and you thought YOU took politics seriously!

My fabulous friend T just emailed me this link and suggested that perhaps we should just sell Florida off to another country so that they can stop creating national drama (Elian, Bush v. Gore, Terri Schiavo, etc.) and stop producing idiots like this guy.

I hate Bush with quite a bit of passion, but I just cannot imagine attacking anyone over it.

Well, perhaps the Louisville, KY guy who found out that the hubs is from Massachusetts and told him that he had to vote his morals because "we ain't supposed to be killin' babies and them gays shouldn't be gettin' married." Maybe him.

And the fear of having someone like him as my neighbor is why I live in Massachusetts, my friends.

procrastination

Am I the only one who puts off work and puts off work and puts off work until there is so little time left that I cannot even go to the bathroom because I cannot spare those 2 minutes? I thought not.

At the very least, I think I am well suited to the legal profession because there is a great deal of autonomy in your practice. You are assigned things, or your clients need things, but then there is generally no one looking over your shoulder asking for those things. You just get them done. Whether you get them done in the daytime or at 11pm while you are scrambling to get out the door is your business.

This is nice. But on the other hand, I always have a lot to do. And those clients always asking for things can get a little tiresome**. Next time they call, I am letting them know that unless they have Cadbury Eggs, I am busy procrastinating with my blog and can't take on more work.

That probably won't get me dooced, will it?

** I actually love when my clients call me. And I love saying clients. Reminds me that I really am a lawyer, even though the security guy at the airport asked me if I was over 17.

A man, any man...

Handsome? √
Charming? √
Famous? √
Depraved indifference to human life? √

Available? Apparently, not for long.

Scott Peterson has received letters and phone calls from DOZENS of women since he arrived on death row, including a couple of marriage proposals. Now, I am a liberal woman, I try not to judge, I give people the benefit of the doubt, and I understand how nice it can be to find a good man. But honestly, people, a convicted murderer of his pregnant wife and unborn baby? I feel like perhaps women need to be a little bit pickier, a little more discerning, just a little less insane. I know Scott Peterson isn't the only convincted killer to have women pining for him or sending him marriage proposals, and I'm sure there will be women waiting in line for the chance to talk to him, but on some level I just can't believe it.

Lets disregard the conviction for a moment, just in case you believe he is innocent, and we are still left with his infidelity and lies throughout the marriage and even when his wife was about to have his baby! Really? This is what some women are looking for? It blows my mind.

Maybe when we tell our kids what good qualities to look for in a mate, we should all be more explicit about the non-murderer part. I can lower my standards on other things, as long as he isn't a murderer. Non-murderer, polite and a dog-lover. I can live with that.

I've been remiss...

I know I've neglected my blog over the last week or so, but I have excuses. Loads of excuses. I went on my first vacation (yippee!) since I moved to Boston in July! Going on vacation required me to be at work until all hours of the night, plus packing, plus preparing the dogs to be left alone with the hubs (very dangerous). It was only 4 days in California visiting my parents, but vacation it was, nonetheless. Of course, for the weeks leading up to my visits the weather was lovely and warm but for the 4 days I was there it rained and temperatures dipped. Sigh. But temperatures dipping in California still beats snow in Boston! YAY!

I even conned the folks into giving me an Easter basket. Considering that the hubs is Jewish, there aren't many Easter baskets coming from him. I loved my basket, but I have to admit that the contents were a bit odd. It contained chocolate eggs, drink coasters from Ikea, a makeup eye pencil, a book for storing recipes, a book on how to arrange your storage spaces, a cookbook, a book of cleaning tips, other random little gifts and a chocolate bunny. All in a lovely white basket that my mom said I couldn't keep. Plus she informed me that the pants she bought me the day before Easter at Banana Republic went in the Easter basket too. I bet that beats your Easter basket from Walgreens, no?

The only thing missing, much to my sadness, was a Cadbury Egg. I have been requesting Cadbury Eggs for days, but my parents couldn't find one. So they placed a call to the hubs who went to 8 stores to find Cadbury eggs and couldn't find one. The store clerks told him they were sold out. WHAT? Sold out? Of Cadbury Eggs? Who is eating all the Cadbury Eggs? Everyone I mention them to makes a disgusted face and tells me they can't believe I like them. So either all you people are closet Cadbury Egg eaters, or there is a conspiracy against me.

Please... if anyone out there is reading my blog and you come across Cadbury Eggs, send me the location! I am in withdrawal over here!!!

limpy

I've mentioned before that Murray has a tendency to dump kibble from his bowl onto the floor and eat it from there. Either that, or he carries kibble elsewhere in the house and eats it in a secondary location.

On Sunday night, I made them an extra yummy dinner and put it into their bowls. I went about finishing up dinner for us (enchiladas, yum!) while Murray proceeded to paw out the kibble, scatter it across the kitchen floor and then they would both munch away. I didn't pay much attention until I looked down to see Murray swaying around the kitchen like a drunken sailor. He would take a step, sort of fall over, then try to compensate for his falling and fall the other way. I knelt on the floor to watch him a little better and he definitely looked drunk. I called him over and he fell over himself coming to me, even while trying to eat up some of the kibble on the floor.

I FREAKED. All these awful thoughts of a stroke or him being paralyzed or having some sort of brain damage passed through my head and I swooped him into my arms as I figured out what to do. I tried to calm myself down and take some deep breaths before I started screaming for the hubs to come into the kitchen.

I carried my little drunken brain damaged puppy into the living room and while trying desperately to remain calm, told the hubs that we needed to take Murray to the vet IMMEDIATELY. I told him what he had been doing, so he suggested we put him on the floor of the living room and get him to replicate. I did, and sure enough, more of the walking while falling over ensued. I started to get a little teary at the thought of what awful thing could be wrong with my poor pup and I reached out to pick him up. As I lifted him up into my arms, his little paw brushed against my shirt and a piece of dog food that had been wedged between his toes fell out.

My drunken brain damaged dog that paws kibble off of his plate got a piece of dog food stuck between his toes. He didn't like how it felt, so in his attempts to avoid putting his foot down he scared the shit out of me. Not to mention almost causing us to rush him to the $10,000 a visit emergency vet who would have ordered 8 blood tests and a CAT scan to determine that there was a piece of kibble stuck between his toes.

We are switching over to wet food from here on out.

Back to our regularly scheduled program- trying to be better than Martha...

I am genuinely happy for Martha's arrival back into the non-prison world. I love most of her projects, even though I am a little daunted by how complicated she makes some things. But I do have a small part of me that wants to outdo her or at least match her as I take on my own home and garden projects. It keeps that part of me that is totally unlawyerly alive.

As we know from my earlier post on Martha, she loves gardening. And now that I have a new house and yard, I guess I will have to love gardening too. So like any good anal retentive over-achiever, I have set out to know everything that a good gardener knows. I bought 3 books on New England gardening, bought 11 magazines on spring planting and spring gardening, signed up for a gardening workshop at a neighborhood farm, and spent all weekend plotting out my garden (complete with flowering times and heights).

Yesterday, when I trudged into the hub's office and began complaining that gardening was sooooo complicated, I got the sense that he wasn't all that surprised. He has seen me tackle other projects, i.e. painting, like the crazed fanatic that I am, so maybe he wasn't too surprised that I was overwhelmed.

One of the new gardening tasks that I decided to take on this past weekend was composting. All the books talk about composting. Its so good for the environment, excellent for your yard, saves on your trash, and gives you the biggest most beautiful plants ever. Composting, for you non-gardeners, involves taking all your organic matter such as leaves, grass clippings, branches and vegetable scraps and putting them into a composting bin for a year. Over that year you turn over the compost as it basically rots and turns into this fabulous matter that acts as fertilizer for your garden. So this weekend I take one of our ziploc bags and proceed to fill it with our vegetable scraps. I chopped onions, into the ziploc bag the scraps went. Asparagus for dinner? Ziploc the peelings. Eggshells? Sure, why not. By the end of the weekend, my ziploc was pretty full. So I told the hubs that we needed a bin for me to start keeping my compost.

Our friends were coming over for dinner on Saturday, and he called them up and jokingly told them to bring their vegetable scraps for my compost. As we sat around the dinner table they all started raising concerns about my compost, much to my dismay. What about attracting animals? Apparently rotting food might do that. What about flies? I suppose that could be a problem. What about your neighbors? Yes, I guess the previously mentioned animals and flies could be a nuisance to my neighbors.

Maybe I haven't thought the compost thing through. We don't have an acre of land, we actually have a small backyard that isn't far from our neighbor's houses. I guess I thought that I could keep the compost in my garage or workroom, but I didn't think about the smell. So I called around for people selling compost. It is somewhere in the vicinity of $30 a bucket!

I think the neighbors may have to put up with the rotting smells, scavenging animals and swarms of flies. That, or I need a new estate in Katonah, NY. All donations will be accepted. Including vegetable peels.

what color is your nose hair?

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I went to a super Irish Catholic elementary school, run by nuns and everything. In fact, my arch nemesis was this nun named Sister Bernice. She had it in for me, I tell ya.

Anyway, one of the hard parts for me about going to this super Irish Catholic school was that most of the people had red or blond hair. Red hair with LOADS of freckles was predominant. And they all knew each other from their Irish step dancing lessons and other Irish events. I, of course, was the brown haired brown eyed little latina anomaly. Thank goodness my best friend was also a brown haired brown eyed little latina anomaly, so I wasn't alone in my non-Irishness.

I used to wish desperately to be Irish. I felt like everyone except me and my best friend S was Irish.

One of the most traumatic moments in my childhood was in 5th grade when a band of little Irish step dancing red haired and freckled girls ran up to me during recess. The moment is vivid in my mind. 3 of them were named Megan. The Megans and the other girls initiated conversation with me and finally they got to the point. "We decided that we can't be friends with you," they said. "What? Why?" said I. "Because you have brown nose hairs and we decided that its gross." And just like that they walked away.

I was ashamed of my brown nose hairs until I got to high school and realized that the world was not predominantly Irish, and really, why were people looking up my nose?

If only I knew the Megans now and I could walk up to them and say, "but I bet you can't get beautifully tanned golden latina skin without even trying, now can you bitches?"

our little white colonial money pit

Since we moved in on October 29th, I have had several moments of being totally and utterly overwhelmed with the lists of to-dos on the house. When the hubs and I started house-hunting, we subscribed completely to the "location location location" theory, and we could be heard many a time professing to our real estate agent that we would take a house that needed work in order to afford the neighborhood we wanted. To tell you the truth, we had no idea what that meant. We put offers in on these awful houses that had no redeeming qualities other than the neighborhood. When you walked into the kitchens and bathrooms you could actually smell the rot coming from within the walls. The basements and roofs had to be completely redone, some had no closets. Idealistic idiots. And can you believe that we were disappointed when we didn't get them?

When we stumbled across this house, we found this lovely older couple who had owned it for 33 years. It was obviously loved and well-cared for and they made the decision not to hold an open house because they didn't want people trooping through their home. I took one look at the little white colonial on the pretty street in the right neighborhood and knew this was it. I could look past the orange, green, blue and brown carpets (different rooms=different colors), the mismatched shutters, the orange and blue flowered wallpaper, the tile on the bathroom ceiling. This was our future home.

We made an offer that night and asked for an answer in the morning. We even wrote them a letter telling them how much we loved their house and how badly we wanted them to choose our offer. Thankfully for us, they were saps too and wanted the young couple who loved their house to own it. And that is how we came to own our little colonial money pit.

I dreamed about everything we would do to the house for the 4 months between our offer and the closing. I obsessively collected paint chips, home decorating magazines and fabric swatches. I couldn't sleep some nights thinking about how excited I was to be in a place where I could choose the colors and the style. I felt like it was our home even before it really was.

On October 29th we were so excited that we drove straight from the closing to the house and started tearing down wallpaper in our dressy clothes. That first day we tore down wallpaper in the kitchen, bathroom, dining room, living room and hallways. Then came the glue. Days and days of scraping glue. I hate wallpaper by the way, but I hate glue sooooo much more. Then days of tearing up carpeting that had been down for 40 years. Do you know what happens to carpet padding over 40 years? It disintegrates and becomes a disgusting mess. The poor hubs hands were swollen for DAYS from pulling up carpet tacks and staples.

We got so much done those first two weeks that I was sure we would have a beautifully finished house in no time. But then things (read: WE) slowed down and the lists grew longer. The floors under the carpets needed refinishing, every room needed painting, every ceiling needed painting, and the list goes on and on.

I have to remind myself that we have done a lot, even though I feel like it has been forever since we moved in...
See?
1. Took down wallpaper in kitchen, bathroom, dining room, living room, hallway and stairs.
2. Painted kitchen, (2) bathrooms, dining room, living room, hallway, stairs, 2 bedrooms and one office.
3. Took up carpets and padding in dining room, living room, hallway, stairs and 3 bedrooms.
4. Had floors refinished in all above rooms.
5. Moved in and unpacked.
6. Took up carpet and then recarpeted (by ourselves) in the office.
7. Hung curtains.
8. Purchased some new furniture and rugs for whole house.
9. Changed lighting fixtures and medicine cabinets in bathrooms.
10. Plus the hubs had to replace the heating panels (those things that control the heat, I don't know what they are called)

So we aren't complete slackers, right?

Now that we are here doing all this work, though, and I look back at houses that we almost bought, I just thank our lucky stars that we ended up here. Our little money pit doesn't even have any structural problems, it just wasn't our taste in decorating.

We are approaching 6 months in our first home and of course there are things that aren't done and no housewarming held yet.

Any volunteers out there? I just need trim painted, basement refinished and gardening done! I can pay you in carrot cake cupcakes!

kibble

Last night I got home from work and plopped down on the couch to watch some good wholesome 24 on tv. I noticed that there was a little dog food kibble on the rug, which wasn't that unusual since Murray has taken to carrying food around in his mouth, spitting it out somewhere away from the bowl in the kitchen, and then eating them one by one. That, or he knocks all the kibble out of the bowl with his paw and then he and Tango commence eating them one by one.

Anyway, at the next commercial break I was on my way to the kitchen and leaned over to pick up the kibble to throw it back in their bowl. Except... it was squishy. And not so much like kibble anymore.

Have you figured out the punchline yet? It was dog shit. Not dog food. In my hand. Squished between my thumb and index finger.

Last night was not such a good night.

The People's Wil' Out Award

It is time to present a new People's Wil' Out Award. I know it has been a while, but I've been struggling with the most deserving winner. There have been several candidates running around, but a couple of weeks ago the hubs and I went out to dinner and a musical and the front-runner became clear.

In case you have forgotten, the Wil' Out Award is presented to those everyday people who go beyond normal and acceptable behavior and run around the room screaming and shitting in the corners. Otherwise known as a Wild Out Award, but pronounced Wil' Out.

I am happy to present today's Wil' Out Award to:
Andrew Lloyd Webber for his writing in CATS, the musical.

Seriously, what the f%*@ was up with Cats?

Let me spell out my reasons for you:
1. Grown up humans dressed up as mangy cats.
2. These mangy cats are called Jellicle cats?!?
3. Jellicle cats are f#$%ed up cats that sing and dance (and fight) in some strange alley way.
4. The songs suck.
5. There is a stud muffin cat called Rum Tum Tugger, and all the female Jellicle cats want him.
6. Rum Tum Tugger appears to be a cat form of Elvis.
7. The leader of the Jellicle cats is some odd fat cat called Old Deuteronomy.
8. Old Deuteronomy gets to pick one Jellicle cat to be reborn.
9. Old Deuteronomy gets kidnapped for no apparent reason and is then saved by another cat (that has not been a part of the play until then) called Magical Mister Mistoffelees.
10. "Being reborn" apparently means being taken away in a spaceship.
11. Jellicle cat leaves the stage in a spaceship.
12. One more time, repeat after me... A SPACESHIP. Flashing lights, comes down from the sky, picks up the cat, carries her off into the sky.
13. I paid $85 a ticket to see this shit.
14. Nobody stopped me.

In case you doubt me, I actually saw the real touring group of Cats at the Wang Center in Boston. Reputable. This is actually the plot of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats, based off of some of T.S. Elliot's poems. To be fair, a select few of the songs were pretty good. And the dancing was very cat-like. And if you want to take your children under 14 to see it, that wouldn't be a bad idea.

I cannot quite come to grips with the fact that Andrew Lloyd Webber could write this, though. Honestly, what kinds of drugs must he have been taking? Cats and spaceships is all I have to say.

I admit that I am normally a fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber. I even like going to most musicals. My standards aren't even that high! If I am entertained, I am generally positive about it. In this case, however, the hubs and I were left open-mouthed throughout the 3 hours. We almost left at intermission because we were so confused about the plot. Thank goodness we didn't, because then, of course, we would have missed the spaceship.

And Cats, my friends, is all about the Jellicle cat being taken away in the spaceship. Apparently because Jellicles can and Jellicles do.

'Nuff said.

Congrats Andrew! You crazy wiler!

What kind of drink are you?

I discovered this today, and honest to goodness, it just spewed this forth without my tinkering with it at all. Ha ha! They must have met me at some point. I love it!

How to make a Nathalia

Ingredients: 5 parts intelligence 3 parts self-sufficiency 1 part ego

Method: Layer ingredients in a shot glass. Top it off with a sprinkle of emotion and enjoy!

Try it for yourself!

http://www.go-quiz.com/cocktail/cocktail.php

Happy March!

It is snowing AGAIN today. Lest you think, however, that there has been no snow since my last post about the blizzard in January. There has been. Buckets. Inches and feet of snow.

I am not a snow hater normally. In fact, I think snow is beautiful. I love to take pictures of the way the snow covers branches and makes this sort of magical white wonderland. Our backyard now faces lots of other backyards, with no houses in the way, so you see lots of greenery and branches covered in snow. It is really lovely.

Last night, though, when they announced this winter storm watch and projected 8-12 inches of snow, after last week's 6 inches of snow, and the week before's 8 inches of snow, I felt a little itty-bit tired of all the snow. The hubs is out of town too, so this found me in our driveway shoveling snow before I left for work. I also feel less motivated to shovel because I know I only shovel for our mailman, and he brings nothing but bills these days. I can get out of our driveway without shoveling, thanks to the trusty all-wheel-drive. So maybe if mr. mailman brought me some packages, I'd be more amenable to the shoveling.

In my quest to look forward to spring, since today is March 1st (woohoo)! I have been planning and plotting out our future garden. This is a source of great excitement for me, since (a) I adore plants and flowers and (b) I've never had a garden. I have been especially excited lately since I have discovered that there are mail order nurseries where you can order all your plants and flower colors and shrubs and then they deliver them to your home all nice and ready for planting. And get this, at the perfect time for planting too. They determine what area you are in,when the last frost is likely to hit, and the plants arrive about a week from planting time. Maybe you already knew this- I am thoroughly impressed.

All of this means that I harass the hubs at night and on the weekends about what flowers we should get. I show him pictures and he just nods in this uninterested way or comments about too much color or too bushy or something and then changes the subject. This has been going on for a few weeks, probably since before Valentine's day. I haven't protested much since it is rather fun to research all the different flowers and plants and trees, and it keeps my mind off all the snow and the fact that I haven't seen our grass in 4 months.

This weekend we took a trip to Home Depot, though, and to my great pleasure there was a Martha Stewart Living Gardening Edition. HOORAH!! Martha Stewart AND gardening, it was practically perfect. When we got home, I hunkered down with my Martha Stewart, the hubs with his ESPN, and it was a perfect afternoon. We had ten minutes of peace until I got to the prologue from the editor about March and the magazine and I accosted the hubs with the information that "MARTHA HAS ALREADY ORDERED HER SEEDS FROM PRISON!!!!"

Seeds. Ordered. I will not be outdone.