Weird Fact...Oops

Yeah, I missed Wednesday, but Liz is probably the only one who is going to yell at me.

I generally don't like movies made before 1990.

Of course, there are exceptions. The Princess Bride is one of my favorite movies, and that was made in 1987. (See how close to 1990, though?)

Also, I love Citizen Kane.

That might be about it. Seriously.

I am probably the only person I know who truly liked the Johnny Depp portrayal of Willy Wonka better than Gene Wilder. Except for one scene. This one:

Grandpa Joe: Mr. Wonka?
Willy Wonka: [pointedly ignoring them] I am extraordinarily busy, sir.
Grandpa Joe: [tentatively] I just wanted to ask about the chocolate - Uh, the lifetime supply of chocolate... for Charlie. When does he get it?
Willy Wonka: He doesn't.
Grandpa Joe: Why not?
Willy Wonka: Because he broke the rules.
Grandpa Joe: What rules? We didn't see any rules. Did we, Charlie?
Willy Wonka: [springs up from his chair, angrily] Wrong, sir! Wrong! Under section 37B of the contract signed by him, it states quite clearly that all offers shall become null and void if - and you can read it for yourself in this photostatic copy [grabs a magnifying glass and reads]
Willy Wonka: - "I, the undersigned, shall forfeit all rights, privileges, and licenses herein and herein contained," et cetera, et cetera..."Fax mentis incendium gloria cultum," et cetera, et cetera..."Memo bis punitor delicatum!" [slams the magnifying glass down, shouts]
Willy Wonka: It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal! You stole fizzy lifting drinks. You bumped into the ceiling which now has to be washed and sterilized, so you get *NOTHING*! You lose! Good day sir!
Grandpa Joe: [shocked] You're a crook. You're a cheat and a swindler! That's what you are! [angrily]
Grandpa Joe: How could you do a thing like this, build up a little boy's hopes and then smash all his dreams to pieces? You're an inhuman monster!
Willy Wonka: [shouts even louder] I said "Good day!"

As opposed to all the following gems from Johnny Depp:

Violet Beauregarde: [hugs Wonka] Mr. Wonka, I'm Violet Beauregarde.
Willy Wonka: [freaked out] Oh. I don't care.
Violet Beauregarde: Well, you should care. Because I'm the girl who's gonna win the special prize at the end.
Willy Wonka: Well, you do seem confident and confidence is key.


Mike Teavee: Who wants a beard?
Willy Wonka: Well, beatniks for one, folk singers and motorbike riders. Y'know. All those hip, jazzy, super cool, neat, keen, and groovy cats. It's in the fridge, daddy-o! Are you hip to the jive? Can you dig what I'm layin' down? I knew that you could. Slide me some skin, soul brother!


Willy Wonka: You're all quite short, aren't you?
Violet Beauregarde: Well yeah, we're children.
Willy Wonka: Well that's no excuse. I was never as short as you.
Mike Teavee: You were once.
Willy Wonka: Was not. Know why? Because I distinctly remember putting a hat on top of my head. Look at your short little arms. You could never reach.


Willy Wonka: I sure hope no part of him gets left behind.
Mr. Teavee: What do you mean?
Willy Wonka: Uh, well... sometimes only half of the little pieces find their way through. If you had to choose only one half of your son, which one would it be?
Mr. Teavee: What kind of a question is that?
Willy Wonka: No need to snap, just a question.


Willy Wonka: Do you like my meadow? Try some of my grass! Please have a blade, please do, it's so delectable and so darn good looking!
Charlie Bucket: You can eat the grass?
Willy Wonka: Of course you can! Everything in this room is eatable, even *I'm* eatable! But that is called "cannibalism," my dear children, and is in fact frowned upon in most societies.


Willy Wonka: [to Mike Teavee] Mumbler! Seriously, I cannot understand a single word you're saying!

Veruca Salt: Will Violet always be a blueberry?
Willy Wonka: No. Maybe. I dunno. But that's what you get from chewing gum all day, it's just disgusting.
Mike Teavee: If you hate gum so much, why do you make it?
Willy Wonka: Once again you really shouldn't mumble, 'cause it's kinda starting to bum me out.

Where I've Been...Where I'm Going

Where I've Been

Last Wednesday evening I took a serious wipeout on the skimboard, so Thursday I decided to be absent from work. I took myself to the walk-in clinic and procured myself some Skelaxin, Percocet, and 800MG Ibuprofen. May I just say, "SWEET."

Friday, September 19:

Bright and early Friday morning (5AM to be exact) I was rousing my other half in attempt to get us on our way to the Fort Lauderdale Hollywood International Airport. Destination: Long Island's MacArthur Airport. Purpose: Tim's sister's wedding.

I prepped the animals for our three days away. Self-feeder on a timer for Hades and Azrael. BIG water dispenser and toilet seats left open. Hydra ate the night before, and her lights are constantly on a timer, so she was all good. I loaded Styx up with dried fruit and worms, and lectured her about not gorging herself the first day. Gave the cats a speech about sharing, being nice to each other, not destroying the house, and calling if they needed us.

Off to the airport!

The flight was rather uneventful, as was our arrival in Islip. We were greeted by Mom (a.k.a. Evelyn) and Mike (Tim's stepfather) and proceeded to have lunch.

REAL F-ING NEW YORK PIZZA. Granted, it was no Manhattan Ray's, but it was still New York, and it was still better than anything you will get outside of a 50-mile radius of "the city." (Because Manhattan will always be "the city" and Long Island will always be "the island." There are no other cities, and no other islands, as far as New Yorkers are concerned.)

Quick nap (which left my husband so disoriented he shot up out of bed like someone had jabbed him with a hot poker when Mike knocked on our door. His blaring alarm he doesn't hear; the soft knock on a foreign door is like an air raid siren.)

Dinner with the in-laws, sans the bride and groom to be. MUCH family gossip. Good stuff, too, but since they are not my family (well, they are, but it hasn't even been six months yet) I don't feel comfortable publicizing it on my blog. I wish I could, though. It's GOOOOOD.

Saturday, September 20 (Wedding Day!)

I woke up almost as excited as I did on my own wedding day.

OK, that is a gross exaggeration, but I was excited. I chanted to Tim, "Your sister's getting married today!" What can I say? Weddings are fun.

Mike shuttled Tim to the groom's aunt's house to get dressed (he got to be a distinguished groomsman while I remained simply Tim's wife) and I got to join the women at soon-to-be mom-in-law's. I got to be involved once, when no one could secure Cristi's veil to her liking; I was in possession of the almighty bobby pin. Go me.

Off to the church!

Beautiful ceremony - thank God it turned out not to be a full mass. No offense intended (as I make the sign of the cross) but I get cranky if I have to be in church too long. They inevitably smell funny and give me a migraine. No one tripped, no one objected, no one chickened out. The worst thing that happened was my darling husband rolling his eyes repeatedly during the priest's sermon (which, to Tim's credit was about gas prices and deserved eye rolling) but I was probably the only one watching him.

Off the to Cocktail Hour!...scheduled for three hours later. (Some sort of faux pas having to do with booking the reception hall before the church. The priest was all snippy about it, so I hear. I wouldn't know anything about this, having gotten married by a notary at a Yacht Club.)

So, still without my husband, I spent three pleasant hours (at a bar) with Evelyn and Mike. Mike and I are both nerds, so we tend to find a lot to talk about. As the cocktail hour finally approached, I popped a Percocet. Then a Skelaxin for good measure. Was I drinking? Umm...grapefruit juice with the tiniest bit of Grey Goose. Made the reception much more bearable.

The Reception!

Typical reception. Picture any wedding you have ever been to, picture the bridesmaids wearing navy blue and the groomsmen wearing ivory vests. Ta da! You have successfully attended Cristi and Kenny Rich's wedding reception!

Seriously, it was a blast. 170 people (28 from my husband's family) tore up the dance floor and got wasted. The bride and groom, thankfully, remained tactfully sober, and I managed not to embarrass myself in my 4-inch heels and drug induced euphoria. Happily ever after and long live the king! Or whatever.

Sunday, September 21

Wake up and curse myself for allowing myself to mix so many addictive depressants. Get crankier when Tim gets cranky at me because he is hung over. Grumble at each other all the way through showering, packing, checking out, and accompanying Mom and Mike to after-wedding brunch hosted by parents of the groom.

We arrive at the bruch at 12. Entire family of the groom has been drinking since 10AM. Strong possibility that they never stopped the night before. These people know how to party. Tim and I hid on the couch and pretended to watch the Giants game until it was time to go to the airport.

More grumbling on the way to the airport.

More grumbling at the airport.

Positive whining on the plane.

Sigh of relief when we touched Florida soil.

Calm and quiet on the ride home.

Utter joy when we were frantically greeted by the starving animals upon walking in the front door.

Asleep within half hour of arrival, curled up with the (fed) furballs, happy to be home.

Monday, September 22

Back to work, back to reality, back to the blog.

Where I'm Going

I have some plans for The Pickle Tree. I'll keep you posted.

Thanks for reading!

Weird Fact Wednesday

I brush my teeth in the shower.

That's it.

(It's been a long Wednesday, and I think my latest skimboarding injury might be pretty serious. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble walking in the morning. But get this: I stood up on the board today. More than once. Go me.)

I'm going to be stuck in Long Island for the weekend, so I can assure you plenty of long-drawn out posts pretty soon, since the wi-fi will become my sanctuary.

Random Rant on a Tuesday

It occurred to me that I haven't blogged in a while. How sad for the three people who read my blog. (Yes, I believe that was sarcasm, tinged with a little bit of bitterness.)

Seriously, though. It is HARD to think of things to blog about. And then, if I factor in what people may actually want to read about, it gets even harder.

So, I decided that I am going to take advantage of my blog (which I can do because it's mine, damn it) and use it for random stream of consciousness.

Warning 1: my consciousness is not a place you want to delve into unprepared. If you don't know me, the likelihood of becoming offended is pretty high.

Warning 2: Just ingested AlkaSeltzer cold medication. Little loopy.

So, here goes...

Stride gum.
Seriously? I bought it. I was sucked in by their amusing advertising campaign. Ridiculously long lasting flavor, my ass. I suppose if you are comparing it to the 3-second flavor of Dubble Bubble, the 4-second flavor of Wrigley's or the 6-second flavor of Trident, then yes, it is ridiculously long lasting at roughly 8 seconds. I still think the advertising is a little over the top.

The Seven Mile Bridge into Key West, Florida.
In case you've ever wondered (which, really, what sane person would?) it really is seven miles long. Down to the 1/10 of a mile, as best as my car could calculate. Thanks, Mom, for that little neurosis.

Grey's Anatomy
Has anyone else had quite enough of the Derek/Meredith "Poor me, my daddy didn't love me enough so I can't love the PERFECT, HOT BRAIN SURGEON WHO IS WAY TOO GOOD FOR ME?" As Chandler once said on Friends: "Oh no, two women love me. They're both gorgeous and sexy. My wallet's too small for my fifties AND MY DIAMOND SHOES ARE TOO TIGHT!"

There is a rumor that Denny will be back in a series of visions/flashbacks not previously seen. Wanna know why? Because the writers/producers/whoever is in charge of that crap knows what a grave (pun intended) mistake they made when they killed him off. Unfortunately the show does not air before 5:00PM, or they could easily bring him back from the dead without explanation.

Talking to Strangers
My parents spent an awful lot of time when I was younger teaching me not to talk to strangers. So why, in the name of God, am I expected to make small talk with strangers simply because we happen to be riding the same elevator, or seated next to each other on the same flight, or on the same line in the grocery store. I want it stopped!

Weird Fact Wednesday

Last week someone told me that they liked my Long Island accent.

It would have been a nice compliment, I suppose, but I’m not from Long Island, so I shouldn’t have a Long Island accent.

My husband is from Long Island, and has a very prominent, and adorable, Long Island accent.

That’s when I had my epiphany.

I’m a language chameleon. I have a Long Island accent (really only on certain words) because Tim has a Long Island accent, and I have adopted his speech patterns and ways of saying certain things.

I gave it some thought, and I was able to come up with an entire list of words in my vocabulary that I have picked up by association.

Compliments of my husband:
Der
Take care of my light work

Compliments of Liz:
Quick, are you kidding?
Like a pig in mud
Who has time for that?

Compliments of Tracy Miller:
Dude

Compliments of Aubree:
Word.

Compliments of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Bugger. Bollocks. Bloody Hell.

Compliments of The Princess Bride
Inconceivable
As You Wish

Compliments of Grey's Anatomy:
Seriously?

Compliments of Lost:
Live Together, Die Alone

Compliments of Boston
Wicked

Compliments of Ice Age:
Doom on You

Compliments of Paris Hilton:
That's Hot

Compliments of Christopher Walken:
I need more cowbell!

Compliments of the 1990's:
Whatever

Compliments of the Bourne Identity:
Shizer!

September Sundays in South Florida

I love Sundays, and Mondays are a great way to remind me how much I love Sundays.

On Friday afternoon, I called an emergency meeting for 9:00AM this morning. That was genius.

(Background for those of you who need it: I am a project manager for a specialized marketing company. Our latest and greatest product (the one I am in charge of) is scheduled to launch on September 25th. At 4:45PM on Friday, I found out THAT WAS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. Hence the panic button, hence the emergency meeting. Yeah, hence!)

I usually get to work between 8:00AM and 8:30AM (Starbucks line length has a great deal to do with this window) but of course, on the day I SCHEDULED A MEETING I have trouble getting there by 9:00AM. The day only got more hectic from there. The company who skimps on salary is willing to "SPARE NO EXPENSE" to meet the deadline of the 25th. I was tempted to tell them that an extra $100k in my pocket could cause the deadline to be met early, but really? (Gee, I hope no one I work with has stumbled across my blog. That would suck.)

So, this afternoon I took sometime to relive my perfect Sunday. Here's what it was like:

Wake up at 9:00AM. Feed yowling cats who act as though I have withheld food for weeks. Straighten up mess hubby has left from night before. (OCD, remember?) Check in with my long-lost friends the Internet, the Writing Bridge and Gmail. Contemplate writing. Go to Starbucks instead. Write roughly 500 words. Wander my apartment looking for something to clean, straighten, or otherwise perfect. Write 500 more words. Do some jumping jacks to release excess energy. Write 500 more words. Attempt to play with cats who now want nothing to do with me since they have been fed. Mock cats for not having opposable thumbs. Wake up Tim. Wait the hour it takes him to rouse and get ready to go to the beach. (He's worse than a woman.) Scrounge for meter change. Pack the cooler. Argue over who gets to use the "good" towel. Drive to the beach. Apply sunscreen, SPF 1.2 million. Get sunburn. (it's the only color I turn). Attempt skimboarding lesson #2. Injure heel. Fall on ass fifty some-odd times. Get laughed at by 15 year-old boy wearing shell necklace. (Seriously, were shell necklaces ever cool?) Mock 15 year-old boy wearing shell necklace. Get yelled at by Tim for mocking a 15 year-old. (He is convinced I am going to get him shot one day. Who hides a gun in swim trunks, I ask.) Pack up beach paraphernalia. Drive home. Take requisite post-beach nap. Cook dinner. Feed yowling cats who act as though I have withheld food for weeks. Check in with my long-lost friends the Internet, the Writing Bridge and Gmail. Contemplate writing. Go to Starbucks instead. (Yes, I drink way too much Starbucks.) Write roughly 500 words. Wander my apartment looking for something to clean, straighten, or otherwise perfect. Play with hedgehog. Play with snake. Play with cats. Play with husband. Go to bed. Get up because I forgot to prepare an agenda for the 9:00AM meeting that I SCHEDULED. Genius.

I Like Ike

Just wanted to share the fact that South Florida is currently in the center of the "projected cone" for Hurricane Ike. Sweet.

Sleep Together, Die Alone*

Lately I've become curious about the reasoning behind couples sleeping together. Not in the sexual sense (I totally get that), but in the physical sense; in the same room, the same bed, the same space. I'm sure there is a long and esteemed history. I'm sure there are deep, spiritual meanings for it, including display of love, commitment, unity, family and oneness.

Frankly, I think it sucks.

Don't get me wrong, I adore my husband. I love hanging out with him, cuddling with him, being close to him. We have, I believe, an excellent and rare relationship.

Not so fond of sleeping with him.

I'm 100% positive he would say the same about me.

We both snore. We both create a cocoon out of the coverings available to us, and then guard said cocoon fiercely, even in deep sleep. I talk in my sleep. He laughs in his sleep. (Oh, how I would love to be him for a night, and find out what the hell is so funny while he is comatose.)

It gets better.

At 5:45AM, an hour and fifteen minutes before he has to be up, and two hours before I have to be up, Tim's alarm starts sounding.

He sleeps through it.

I nudge hm. I rub his back. I say his name. When, every morning, I get no response, I either violently kick him or violently poke him to get his attention.

A variation of the following conversation inevitably ensues: (Certain euphemisms are used for the sake of the family members that still envision me as a perfectly polite eight-year old. Don't laugh, many of them do.)

Tim: "Ow! What the eff was that for?"

Me: "Turn it off."

Tim: "What?!"

Me: "Your effing alarm! Turn if off and get the eff up!"

After which there is a great deal of slamming, stumbling, mumbling and grumbling as he gets out of bed and goes to work while I revel in my remaining hour of sleep.

Go ahead, tell yourself (and me, if you so choose) that you love sleeping with your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other. Tell me that you are cuddlers. That you roll over every morning and praise the heavens that you have such a wonderful being in your life. I will only believe you if both you and your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other sleep like the effing dead.

I mean, let's be serious; If sleeping with your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other was really all that magnificent, king-sized beds never would have been invented.

You know I'm right.

*Reference to Lost: Live Together, Die Alone

Weird Fact Wednesday

I can't read a book without knowing how many total pages it has. I like to know how many pages I have left while I am reading.

Occasionally, when I check the page number on the last page, I glean telling words in the last few sentences. I don't do this on purpose and it makes me insane. Yet, I can't stop looking at the last page for its number.

Weird.

Introducing Barry

Before I left for my honeymoon (destination: Islamorada, Florida, a.k.a. the Florida Keys) several people advised that Tim and I buy something for the house that would always remind us of our honeymoon.

Well, we did.

On the fourth day of our honeymoon, also my 30th birthday, Tim and I took a half-day fishing charter out of Key Largo.

Below are some pictures of the day's fun, including pictures of what Tim and I decided to purchase as a honeymoon/30th birthday souvenir. Yes, I caught him. He's a 45-inch barracuda. We've named him Barry and welcomed him to the family.

Abort! Abort! Return to the Mothership!

That is exactly what I did. Returned to the Morthership, a.k.a. Starbucks. I was crazy to think that I could nix the caffeine addiction, and if I have to have caffeine, I might as well have the best caffeine Boca can offer, right? I was welcomed home with open arms, and a job offer. Here's the conversation I had with my favorite local baristas upon my return:

"Nanci! We missed you the past few days? Your usual?"

"Yes, please. I tried to break up with you guys. It didn't work. What do
you put in this coffee, crack?"

"Entirely possible. So why break up with us?"

"Thought it was an expense I didn't need. I was wrong."

"You could always get a part-time job here, then you'd get your coffee for
free!"

Hmm...I may have to consider this.

Weird Fact Wednesday

I am terrified of the Florida lizards. I call them "Florida lizards" because I'm not sure what they are. Geckos? Chameleons? Small iguanas? No idea.

(See image at right. This picture was taken at my wedding. This particular picture is from my official wedding album, but I can't tell you how many angles of this lizard I have seen in all the wedding candids family members sent me. Everyone noticed him, and everyone thought he was adorable. He was the most popular guest.)

In any event, I am terrified of them. Do I think they're cute? Yes. Do I think they are way creepier than they are cute? To that I give you a, "Hell, yes!"

I'm not exactly sure why they creep me out so bad. It could be because I find them a bit dishonest with the blending. Just be who and where you are, for the love of Pete.

OR

It could be due to the unfortunate encounter I had with one such lizard in my very first apartment in Florida.

Tim was working that night at Ruby Tuesday, so I was home alone. This was pre-Azrael, pre-Styx and pre-Hydra, so it was just me and Hades, who was a tiny little kitten at the time. (He was so damn cute, wasn't he?)

Nature called, so I went to the bathroom, and very shortly after I sat down I heard a small "splash." Confused, since I hadn't done anything as of yet, I turned to peer into the toilet.

And there he was, a Florida lizard about 4 inches long. All clear and veiny, attempting to blend in with the white porcelain.

I freaked.

I slammed the toilet lid shut and ran for the phone.

"There's a lizard in the toilet," I told Tim when he finally came to the phone. I could hear busy kitchen sounds behind him.

"What?" he asked.

"There's a lizard in the toilet!"

"So?"

"What do you mean, 'so?' I can't pee with a lizard in the toilet! What if he tried to crawl upstream?"

"So flush him."

"No way!"

"Why?"

"What if he clogs the toilet?"

"Baby, please, I've taken craps bigger than a lizard. He's not going to clog the toilet."

"Well, it's mean."

"Then you're just going to have to get him out."

"Can you come get him out?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No!"

"Baby..."

"Fine. I'll figure it out."

I got off the phone with Tim, letting him go back to work, and went back to the bathroom to check on the lizard. Still there, still trying to blend. And I still had to pee.

I called Rob Miller, husbad of my friend Tracy, and most recent roommate. I had, practically, the identical conversation with Rob.

"So you're not going to come get him out?" I asked Rob.

"Nope, sorry, you're on your own."

"But I really have to pee."

"So come here."

Which is what I did. Instead of attempting to deal with the lizard, or pee on top of him and flush him, I drove 10 minutes to Rob and Tracy's house to use their bathroom, and then drove back home.

When I got home, the lizard was gone, and I haven't ever again encountered one in my toilet, but ever since then I have lived in fear of the lizards.

Weird.

Critical Update

Starbucks detox not going well! Need Mint Mocha Frappuccino! Send help!

Klutz Meets Skimboard

About two months ago, Tim took up skimboarding. It started as a way to get him to come to the beach with me every weekend; if he didn't have a specific beach purpose, he was ready to leave ten minutes after we arrived, and how is an Irish girl expected to tan in five minutes?

Its been working out pretty well. Most Sundays, if the weather holds, I can expect to get two hours in the sun while Tim boards, recovers, boards, and recovers.

At first I made fun of him for being so out of breath, wiped out, and sore from the activity. I figured it had more to do with him being an out of shape smoker than the difficulty of the sport.

Then I tried it.

First of all, it is definitely one of those things that looks way easier than it is.

Second of all, I have a problem keeping my own two feet on stable, dry land. Imagine what happened when I attempted to balance on a wet, moving skimboard. I'll tell you: I fell down. A lot.

I didn't complain, though. Not once. At least, not while I was falling. I have plenty of complaining to do now since I can barely move a single part of my body without it screaming in protest.

As I was complaining last night, Tim made a valid point. Have you ever seen a fat skateboarder or skimboarder? Neither looks like it should be a physically draining activity - jump on a board, glide. Oooh, real hard. Well, it is. My quads are on fire. My abs are shrieking in pain. My triceps protest when I left my purse. Or a pen. Or simply my arm.

But - I plan to try it again this Sunday. At least once I want to not fall down. And hell, I'm getting the workout of my life. Added bonus.

Starbucks Detox: Day One

One of the best Starbucks quotes of all time, although not at all related to the topic at hand, was spoken by Tom Hanks, as Joe Fox, in the movie You've Got Mail:

"The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don't know what the hell they're doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino."

Hi, my name is Nanci, and I am addicted to Starbucks.

Hi, Nanci

I adore Starbucks, and have ever since we were first introduced in 1999, in Boston, MA.

You see, I was never a huge coffee fan. While I hugely appreciated the morning jolt of caffeine, coffee, much like beer, in an acquired taste. And much like beer, I find coffee to be mostly functional. Allow me to explain.

I don't drink beer because I crave the taste. Actually, I don't drink beer. I will only ever drink beer if I have a severe need to be drunk and there is no other alcoholic beverage available.

Beer = functional.

Similarly, I don't drink coffee because I crave the taste. I drink coffee because I have become dependent upon the influx of caffeine in the morning. Thus, I have never understood the drinkers of decaffeinated coffee. (or O'Douls for that matter, if we bring beer back into the picture.)

But Starbucks, oh wonderful Starbucks, took the coffee taste out of coffee! That is, if you venture away from the standard brew, drip and perk, and allow yourself to wander the world of lattes, mochas, flavored syrups and foam! Now, in addition to getting my requisite morning vibe of caffeine, I also get to drink what, in essence, tastes like a hot, melted cup of mint chocolate chip ice cream. This may not sound good to you, but, may I just say, 'yum squared.'

At first I was only drinking Starbucks on the weekends, as a special treat. Then I started going on Friday's, because Friday is the day for all things naughty. Before I knew it, Starbucks was a morning routine. The baristas knew me by name, and simply asked, "The usual?" whenever I approached the counter. It was bliss. I had never had a "usual" before. They even noticed my trends. When it was the season for Pumpkin Spice, I drank Pumpkin Spice, until the sad day came that the flavor was out of season, and I returned to my trusty peppermint white mocha.

I didn't think it could get much worse after that, but oh boy, did it ever.

After a year or so I found myself needing more of a jump to keep me going in the morning. I discovered that I could add shots of espresso to my usual drink. Oh rapture!

My entire Starbucks experience was nothing short of wonderful, except for the day I realized just how much money I was giving to the Starbucks empire. It made me want to weep. It was insane that one person could spend so much money on coffee. It had to be stopped.

I made a painful decision. I would put myself through Starbucks detox. (It was either that or make the cats get a job, and what was the likelihood of that? They were both lazy with very little skill other than being adorable and lizard hunting. Which, on later thought, there may be a market for down here in lizard central.) I had quit smoking, how much harder could this be? It was only coffee for Christ's sake.

I dragged my coffeemaker out of storage and cleaned it. I made my final (fingers crossed) trip to Starbucks and purchased a bag of ground coffee and a bottle of their peppermint mocha flavored syrup. During that week's grocery shop I purchased filters, half and half, sugar, travel cups. I could do this!

I had my first cup of non-Starbucks coffee this morning.

You know what?

Complete disaster.

I really thought I could replicate the wondrousness. However, instead of thick, frothy, melted mint chocolate chip ice cream bliss, I ended up with bitter coffee flavored hot water with a strange aftertaste that sort of resembled mint chocolate.

Ick.

This is going to take some work.

Neglected Media

Books by the side of my bed, waiting to be read: (Rhyme not intentional, I found no way to avoid it.)

• Second Chance by Jane Green
• The Gatecrasher by Madeleine Wickham (a.k.a. Sophine Kinsella of the Shopaholic series)
• New Moon by Stephanie Meyer
• The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch
• The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

Shows in TiVo, waiting to be watched:

• All of season 4 of Weeds, up until most recent
• All of this season of The Closer, save the 2 episodes I watched while biking today

Movies I have copies of waiting to be watched:

• Batman Begins: The Dark Knight
• Made of Honor
• Superbad
• Grandma's Boy
• Ice Age 2

Works on the Bridge that I would like to read:

• Forces of Nature, Barbara
• Go Figure, Madeleine
• A Classic Tale, jacobgowans
• The Becoming, pintobeans
• A Place in the Shade, Alannah
• In Fitness and in Death, Alannah
• Sheila's Progress, Alyssa
• Death of a Cubs Fan, Alannah

Members I would like to read more of on the Bridge:

• glberen
• Histrel
• ceej
• Saoirse
• sofie
• lexee

Thursday Night Entertainment

I am a sick, sick person.

Truly, I am.

I only realized how very sick tonight.

Thursday night is feeding night for Hydra, the ball python.

When we first brought her home, I couldn't bear to watch Hydra eat because, at the time, she was devouring adorable little pinky mice. I actually considered starting a "Save the Mouse" crusade. For every mouse that Hydra killed, I would rescue another from the reptile shop and set it free. Tim convinced me that the mice stood less of a chance in the wilds of South Florida than they did in Hydra's tank. Point well made.

However, Hydra inevitably got bigger, and graduated to eating rats.

Rats are not necessarily cute.

Rats are dirty.

Rats are gross.

Rats squeak real good when snatched and strangled by a python.

And, seriously, have you ever watched a snake eat? It is fascinating stuff. Admittedly, Hydra is not the smartest of snakes, and occasionally attempts to eat her rats butt-first, but that only adds to the entertainment factor. The best Thursday nights are the ones when she refuses to eat where she killed, and drags the rat to a different locale in the tank.

And my favorite part? The big yawn she does at the end to re-lock her jaw in place.

Wicked cool.

Sick.

I know.

I should be ashamed of myself.

It gets worse.

Read on if you dare.

Since Tim treks to the reptile store for a rat each Thursday, he is also nice enough to pick up Styx's super worms.

Last Thursday I requested that he also pick up some crickets for the Fuffer. I feel she needs some variety in her diet.

Well, Styx loves the crickets, but they are tricky little suckers. They hop real good. (This was Tim's initial objection to getting the crickets at all. If one got loose, and he had to listen to chirping all night, he wanted a divorce. He kids, of course, but he was serious about me being very careful when feeding Styx the crickets.)

By Murphy's Law, the first cricket that I tried to feed to Styx hopped away. I figured she might chase it. I underestimated her hunting instincts. I should blame myself for spoiling her so. (I have been known to let her eat from my hand when she is feeling particularly lazy and/or snotty.) I had to suck it up and deal with Tim's ribbing all night long, and console myself and my imaginary cricket-crawlies that my two bad-ass hunter cats would not allow the renegade to live long.

Due to this episode, I learned a little lesson.

Rip off one of the legs and the cricket merely hops in circles, and Styx can take all the time she wants hunting him down.

I know, I know!

Awful.

And I claim to be such an animal lover!

Weird Fact Wednesday!

OK - here's the Weird Wednesday fact about me. I count stairs. Every time. I can even tell you how many steps are in certain staircases. My apartment, for example. My parents' front porch stairs. Stairs from the dining room to the basement in my parents' house. Yup. Weird.

I used to think I did this because my older siblings tortured me and made me terrified of our basement. (Shout out to Paul, Adam and Jennifer here.)

Allow me to explain.

Back in the day (like I am so old) my parents had one of those huge box freezers as opposed to a freezer/fridge combo, and the freezer was kept in the depths of the scary basement. If I wanted ice cream, I had to trek to the freezer to get it. Well, since my siblings had me convinced that pure evil resided in the basement, I took the trip upstairs at a run with my eyes closed. Therefore I needed to know how many stairs there were so that I wouldn't trip all over myself, allowing myself to then be eaten by the pure evil.

It makes perfect sense to me.

But I've realized that if that were truly the case, I would only know the stair count on that particular set of stairs. I am now forced to admit that the habit may be slightly OCD.

Oh, I see you raising your eyebrows in question, but I'm sticking with my use of the modifier slightly.

Your turn!

Bollocks!

Tropical Storm Fay is on a path toward the West Coast of Florida. A hurricane warning is now in effect for southwestern Florida while a tropical storm warning is in effect for the southern third of coastal Florida. You'll notice by the star on the map above that Tim and I will be experiencing nothing more than heavy winds and rain.

Bollocks, I say.

We haven't had a good hurricane since Wilma in 2005. Although when I repeat my disappointment at home, Tim is quick to ask,

Are you on crack? Do you not remember Wilma? No power for three weeks? Hello? Why don't you go chase a tornado or something?"

I hesitate to admit this to my husband, but I would love to be a storm chaser. However, I have a funny feeling that it involves a lot more boring meteorological knowledge than what they show you on TV.

And yes, I do remember Wilma, and I loved it. Well, most of it. Being extremely ill-prepared, both ration-wise and monetarily, we were forced to eat out every day which was not easy on the budget.

Other than that I adore a good hurricane. I strive to make enough money to have a second home in the Florida Keys, which I will flee to when I hear of impending hurricanes. I have been on the verge of jubilant all day, just waiting for Fay to suddenly change course and veer toward the East.

Sick, I know, but it's not like I am hoping for anything more than a category 2. And I would never wish for death and destruction. Just a little huff and puff without blowing the houses down. (This could totally qualify as a weird fact. Too bad it's not Wednesday.)

Not that it matters. Fay is stubbornly remaining a tropical storm, and I am forced to cling to the modicum of hope that the remaining 4 months of hurricane season may bring happiness.

If by some strange chance you don't hear from me tomorrow it is because Fay answered my pleas and knocked out the power. Yippee!

A girl can dream.

Styx's First Field Trip

When you have a hedgehog as a pet, it is hard for people not to be curious about it. It is even harder for people not to be curious about mine since I have her paw print tattooed on my ankle (along with Hades' and Azrael's). When people notice the tattoo, and I tell them it is my cats' and my hedgehog's paw prints, the response is inevitably, "You have a hedgehog?!" and the barrage of questions begins.

At times, people become so curious that they just have to see her for themselves. Not a whole lot of people have ever seen a hedgehog, and most of the time the only point of reference they have is Sonic, which she really looks nothing like.

This is what happened with the women at Tim's job, especially since they heard him "fuffing" at me over the phone one day. When he explained the noise that Styx makes when she is agitated (she sounds like a cross between a rattlesnake and and a record player) the ladies decided that they absolutely needed to meet this fascinating creature. Since it was unlikely that these women would all troop to my apartment on their lunch hour to meet Styx, my hedgehog's first field trip was planned.

Since Tim only works a mile from the apartment (yes, my heart bleeds for his difficult commute) I could easily bring Styx to the office, show her off, and return her home before heading off on my own 45-minute commute. It was well worth the effort.

Styx, my irritable, snotty, holier-than-thou pet, performed beautifully on her first outing from the moment I placed her in her obnoxious pink Paris Hilton-esque pet carrier. The minute we stepped outside she was awake, alert and very out of character. At the office, she fuffed, curled, preened and pranced for the women of Palm Aluminum and Glass, and they cooed over her as, I can only imagine, they would have had I brought in my newborn baby, and I similarly acted the proud protective mama.

I'm now planning Styx's next field trip, since the folks at my office were pretty put out that I didn't bring her to meet them as well.

It's damn fun to have such a cool pet.