Cheeky's Hideaway

When All Else Fails, There's Always Search Words

I was tempted to write a post that said, "I have nothing to say today.  That is all."  But I decided to man-up and put a modicum of effort into a post.

Just a modicum, though.

Like a lot of people I keep an eye on what search keywords bring people to my blog.  By far the  biggest search phrase "CroutonBoy is a gorgeous Greek god of a man," but some of the less common ones are equally interesting.  Check these out:

We are joy, we are fun - we are Devo

I was going to wear a condom, but then I though when am ever going to make it back to Haiti - this one speaks for itself

Celebrity deathmatch Yoda - did you seem him take on Danny Bonaduce?  He OWNED him

Desert island 12 boxes of pencils - I'd take food, water, and porn, but pack what you want

Craigslist halitosis - now there's an ad that should get a good response

The boys gone mad, he crazy in the coconut - was it carried by an African swallow?

Desparate for job fulfillment - join the club

What does blues clues Steve look like now - this

Top 100 riffs of all time - sorry, that's over here

Beer taster - are you taking applications?

Belly button safire - Oodgie, I want one of those for my birthday.  I think you can get them here

About Steven Spielbergo personal life - Lo casan con la actriz Kate Capshaw, y tiene ocho niños.

William Shatner ain't no other guy - no he ain't...he's the MFing captain of the MFing Enterprise, BITCH

I'm going to kick his bush - I hope you're talking about the president

Nirvana landslide - Peal Jam avalanche!

Undigested stool looked like lasagna - and what did the digested stool look like?

Low cognition magazine - do you mean this, or this?

Is it safe for a pregnant woman to go to the Browns-Steelers game? - I've heard of women going into labor during an exciting football game; you should be safe

Il Returno de Hercules video - SERIOUSLY, STOP LOOKING!  I DON'T HAVE IT!

The Jeffersons and martini shaken not stirred - Dammit, Weezy, where's my dart-gun cuff-links?

Whatever happened to Billy Squier - he's practicing for the next season of "Dancing with the Stars" (Thanks to Kara & Chicky Chicky Baby for unearthing this)

Teasing a lumberjack - bad idea

Spa treatments involving spanking - "happy endings" for S&M vacationers? 

Barn swallow poop sailboat - either you're crazy or that is one messed up arts & crafts project

The Weekend in Brief

And the Envelope Goes To...

I'm a big movie buff, and I love it when deserving movies and actors win the year-end awards.  This weekend was no exception.  I want to offer my personal congratulations to Sharon Stone, M. Night Shyamalan and the two least-talented members of the Wayans Family on their fantastic wins at the Razzies!  Well-deserved!

By the way, that other award show this weekend....wasn't that about the most bloated, boring, self-congratulatory snooze-fest you've ever seen?  What do I care who wins for Best Makeup or Best Song?  Maggie Gyllenhaal looked humiliated talking about the technical awards.  And MY GOD PLEASE DON'T LET THAT BE CELINE DION!!!  Make better movies next year so I actually have a reason to stay up for the last two hours.  And bring back Thoth!

Going Solo

Oodgie spent the entire weekend doing quality control on her new product (keep an eye on CoolMomPicks in the next couple days for the exclusive scoop) so Saturday Cheeky and I had a day to ourselves.

We went to Starbucks, where I ordered a grande coffee and Cheeky had a venti soy decaf latte.  She ate her normal "second breakfast" of a fruit & cheese plate and half a donut.  She would look me right in the eye and ask, "Gah?  Gah?" to which I'd respond, "Um....grape?"  "Gah," she'd confirm, with a definitive nod of her head.  I'm starting to get it...maybe I won't have to take classes after all.

We visited our friends Hud & Theo, who spun her in their desk chair and gamely brushed donut crumbs off their couch.  After about an hour we headed back out into the blustery morning, trudged back up the hill to our neighborhood, and parked at the local diner.

One of the great things about our neighborhood is how you keep running into the same people at all the local haunts.  We got a nice table at the window, where Cheeky could smear her grilled cheese sandwich into the glass, and we waved at Alex, Cheeky's best friend, through the smudged glass.  We visited with Nicki and her daughter Chloe II, who at 18 months has the vocabulary of an Oxford professor.  We even met some new friends who just moved to the 'hood and were over-eager to find out where all the local children's activities were.  I wasn't much help, being sort of a one-trick pony as a local guide, but I'm sure we'll be seeing them out again.

Cheeky and I had a blast, and Oodgie had enough time to discard hundreds of fabric clips (don't ask).  It was good to be the king with his princess for a couple hours--at least while she was behaving like one.  I've got to make sure Oodgie takes her when she's more like a goblin (because we share, right sweetie?)

A New Houseguest

One of the added benefits of having exposed pipes in our bathroom is that it invites unexpected visitors.  I received word on Friday that a giant water bug was shaving and taking a shower in our new bathroom.  The description I got from Oodgie was that it was perhaps two feet long (three including the antennae) and may be armed.  Oodgie introduced herself and it sounds like he may not be coming back, but we're not sure if he invited any friends over while we were out. 

If you don't hear from me within the next week send in some troops with a big can of Raid.

I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now

While the Fourth Estate endlessly discusses the apocalyptic ramifications of Britney's trip(s) to rehab, the music nerds of the world have visions of sugarplums Andy Summers, Stewart Copeland, and Sting dancing in their heads.  During one of many arguments debates shouting matches discussions over whether the Police reunion is truly an historic event or a rapacious, geriatric attempt to clothe the increasingly AOR-friendly lead singer in the faded legitimacy of his youth (see:  The Who) it came up that the Police last recorded music together 20 years ago.

20 years ago.  When I was a kid Buddy Holly was making music "20 years ago."

Where does the time go?  For all the talk of grups and rejuveniles and alternadads desparately smugly proudly sporting their skateboard bruises and Arcade Fire CDs, time still marches on, and the weight of age and responsibility still hangs on us, whether we want to accept it or not.

I proudly brandish my grup credentials, mind you.  But I felt a twinge in my hip while retrieving Cheeky from her car seat the other day, and again while trying to negotiate a fossilized snow-bank without killing us both.  That stuff didn't use to happen.  Everyone my age in the NFL is either retiring or should be (sorry, Bledsoe...it's time).  And my 9 year old nephew got a Rubik's Cube and Optimus Prime for his birthday, providing irrefutable evidence that the circle of life has had time to do a complete lap around the track and christen those toys "cool" again.

Probably most shocking to me was this.  What you don't see in this picture is the bar I used to hang out in a lot when I first moved to New York, back when I was alive and still had the glitter of hope in my eye before I met Oodgie and began stressing out about annual performance reviews.  I've seen places come and go before, but the shock of turning that corner in Tribeca to see the vacant facade hit me with more force and clarity than I expected.

We may ignore it, or fight it, or slap a fresh coat of paint on it but time continues it's ponderous, inexorable steps forward whether we like it or not.

I'm not afraid of it.  I welcome it and accept it.  It's part of life, and the sooner I get used to it the better I'll adjust to it.  But I do sometimes find the weight of responsibility a struggle.  I try not to show it or let it get me down, but every once in a while the realization that I can't just hop on a plane and go to Sasquatch or SXSW for a weekend, or that being constantly more creative and diligent at work may be the only way to move up and keep paying the bills, drags me down.  I can't help wishing for the excitement I used to feel when I'd go tubing for the weekend with friends, or sneaking into the rooftop pool at a local resort.  Those moments of unfettered, selfish joy are fewer and farther between when you've got responsibilities like we all do.  But it's our obligation to ourselves and those we love to acknowledge that change is inevitable and good, and in the end there's nothing wrong with growing up.

I'm am optimist at heart, and even in those gloomy moments I know it's just a matter of time before they devise a pill that will make me as young and vigorous as a tiger at a water buffalo convention.  Then I'll be breakdancing at Cheeky's wedding, even if I have to shed my cryogenic suit to do it.  And in the mean time, although the moments of joy I experience now may not be as dramatic or spectacular as they used to be, I wouldn't trade them for anything.

But I'll tell you, I still wouldn't mind getting Optimus Prime and a Rubik's cube for my birthday.  Only 179 more shopping days to go...

The Hole Where Our Sink Should Be

It was supposed to be the dawning of a new era.  We should have returned to a newly renovated bathroom, complete with high-end tile, fancy-shmancy faucets, and someplace to hang a roll of toilet paper.  Our weeks away from Casa de Cheeky would render the transformation invisible to us, and the only thing we'd notice would be the steep increase in our debt/equity ratio.

Instead we got this.  This is a lot of things, but it's definitely not a sink.

You see, sometimes, in the world of home renovation, "yes" actually does mean "no."  For example, "Yes, we'll delivery your counter top," actually means "no, we don't deliver it to you."  "Yes, I'll be there tomorrow," could just as well mean "no, I can't make it until Friday."  And "Yes, I can install recessed lights," means "no, I cannot install them in a place where the light would illuminate anything you need."

In all fairness, "yes" does sometimes mean "yes," but in a qualified manner:  "Yes, the toilet works," may actually mean, "Yes, it works about half the time.  That counts."

Why must these things always be such a pain?

I'm exaggerating a bit, but after moving our for three weeks and investing the financial equivalent of tuition at Notre Dame you shouldn't have to deal with this crap.

It looks nice and all...the tile is great, the fixtures work, and it no longer smells like a wet dog.  But it's not done.  The contractor won't come back until the counter-top is delivered, and he still has to install all the towel racks, shelves, and...um, what else is there...oh yeah, sinks, which are all sorta useful when you're using a bathroom.  Meanwhile the toilet keeps running running running loud enough to distract us while watching our favorite shows, and we've got razors, toothpaste, and deodorant strewn pell-mell around the kitchen.  It looks like someone robbed a Walgreens and used our apartment as a hide-out.

Supposedly everything should be finished tomorrow, but I majored in skepticism in college and won't believe it 'til I see it.  I don't know what we're going to do in the meantime (Oodgie doesn't like my suggestion) but lamenting our fortunes seems like a good start.

So...how is your week going so far?

Wednesday Morning Update:  The counter-top arrived last night, and the contractor made arrangements to come in and install it.  One problem though...IT'S CRACKED!  REJECTED!  Yippee, we start again!  Estimated completion date will now be in two weeks.  May God have mercy on our filthy hands souls.

Yet Another Childhood Memory Destroyed

This weekend one of my all-time favorite comic book characters finally came to the big screen.  I always loved the dark story of Johnny Blaze, stunt motorcyclist, whose soul was bonded to the demon Zarathos in a deal with Mephisto to save the life of his mentor.  The character had depth and pain, and rode a fine line between being a hero and being consumed by the fire-sheathed demon within.  It was original, compelling, and freakin' awesome.

Which is why I will not go within a thousand feet of a theater playing Ghost Rider.

I've seen some bad, bad casting decisions in my time (the majority of which involve Jim Carrey or Woody Harrelson) but...Nicolas Cage?  Kal-el's father?  The guy who has made two good movies (if that) since 1990?  The man who married Lisa Marie Presley after Michael Jackson? 

Yeah, him.

Which brings me to this excellent guide to Nicolas Cage movies, which I think should be published and handed out to movie-goers nation-wide.  Think of the countless lives that would have been saved had parents, teachers, and public officials been armed with this critical information.  For my money, the quote of the year (to-date) may well be this:

If you’re watching the trailer for the new Nicolas Cage superhero movie and find yourself thinking “Nicolas Cage, really? Was Ben Affleck not available?” and don’t immediately freak out that you’ve chosen Ben Affleck over Nicolas Cage, then don’t bother with Ghost Rider

Consider this a public service message from your friendly neighborhood CroutonBoy.  I've got your back.

Roll Credits

Sadly, our time in Bespin is drawing to a close.  ECG returns Monday to wrest control from us, unless my petition to have it declared a micronation in her absence is approved by the UN.  I had hoped to install better defenses to repel their forces in the event a siege was necessary, but I was too busy sipping scotch and taking long showers in relative luxury to notice the time passing.  I've only got a couple more days to establish my squatter rights.  And that means we've got one weekend left to score some killer cupcakes, browse for a new bong $300 jeans, and throw snowballs at Liv Tyler.

Although I'm going to miss the covered parking and stunning views, it's probably a good thing we're heading back to our humble abode.  We never got around to hosting any of the fancy parties we talked about, and all the cool restaurants and trendy shops don't do you much good when you're primary babysitter is riding a bike through Hanoi.  The weather has consistently sucked every day we've been here.  And I'm sure the ASPCA is monitoring my behavior, just in case I decide to test the "cats always land on their feet" hypothesis from six floors up.

Cheeky, for the most part, has loved the extra space.  She's also loved the following:

• Precariously testing her center of balance at the top of the stairs
• Enough square-footage to approach OEI decision speed while running, and room to slide an additional three meters after the inevitable trip and fall.
• Standing on the back of the couch to look out the windows
• The shafts of light that beam into her bedroom at the crack of dawn, rousing her extra-early for more hours of wooly-minded playtime!
• The scissors-and-surgical-instruments drawer in the kitchen

The early-rising alone is enough to push her parents over the edge...the combination of the above is nearly lethal.   Reflecting on this, I'll actually welcome having Cheeky in a contained, horizontal space for a while.

Now, if I can just slip the HDTV into a suitcase...no one will notice, will they?

Happy Buy Your Spouse an Obligatory Card Day (or Happy Feel Like Crap Day, if You're Single)

Here we go again...

Another year, another saccharin-soaked holiday fueled by the choco-industrial complex. 

Oodgie and I share a distaste for Valentine's Day.  There's always this sense of obligation that we're supposed to do something "special," even though we both know it's a manufactured sentiment.  It's like New Years Eve and St. Patrick's Day--people get crazy, and the rest of us suffer.

In my opinion, every day should be a day that celebrates your love for your spouse, partner, boy/girlfriend, mistress, or stuffed animals (if you're a plushy).  Why wait until the middle of February to make time for that?  I don't know about you, but I'm constantly thinking of new and fun ways to show Oodgie I love her...and some day, I'm actually going to do some of those things.

And then, if you do try to do something nice, you're probably trudging through sleet, getting ripped off by the local jeweler or florist, or faced with crowded restaurants only serving price-fixed menus featuring chicken (if you can even get a reservation).

Now normally we'd just swap cards, pour a drink, and settle in for the ongoing adventures of Jack, Kate and Sawyer, but tonight is the only night this week where one of us doesn't have some prior obligation.  We'd love to take advantage of the opportunity--score a babysitter, grab dinner and a movie, and maybe kill a hobo or two afterwards.  You know, the usual.  But where are we going to find a babysitter on Valentine's Day?  Or a table anywhere besides a sports bar (although if the nachos and wings are good enough...)

I'm just venting.  We're frustrated because it's a stupid holiday and it's getting in the way of our fun.  And I shouldn't let my own sourpuss attitude spoil the heart-pounding romance of you, my loyal readers.

So whether it's romantic love, erotic love, or Courtney Love you share, don't let the pressure of Valentine's Day turn your relationship into a competition over who bought the fanciest chocolates. If you're doing something nice with each other, enjoy it to the fullest. Give him/her a kiss, tell them you love them, and make sure you do it again tomorrow.  And the next day.  And the next day.

Just don't let those bastards at Hallmark see you, or they'll turn that into a holiday, too...

The Pit of Despair

Oodgie shared this story with me a couple nights ago, and I was laughing so hard I nearly wet myself.  I told her she should write something up for the Hideaway, and lo and behold she did!  Enjoy!

Many, many years ago--before the Crouton (B.C.?) and I were joined in holy blessed until death matrimony--we took a little trip together. Okay, so it was a big trip: clear across the world to Thailand. We were to spend 2 weeks on a boat with some others (no, not Others) exploring the islands in the Andaman sea. Lovely, right? Well, after arriving at the airport a day late, flying for 4,929 hours, spending a night at a sketchy roadside motel, taking a "cab" through the rural Malaysian countryside and finally arriving at a port, we boarded a local ferry to finally and triumphantly meet up with our fellow travelers.

On that ferry I suddenly realized I had to pee. Not like "oh, I have to pee" but more like "I HAVE TO PEE NOW." So I stumbled down to the bowels of the ferry (no luxury liner, mind you) and entered the "restroom."  There, I found it.  A swirling, disgusting pool of despair.  A foul-smelling, violently circulating eddy of Malaysian peasant excrement (not that there's anything wrong with that) cut into a hole in the floor of the ferry. What could I do?  I had to pee! So I sucked it up, held my breath, and squatted, praying vowing that I'd never have to endure such a sight again.

I was wrong.

In fact, right here, just a few days ago, Cheeky was kind enough to recreate that moment for me.

Here we were, at Bespin, ready for tub time. My Croutonspouse may have mentioned before that Cheeky has developed the unfortunate if not-too-often habit of, well, relaxing so much in the tub that her bowels release their contents. Or, more simply put, she poops in the bath.  It'd been a while since the last incident, so I felt a false sense of confidence.  La la la, all is well, when all of a sudden she got a very worried look on her face.  She stood up, grabbed my hand, and started firing nuggets into the water.

Faced with the choice of just letting her use the tub as a toilet or trying to fling her onto the potty, inconveniently positioned miles away (did I mention the size of the master bath here is actually the size of your average NY one-bedroom apt?), I opted to accept my fate and let her finish.  When I was convinced she was done I tried to pick her up, but she didn't want to get out.  To punctuate this fact, she promptly sat down.  On the poo.  Squishing it into the tub mat.

So much for solid waste removal.

We moved on.  I got her out, got her dressed in pj's and diapered up.  I then suggested we go back to the crime scene to clean and swab for DNA.  While she threw fully-wrapped feminine products into the toilet, I cautiously plucked the remaining bath toys out and placed them under scorching water in the sink for decontamination.  Then I tried to scoop.  Not happening.  The poo, soaking in tub water for ten minutes, had taken on a flaky consistency that just wasn't solid enough.  Shit.  Literally.  I was stumped.

So what did I do? I accidentally leaned on the button that starts the air jets.  Did I mention it's a jacuzzi bath?  So when I say "jets" I'm talking "JETS."  NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

And there it was again...my swirling pool of despair. Bubbles churning, liquefied shit swirling and fragmenting even more, a deafening roar bouncing off the bathroom walls, and poor Cheeky, red-faced, sobbing and screaming in terror (silently, to me, since I couldn't hear over the roar of the JETS). 

I tried desperately to shut off the air, pushing this button and that, and this one and that (of course there are only 3 buttons but it seemed like more in the midst of my panic) and grew increasing flustered.  Finally, I grabbed Cheeky's trembling hand, said "should we leave the bathroom?"  I saw her nod a muted, frightened "yes" and we fled, leaving the churning hell-pool behind closed doors.

Later, when she was asleep, I went in to assess the damage.  It was grim.  You know you've hit a low point in parenting when you're using a wipe to hand-scoop tiny ground-up turds out of your mother's Architectural Digest bathtub.

But it makes for a good story, right?

Six Things You're Going to Wish I Didn't Tell You About Myself

It has been a while since a meme has made it my way, but Herr Freezio has tagged me and I must oblige.  As I've said before I kinda like memes because it eliminates the need to think of something to write about, which is about 70% of the challenge of writing.  Only 10% of the remainder is actually writing--the rest is coming up with a clever headline and finding juvenile things to link to. 

This one requires me to reveal six unsightly offensive weird things about myself you may not know.  There's not a lot I've held back about on this blog, so I don't know if any of the stuff below is actually news or not.  But whatever...if you've read this far you're already committed and compelled to read on.

1. I'm divorced.  Oodgie is not the first to suffer the slings and arrow of life with CroutonBoy.  I was married for about two years (although we weren't together that whole time) and nearly alienated all my friends and family in the process of holding that colossal mistake together.  But it was a painless, amicable split, and I tend to forget it ever happened.  I sorta saw it coming when we spent hours having conversations like, "if we ever split up, I'd like to keep that rug."  Are you having that conversation with your spouse?  Call me...we should talk.
2. I sometimes cry at movies.  I got a little misty at the end of Pan's Labyrinth.  Pretty much any tearful goodbye between a parent and child has a high risk of squeezing a couple drops out of the waterworks.  And Field of Dreams?  Fuggedaboutit.  I'm usually pretty good at sucking it up (a trick I use is to laugh at the crying people around me) and still vastly prefer to watch things blow up.  I'm just sayin' that I'm not afraid to be a pussy explore my sensitive side every once in a while.
3. I'm totally anal about my books.  I can't stand it when people break the spine of a book, even a cheap paperback.  I take off the dust cover when I read them because I don't want it to tear or get smudged.  I arrange the books on the shelf by size and color, but try to get books of similar styles together when possible.  I never lend them because you might not give them back.  Want to read a book for free?  Go to the library.  Just stay away from my shelves.
4. It takes all my self-control not to correct Cheeky when she plays with stickers.  I was the kid who recreated the picture with the Star Trek Colorforms exactly as it appeared on the back of the package.  When Cheeky sticks a fire engine in the sky I sometimes, when she's not looking, unpeel it and put it back on the ground.  She then proceeds to cover it with a bear or an octopus, which makes me wince.  There is something seriously wrong with me.
5. I have terrible vocabulary recall.  You know how you'll try to think of a word, and you'll know you've used it, and can even almost sort of picture it in your mind, but you just can't quite remember what it is?  I do that all the time.  With really common words, like "cupcake".  It's a bitch when I'm writing, but I've usually got thesaurus.com handy.  It's worse when I'm talking.  I'll either go silent for a few seconds and get the look of a dazed chimp, or I'll be talking so fast I'll insert the wrong word, like "tomorrow" instead of "yesterday", "thinger thinger" instead of "remote control", or "Bob Saget" instead of "spoon."  It's like talking to Borat, except it's funny-sad instead of funny-haha.
6. I was born with a prehensile tail and blue skin.  As a child my looks forced me to join the circus, where I trained as an acrobat, using my unique "skills" to entertain paying throngs in Bavaria.  In puberty I developed a mutant power to teleport by opening a portal into another dimension, travelling through it via an unconscious direction-finding sense, and returning to this dimension.  It was only after local villagers discovered my power and, believing me to be a demon responsible for several local killings, cornered me and were about to kill me.  Fortunately, the Professor had come to recruit me for his secret band of mutant heroes, and he froze the villagers and rescued me.  I've fought for justice ever since.

Since I'm required by blog law to tag people (otherwise the Nigerian prince or the girl with cancer will die!) I'll tag Mr. Big Dubya (because he hates memes) and everyone reading this who lives in Wisconsin. 

I Waited a Week to Write Something and All I've Got is this Lousy Post

The parental units have returned to the great Northwest, and relative quiet has returned to Bespin.  I think WCG² (henceforth called WCGx2, because it's too hard to do a superscript) had a great time, and despite my trepidations they settled right in.  They got some quality Cheeky time, and her attitude toward them went from general wariness to open adoration within a few short days.  They learned their way around the neighborhood (my dad has a praeternatural gift for locating Catholic churches) and managed to choke down a LOT of delivered food.  And they gave us a much needed break for a few hours over the weekend, so woo hoo to that!  Danke!

Unfortunately, if you're looking for a cohesive narrative today, you'll be sorely disappointed.  It's hard enough coming back from a long lay-off with anything intelligent to say, let alone organizing it in a manner that my high school English teacher would approve of (or "of which my high school English teacher would approve," or something like that...happy, Pierre?).  But here's some brain-droppings from my long weekend.

Chicken Nuggets are NOT Eternal

I went back to our old apartment for a couple hours early last week, and rummaged through the fridge looking for anything besides mayonnaise that could pass for dinner.  I found some of Cheeky's dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets wrapped in plastic, and I thought she wouldn't mind if I ate them.  What I didn't really think through, though, was just how long they'd been sitting there, tucked behind the pickles and the baking soda.  Three hours later I was shivering like a poodle at a Korean restaurant, and was ejecting the nuggets and a healthy portion of my stomach-lining.  I got precisely 7 minutes of sleep that night, and only had to prepare a client-presentation and pick up my parents at the airport the next day.  Lesson learned:  breading does not equal a longer shelf-life.

Bears Lead Rex Grossman to Playoffs

The Super Bowl sure was exciting...for about one play.  We watched it with some Bears fans, and by halfway through the third-quarter they had the hollow, emasculated look you'd see in Depression-era Dust Bowl photos.  Even the halftime showing of the "Super Bowl Shuffle" (with outtakes!) didn't cheer them up--we would have been better off watching Prince instead (we did catch the first few minutes...that gnome can tear it UP, can't he?).  And the ads sucked!  It probably didn't help that every time Grossman botched the handoff or threw an interception I laughed so hard I peed myself.  Lesson learned:  never invite a friend still bitter from last year's Super Bowl to your party.

BRRRRR shit shit BRRRRRR god DAMN it BRRRRRRR

I'm overly fond of strutting around in the winter and pointing out that I lived in Minnesota for six years.  "You think this is cold?  I once saw a newscaster throw his coffee in the air and it turned into powdered flakes before it hit the ground!  Now THAT'S cold!"  Well, I'm shutting up now, because whatever weather demons are controlling New York's climate have are absolutely committed to recreating arctic conditions, and every time I leave the apartment I feel like Captain Scott.  "I am just going outside and may be some time."  We can't take the poor kid out for fear of turning her into a little Cheekysicle, and the fabulous outdoor space and neighborhood we've inherited for the next few weeks seem like a thousand miles away.  Lesson learned:  it's time to move to St. Lucia

What a Bunch of Pussies

It's crawling all over me get it off get it off the cat hair the cat hair it's everywhere on my clothes on my skin I breathe it in and sneeze it out it's crawling down my throat in my lungs in my bowels in my eyes always watching plotting waiting looking waiting biding its time until one night when I'm asleep it will cover and consume me penetrate every orifice smother me choking gagging can't breathe must escape its everywhere following me laughing at me taunting me the hair the hair it won't let go can't escape my god it's alive IT'S ALIVE AAAAAARRRR *cough* *choke* ACK NOWHERE TO RUN MY GOD HELP ME PLEEEASE!!!  Lesson learned:  buy stock in lint-rollers

Note:  I got tagged by Freezio for a meme, which I'll be responding to in short order.  He's been AWOL for a few months, and it's good to have him back...go check out his site!  Make him feel welcome again!  Or at least give him crap for his sabbatical.