good advice

Alright. So by MONDAY I should have a good flooring update for y'all. BECAUSE I KNOW YOU CARE ABOUT THIS blah blah blah flooring junk blah blah. Other fun and exciting topics I can discuss ad nauseum include pregnancy, party planning, and what I ate for lunch today (magic salad, cup o noodles, favorite lembas crackers).

The cats appear to be okay. Fergus has two little fingers (are they fingers on a cat?) on each of his front feet that are sort of glued together. When he lifts an arm into the air to try to clean it, he looks startlingly similar to this guy doing this. There isn't much to be done for the pingers, other than to make him a Star Trek uniform, call him Spockgus, and remind him that it's Live Long and Prosper - not Live Long and Hiss at the Humans Because This Situation is Entirely Their Fault and Now Let's Begin Plotting Their Deaths. Spockgus spends a lot of time underneath the bed these days. He might have maps and flowcharts hidden back there, I don't know. Phoebe, on the other hand, has chosen to deal with her apparent torture by the humans in her usual fashion: she's loving us even MORE. Like, the more we seem to inflict pointless pain and humiliation, the more she needs to show us that SHE'S JUST HERE TO LOVE - COME ON, LOVE ME, RUB MY BELLY, I WILL ROLL OVER ON YOUR HEAD.

Besides loving these little creatures beyond reason, I am incredibly thankful to be with Chip. I wasn't strong on Wednesday, not in the least. And yet he told me that I was. That's kindness. That's love.

Have a great weekend, my friends. Live long and prosper.

it's not easy being green

This is a post about cat feet, not about Kermit or Christmas trees or even stinky green cheese. Wait for it.

Floorapalooza 2007 began at The Last Homely House yesterday. Remember The Flooring Thing? While we had originally planned on staying at a pet-friendly hotel, a united and happy, albeit dysfunctional family unit, in the course of our discussions, it didn’t seem like the sanest idea. Like what if the maid came into the room and the cats bolted? Or what if Chip and I went totally DEAF listening to the cats complain to us for 3 days about how UNFAIR it is that we were keeping them cooped up in some strange place and then our ears started to bleed?!?! From the caterwauling?!?!

After careful consideration and talks with other in-the-know flooring people, we decided instead that I’d be the only one displaced to a hotel, and Chip would barricade himself and the cats inside the master bedroom – complete with open windows (brrrrr- chilly!), lots of blankets, the catbox, and plenty of cat food for the fuzzy ones. This plan also helped our desire to vent the house as quickly as possible, so that yours truly would be able to inhabit it again, without any possible damage to the Bean. Yes, in case you were wondering, we do want her to be able to walk in a straight line!

So that was The Plan. The Cat Plan. All seemed to be going fairly well (with the usual delays and such that can be expected – uneven concrete requiring much grinding down, delays in laying the floor, etc.). The contractors put down some kind of water sealant barrier (imagine a BRIGHT GREEN layer of polymer poured over concrete) as the final step before laying the floor. They left the house around 3:30 p.m. to let the polymer set-up overnight, with a promise of returning the next day. Because Chip was staying in the house, the flooring guys kindly left a little polymer-free walkway leading from the entry to the stairs, so Chip would not be trapped upstairs. As Chip was walking this little path, talking to me on the phone yesterday afternoon, he goes – “Oh my gosh. The guys got some of the green stuff on the STAIRS.” Then there was a silent beat – and he said, “Wait a minute. THAT’S NOT FROM THE WORKERS. THERE’S A CAT LOOSE! I’LL CALL YOU BACK!” So it turns out that Phoebe – the ever wily, ever sweet, ever fun-loving PHOEBE had escaped from the bedroom and had traipsed her ever-loving wide cat body across the green goo – and then, after getting her paws thoroughly coated in the stuff, had walked upstairs. To, you know, clean up. Commence much Freaking Out. Poor Chip dealing with this all on his own – calling me every 2 minutes with updates:
-found Phoebe!
-paw assessment!
-who do we call!
-did you know there's an ANIMAL poison control!
-is she vomiting! (stupid question - it's PHOEBE, the feline puke machine!)
-we need to take her to the vet!
-this green goo has solidified into Incredible Hulk-colored masses on her feet!
-she looks like she's wearing green sandals!
-this is not funny!

Chip was a trooper, despite my ill-advised suggestion to dip her feet into a warm bathtub of water. He helpfully reminded me that it was WATER SEALANT we were trying to remove, and WATER will not dissolve WATER SEALANT. (Duh - am incredibly stupid sometimes. Will probably make some horrific errors in judgement with the Bean, as well. Have now added TAKE INFANT FIRST AID to To Do list.)

Chip got her to the vet. The vet? Amazing. Kind. Stayed very late to help our poor cat. You need to understand that Phoebe has very fuzzy feet. Like bunny slippers. Like Hobbit feet. Or your Uncle Hal’s ears. She has these ginormous tufts of cotton-like hair just sprouting, willy-nilly, between her paw pads. Makes for great entertainment on a hardwood floor. And apparently, the perfect medium for scooping up horribly large amounts of bright green floor polymer – and then forming into solid chunks of green rubber. At one point, they had to put Phoebe in some kind of a pillowcase-like BAG with four holes for her FEET so they could then proceed to TRIM ALL THE HAIR OFF HER PAWS and then SCRUB HER POOR LITTLE PEET UNTIL THEY BLED. It was really awful, actually. I’m not going to tell you which of us cried at the Vet – but yes, there were many tears. At this point in the story, I had now joined Chip. I raced from downtown Seattle to home in horrific traffic (only took me 90 minutes! To go 22 miles!). The vet also gave us cat laxative to coat Phoebe’s insides so that any of the goo she consumed will sort of, um, slide through. And not get caught on anything.

This is the point in the long and drawn-out story where I’m supposed to tell you that we got home and all was well – Phoebe was fine – everyone was happy and we all sang La La La and watched The Grinch on ABC. But, um, NO.

When we got home, we discovered that the paw prints on the carpet had magically TRIPLED in quantity. Because Fergus had now ALSO escaped. And was SITTING ON OUR BED, LICKING AND SHAKING THE LIFE OUT OF HIS PAWS. Annnnnnd it was at this point in the proceedings that Yours Truly finally lost it. Wigged out. Couldn’t take it. I mean, come ON! BOTH OF THEM?

I love these cats like I love members of my family. They ARE members of our family. They are precious commodities that may drive me absolutely batty - but I would totally move heaven and earth to make sure they were safe and happy.

Amidst my wigging, Chip really stepped up to bat and got things under control. We pulled off whatever green goo we could from Fergus’ feet. He isn’t as hairy as Phoebe, so that was helpful. Also – he’d walked on the stuff much later than she had, so he didn’t have as much. We gave him & Phoebe generous doses of the laxative. I cried. We fed them their crunchies. I cried some more. And then I threw up. Because – WHY NOT?????? I finally left the house a while later, because the fumes weren’t doing me or Bean any favors.

In the light of this morning, I'm feeling better. Chip is better. Fergus and Phoebe are both doing better. Fergus gets his turn at the vet today. (I know he’s laughing at the sad state of Phoebe’s paws. Oh, little man – you have no IDEA what you’re in for.)

The flooring guys came back today - and besides them LAUGHING THEIR BUTTS OFF AT OUR HUBRIS, they informed us that the polymer was still too tacky, and they couldn't lay the floors today. They will be back sometime tomorrow.

The way this is going, I'll be LIVING at the La Quinta until January. (Okay, maybe not really - but it feels like it. Whiny, whiny me.) My plans for the weekend involve an assuredly futile attempt to remove bright green polymer rubber from carpet. That, and loving my husband and our two ridiculous CRAZY escape-artist cats, just glad that everyone's okay. Well, as long as I'm not still living at the La Quinta. In which case, I'll be lying on a hard hotel bed, thinking of all of you and singing La La La, life is weird.


--I don't think I've ever written "polymer" so much in my lifetime. Polymer. Polymer. Polymer.

--How stupid is it to call it THE La Quinta. That's, like, The The Hotel Place. Or something. Am stupid and know nothing about Spanish, despite my continued attempts to read about Green Eggs and Ham (No - Juan Ramone DOESN'T WANT THE STUPID HUEVOS VERDES CON JAMON.)

fancy pants

Do you know any Fancy Pants People? In case you are wildly uninformed, are reading this post as your first visit to The Creamery, or are just totally over-estimating your hostess, Whimsy, let me put to rest that I am not a Fancy Pants. (I am also not Fancy, in any way whatsoever, though I do enjoy an occasional stinky cheese.)

I have been found eating take-out in a Styrofoam container. I watch football with the Chip (even though I’m constantly asking what they’re doing on screen, or meandering throughout the room with various magazines in hand, or trying to talk to Chip about something TOTALLY unrelated to football, thereby garnering myself the occasional Hairy Eyeball). I have purchased a box of Twinkies within the last 6 months (it was a weak and hungry moment in the grocery store, what can I say). I watch network television (I call it tee-vee!) - and not just the educational stuff. I really enjoyed our trip to Disneyworld in May (even if it was, at times, with a Trademarked mouse-shaped pile of drool on my chin). I live in the (gasp) suburbs. I regularly shop at large bookstore CHAINS.

On the other hand, I read a lot of books, and not necessarily ones on the Oprah List. I am researching a brand of environmentally-friendly diapers for the Bean. I love to make fancy-ish desserts. I greatly enjoy hosting a good dinner party (though I haven’t done so in HOW long? YEARS! IT’S BEEN YEARS!). Workplace is considered to be a fairly hoity-toity place. Through Workplace, I have been to a number of very nice restaurants, and can talk about good places/new places to go in the downtown corridor. I think I can carry a decent conversation about politics. I listen to NPR. I adore looking at, talking about, and making art. If I had the means, I would even purchase art outside of my, so far, few chances to trade/barter for the pieces we luckily own.

I realize that all of these activities, these things, don't truly encapsulate the people who participate and/or enjoy them on a regular basis. My friend John doesn’t watch a stitch of network TV and is an avid listener of NPR, but the man has a soft spot in his heart for a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder. As people, we will always be a mess of contradictions. Just because you live and breathe romance novels, doesn’t mean you don’t also have a great concern for the environment and regularly bike to work. Just because you drink Coke instead of mineral water doesn’t mean you don’t support public art and make generous contributions to the Seattle Art Museum. I guess what I’m getting at here is that this idea of Fancy Pants People is just that: a made-up concept I have in my head about people that I have a hard time relating to.

Even though they scare me, I can carry myself though Fancy Pants gatherings fairly easily. I cloak myself pretty well. I can hold a decent conversation, even while I’m feeling a wee bit intimidated and nervous. Sometimes I falter – worried that my life is so much smaller than theirs, but on the whole, I remember that I wouldn’t have my life any other way.

As I've gotten older and my sense of humor has become more seasoned, I have less tolerance for the Fancy Pants mentality. I don’t get the great sense that they look down their noses at the rest of the world. They just … don’t have a lot of time for it. That, or they just lack the sense of humor to appreciate it. For that very reason, I can’t imagine that there is a single Fancy Pants who reads this blog. A Fancy Pants just couldn’t do it. S/he would be offended and bored by my description of a certain fuzzy poo-colored object. S/he would deem my humorous look at skin cancer as inappropriate. In a recent conversation about this exact subject, it was suggested to me that Fancy Pants Folks don’t fully experience life. They experience a filtered form of it – carefully avoiding the painful lows and highs that come from throwing yourself out into the ether, willing to try and do and be – and to make mistakes. In the end, maybe that’s it: a Fancy Pants is too worried about looking silly or getting dirt on their carefully laundered silk slacks.

It sounds like a rash generalization - and maybe that's exactly what it is - but I'm just so darn happy not to be a Fancy Pants. I enjoy getting dirty. I learn from my mistakes. I share the good, the bad, and the horribly embarassing. I'd rather do that then hide behind a facade that keeps me from truly experiencing what the world has to offer.

Who's up for joining me in the mud?

letter from the bean

Hello Internet Friends,

My mom appears to be ridiculously involved with Workplace after a 4-day weekend, so she has handed the responsibility of updating The Creamery to me, The Bean, her 25-week-old fetus. Don't ask me how this is possible, as I have neither the motor nor cognitive skills to write a blog post - I am also, of course, currently residing safely in her belly. However, if you'll suspend disbelief for a bit and just revel in the miracle, I'll give you my review of the weekend.

I can't speak for mama or dad specifically, but I can tell you that I personally quite enjoyed this thing they call Thanksgiving Dinner, complete with turkey, mashed potatoes, asparagus, stuffing, and corn. (Mom informed me that I was missing an important tradition called Green Stuff, which is some kind of iced grapefruit/pineapple concoction, floating in 7Up - ah well, better luck next year.) I was also pleased with the dessert portion of the evening: pumpkin pie - something I sampled a couple of weeks ago, and have been prodding mom to eat ever since.

I did my best to keep mom up for most of the night by dancing on her bladder. Worked like a charm, and it ensured me many rocking moments as she lumbered up and off my grandparents' futon and into the bathroom.

Friday morning my parents left for what they told me was the Washington State Coast - but will always be known to me as The Time Mom and I got into a Bladder Control War. She insisted that we stay in the car for heinously long periods of time, and I - padding helpfully on her bladder - I tried my best to get her to get up and move around. My favorite triumph, though scaring the daylights out of mom - was when she was forced to talk dad into stopping at the Crescent Lake Ranger Station to use the facilities. A markedly UNSANITARY facility. Mom was a champ, however, and used many of the Ninja Cleanliness Anti-Germ Commando Moves that dad has shared with her. We got out of there unscathed, though afterwards she insisted on dipping the bottoms of her shoes in Purell.

The rest of the weekend passed by in relative comfort for yours truly. Mom fed me lots of good food, Dad took lots of pictures of both of us, and I received many lovely pats and kind words from both of them.

Enjoy the pictures, dudes. I'll be seeing you all in a few months.

-The Bean

happy tears

Let's all take a moment to wish The Wife (and The Husband, of course) a hearty CONGRATULATIONS on their exciting news. Because this is my blog, and it’s ALL ABOUT MEEEEE, I’ve got to tell you that it’s been KILLING ME keeping the secret. However, I have to add that the peeing-every-two-hours-throughout-the-night thing has its benefits. It means I’m awake and conscious at 2:10 a.m. when I get a frantic text message announcing TWO PINK LINES, and I’m actually able to commence in a text message frenzy of OH MY GOODNESS, OH MY GOODNESS! Followed by WHY THE HECK ARE YOU AWAKE RIGHT NOW? So. Yes. Am totally thrilled for my friends.

There are a million different directions that I want to go with this, and I’m torn. I want to tell you about all the wonderful things that The Wife and I have been able to share – and some of the more bittersweet things we have not. I want to tell you about how hard it was to see her move to the South for graduate school, and how we both knew that Big Things were on the horizon for both of us, but had no idea what (marriage and children were really the LAST THINGS in mind). I want to tell you a little about our friendship – protecting the more sacred bits, but sharing just a few of the things that I’ve learned because of this amazing woman. I want to tell you about how The Fates have decided that the gravitational pull we create when even in the same STATE is just too strong, and so we’re destined to live on opposite sides of the country, keeping things in some kind of cosmic balance. I want to tell you about the hope I get to hand down to The Bean about True Friends. They are real. They exist. They are rare. If you’re fortunate enough to find even just one True Friend, you will be blessed. I want to tell you all of these things – but I lose the words.

I hope that each of us can inventory our little collections of acquaintances and find at least one Friend like this. One person whose successes, whose pains, whose excitements, whose good news sends us up and over the MOON with joy. There’s a reason we’re told to mourn with those who mourn, and comfort those in need of comfort. Out of all the pain is borne a connection so deep, a love so strong—when this friend is facing one of the most challenging and rewarding journeys in her life, we feel that it is US who received the wonderful news.

Congratulations, my friend. I can't wait to share all of this with you. I love you.