  That's probably why nobody reads it (but that's okay guys!)  Recently some changes have come around these parts.  I realize most of these are obvious (pretty new header!  New URL!), but did you notice I did an "About Me" page?  For those who don't know me, or think you do...check it.  Anyway, even though I don't really blog about anything in particular besides what bugs me and what interests me and what I think is cool, probably the one thing I have blogged about fairly consistently is stuff having to do with Keane.  Like I did here and here and here and here and here and here and here.  Phew.

Album Numero Quatro

Keane had a new album come out a couple of weeks ago, and I got it for my birthday.  The album was described by the cashier at the store as having "...perfect balance.  Rarely do albums have perfect balance, but this one does."  I don't know if that's mixing or sound quality or type of song, or whatever.  What I do know is that is quite a good album.  Hereforth and forthwith, what I thought:

1. You Are Young: This is a great start to the rest of the album.  It's about being young (like a child) and trying not to worry about things, because you have your parents' love and protection for now (at least, that's the message I got).  [I like it]

2. Silenced By the Night: Catchy.  This is their single for the album and I love singing along to it.  [I like it]

3. Disconnected: I love this one.  It's an upbeat things-have-gone-wrong song, and the music video is delightfully creepy, styled after sort of a soap horror film (is that a genre?).  [I like it]

4. Watch How You Go: Hm...It kind of reminds me of a boring Beatles song.  For some reason that's the best way I can think of to describe it.  I'm not too turned off though, because you can't love every song on an album.  Well, yes you can.  Whatever.  Anyway, the lyrics are kind of nice, sort of a you-left-me-goodbye-take-care-of-yourself type of thing.  [I didn't like it]

5. Sovereign Light Cafe:They used this as the soundtrack for the album trailer a few months ago (which you should watch).  It's as fun as it was teased to be.  The lyrics tell the tale of a reminiscence to times when things were different, but it's not dredged in wishing they were still that way. [I like it]

6. On the Road: Upbeat and optimistic, this song is pretty fun to sing along to, especially if you need some uplifting.  That's sounds cheesey, but really. [I mostly like it]

7. The Starting Line: At this point I was starting to think that some people might see this album as kind of "cutesy" because of the more-present piano and mallet bells, but really, it's supposed to be a little happier I guess.  The lyrics for this one also speak of better days ahead, as far as I can tell.  Overall, probably not my favorite song though. [I didn't like it]

8. Black Rain:My very favorite of the mellower songs on the album (so honestly...maybe the most favorite).  It has more of the heavy electronics present in Under the Iron Sea that I loved so much, with the ambiance of Hopes and Fears.  I just like it a lot. [I like it...as I said]

9. Neon River:I like this one too.  Happy and stuff.  Just listen. [I like it]

10. Day Will Come:More electronic-y.  It didn't really captivate me, but it has the promise to grow on me, really. [I might like it more later]

11. In Your Own Time: The verses are nothing special in this song, but I like the chorus a lot, really! [I mostly like it]

12. Sea Fog: A calm end to the album, I bet you could fall asleep to this one if you were relaxed enough.  I appreciate that the music sort of sounds like what the lyrics are describing...if you know what I mean. [I like it]

Overall, I'd say the album was kind of a throwback to their original style, but it has matured, and is clearly more optimistic in feel.  They know more about what their direction is, I think, and with all the experience and experimentation under their collective belt, they're able to produce a better sound then they originally had.  And I think it was a great idea for them to hire on a full-time bassist.  As a whole, the album isn't as fun as Perfect Symmetry, or as emotional as Under the Iron Sea, it just is.  But it's great.  And I bet I'll listen to my favorites loads more before their concert in Salt Lake next month (oh by the way, yeah, that's happening.  And I couldn't be more stoked!)

Jesse, bass; Tom, lead voice & acoustic guitar; Tim, lyrics & piano & synth; Rich, drums & percussion

It's A Plan of My Own Invention

Freedom zaps creativity and kills brain cells, let me tell you.  Well, not that I'm free exactly, but only having one class and working all day at a place that kind of saps your cognitive abilities if you're there for too long during the day, instead of having a billion classes and still working at that place, plus whatever else...you know what I mean, right?

I recently found out that my job situation for when we move to Connecticut in a few weeks (just for a couple of months, don't worry!) is no longer iron-clad.  Meaning I don't have one anymore.  They failed to mention I'd need to attend an expensive distant week-long training camp and pass a 550-yard-straight swimming test (immediately followed by a 20-foot dive to retrieve a 10-pound weight...)  I don't think I've ever been in that good of shape in my life.  Have you?  Would you do that just for a little month-long job at a scout camp?  I wouldn't.  And so that's why I have no job.  There's talk that maybe I'll get to be a clerk at the camp.  Err...see the statement above about dead brain cells and how awesome that is.

So in the mean time, I'm applying for random internships in New York City, because how is that not a potentially amazing experience?  I tried to get in touch with a lady in charge of internships at a museum there, asking if there were any late openings, and if not, if she knew of any openings still available at other museums through her networking that I know she does because if she didn't she'd be a failure at her job.  Her response?  Word for word:

Hello,
The summer internships are closed.
Regards,
Lame Lady Lame

She obviously read my well-composed and professional (and succinct) email.  Can't even be bothered to use my name.  Or prove she cares about humanity.  I bet she even eats not-dolphin-safe tuna.

Anyway, so it's likely I won't really be doing anything this summer except being in Connecticut and occasionally getting paid to watch babies or walk dogs or whatever else I can be contracted out to do.  In the mean time, I want to write a book.  Yes.  At least that's what I'm telling myself.  But considering the first sentence of this post...the probability of that happening (go statistics words, yeah!) is pretty low.  So I'll just play tour guide when my parents come out to visit at the beginning of July, pretend I know how to navigate NYC, learn how to navigate the hedge maze that is Connecticut, and let those hard-earned-college-degree brain cells dribble out my ears.  I'll write when (or if) I feel like it.  Hopefully that'll be enough material for a book.  Don't ask what it's about yet, it's still more of a blastocyst than a baby, so to speak.  Speaking of babies, it'd probably be harder to write if I had one.  Or four (this is an awkward segue for me to direct you to this hilarious thing that my mom wrote that I was going to incorporate into a Mother's Day post, but I got lazy).

In other news, today is my birthday.  I don't feel old.  Actually, I feel like I'm starting to catch up to how old I've felt since I was 16.  Long story.  In honor of my birthday, I got phone calls and texts from friends and family (always nice), I was told by my sister in Scotland at the moment that I was also Nessie's little sister (and a good one too), I was featured by my other sister (not Nessie) in all my strange glory for the internet (or whoever reads her blog) to see, Sam has promised me lots of good food as my birthday gift, my father-in-law sent me an email saying he was taking a tour of Jerusalem and that he'd think of me (jealous), and my little brother sent me pictures of cats he's been collecting during his time in Boston.

My media editing abilities know no bounds.

These are way better presents from the world than last year, which was the threat of the Rapture.  So there's that!

Cream Puff Filling

The bloggy-blog is back up!  This is somewhat of a filler post, but I have (hopefully) better ones in the works, so bear with me.  This is mostly to direct you to the new URL anyway ;)

Questions:

Why does "Muskrat Love" by America keep shuffling up on my iPod?  Like at least twice a day.  And no, if I listen to it, it doesn't go away, because I've tried that.

Why do people think that dirt bikes are appropriate commuter transportation?  They are seriously the loudest vehicles known to mankind, and half of them have only half of a broken license plate (if any).  How is that legal?

Why does a little cafe that used to be awesome now think it's okay to sell me orange Fanta under the guise of it being Orange Crush?  Probably because now it's run by scrawny college hipsters instead of awesome Polynesian men.  They also no longer have seasoned fries.  Sad day.

Why does the museum where I work have furniture that is all-metal and so old it could've belonged to Harry S Truman and increases my proclivity for bumping my shins and medial malleoli and whatnot?  I have enough bruises, thank you.

Why does the BBC Sherlock music keep ripping off Hans Zimmer???  (No, I haven't watched the second season yet, but it's on my to-do list!)

And why have you not watched this hilarious gem yet?  A thousand pardons if you have.  (Aviso: Some language.  Don't complain since I told you so.)

The Colbert Report
Get More: Colbert Report Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,Video Archive

RIP Maurice Sendak!

New URL!!!

The blog is going through a transition today, kind of like Cassie into a horse:

By the way, if you never read Animorphs, you are missing out on a lot of 90s goodness.

The blog is getting a new url.  Everything will be the same!  However, you will no longer be able to find anything wonderful at shannonshoes.blogspot.com.  I'll be announcing it elsewhere in a bit in case you miss this post, but if you follow this blog on reader or somewhere else, change the blog url to philo-file.blogspot.com (but wait until tomorrow, because right now it doesn't exist).
Okay kiddos, you have probably until the end of today before the shannonshoes url will be GONZO.  Get on it!

Philophile Files

The blog has a new look!  It also has a new name.  I'm still kicking the name around like a tin can in the front yard, but so far this one seems to be the one.

But, before I commit, I need input!  Does it sound totally pretentious?  Is it stupid?  Too generic?  Are there too many "ffff"s in it?  Does it make you think I like philosophy (I'm neither here nor there, but I can tell you Plato is a bore)?  Should I kick the subtitle?

Eventually, the title will be reflected in a new url (but the blog will remain the same!).  I will keep you posted on that, once the title is solidified.

Oh, and feel free to make suggestions if you have any.  I'm open!

Or does it make you think of falafel?

Pure of Heart?

I finally figured out how to navigate Pottermore (thank you, kind Adrien).  Here are the nerdy deets, if you care:  I got a tawny owl as my pet and my wand is 13 3/4 inches, sycamore with unicorn hair, and slightly springy.  My house...is Hufflepuff.

Try to imagine one of those toys where a segmented animal is held together by a tight string, and when you push the button it collapses.  Here, I drew a picture for you to demonstrate:

Yeah, that was me when I read I was in Hufflepuff.  And there was some groaning involved.

Okay, here's the real nerdy-time stuff, so just tune out for a bit if you don't care.  I always imagined myself as a Ravenclaw.  Because maybe I'm smart (although if I reread that last post, I'll realize I had it coming).  Slytherin, whatever.  At least I could be a Gryffindor, because sometimes I'm brave.  But Hufflepuff?  Really, Hufflepuff??!?  Snippets of reassurance came from Adrien, who was sitting by me when I found out, and from the Welcome Letter from the Hufflepuff welcome-letter-writer (I forget who, whatever).

"...Hufflepuff is certainly the least boastful house, but we’ve produced just as many brilliant witches and wizards as any other..."

"...But you're so pure of heart!"

"...Just because we don’t shout about it, we don’t get the credit we deserve..."

"...And the common room is so sunny!"

Yeah, okay.

I was still moping about it when Sam came to pick me up from work a bit later.  I got into the car, frowning.  I felt a bit like Calvin (in Calvin & Hobbes of course) when the transmogrifier breaks after he's been turned into an owl.

Transmogrifier broken :(

Sam told me something important about the car, and then I broke the news to him.

"I have something to tell you."  Sigh.  "I'm a hufflepuff."

"What, on Pottermore?"

"Yeah."

"What's so bad about that?"

"Well I just always thought I would be in Ravenclaw.  I mean, I want to be smart, and I want to be brave."

"You are those things, you're just more humble about it.  Like almost annoyingly sometimes."  Gee thanks, husband.  "And anyway, if you don't like it, you can just sign in with a different email and do it again."

"Yeah, but that's dishonest and it kind of ruins the spirit of the thing."

"SEE??"

"Okay fine.  I'm a Hufflepuff."

"When we get home I'll sign up too so you can feel better."

When we got home he was sorted into Gryffindor.  And proceeded to get probably 15 chapters farther than me more than twice as fast.  I feel MUCH better.

But hey, I'm pure of heart!  And humble.  And my common room is sunnier than yours.

I can humble the heck out of all of you.