Where oh where has my coffee shop gone?

Well, regular season baseball has come to an end. I’m rather sad about that… I am now stuck with a mere handful of football games to keep track of – mainly UT and Rutgers (who both performed quite poorly this weekend). I AM, however, excited about the post season, and hoping the Yankees can keep some momentum going. Too bad the Mets were knocked out of the running yesterday – I was looking forward to the possibility of another Subway Series. Oh well. :)

And I must say congratulations to Ed and Greg, who came in second and third place in the fantasy baseball league, and will, therefore, share in the monetary winnings. Congrats, you guys! Someone came in first place, too, but I can’t remember who… all I know is that his team name is something like, “I am the King of Universe, Bow to Me You Minion Peons.” Eh, it was probably no one too important…

So this is when the stress starts – every game the Yankees play from here on out will be filled with tension and nail biting. And possibly jumping rope. I mean, THEY won’t be jumping rope… but I might. Jumping rope is a great way to expend nervous energy when watching a playoff game. Too… much… stress…

Another sad thing happened this past week – our Seattle’s Best closed down without warning. One day it was business as usual, and the next, it was “no more caramel lattes for YOU!!” The shop was cleared out, the doors were locked, and that was it. No explanation was given for why my morning caffeine rush would apparently now be forever denied. And it’s interesting that the shop should close down just as another Chicago possibility opens up. We’re STILL waiting to find out whether or not we’ll be living here in Austin in a couple months, or whether we’ll be shopping for sweaters and hats and gloves and relocating to Chicago in the middle of winter.

And the reason it’s interesting that the Seattle’s Best closed down is that it originally OPENED just a few weeks before we moved back to Austin from New Jersey several years ago. Rick moved back here before I did – I stayed up in Jersey a few months longer, packing and waiting for the house to sell. Rick would call me every day, or send emails – and, invariably, he would tell me how great it was going to be to live just a couple miles from Seattle’s Best. When I finally joined him back in Austin (in a temporary apartment while our house was being built) the Seattle’s Best became a daily haunt – the people in the shop already knew Rick, and would have iced caramel lattes ready for us when we walked in. When we moved into the new house, I’m fairly certain I had a cup of Seattle’s Best coffee to energize me as I lugged boxes and furniture from the apartment. When friends and family would come visit from out-of-town, we’d head over to the Seattle’s Best and hang out around a wooden table, reading newspapers and talking and sipping mochas and cappuccinos. We knew the names of every person who worked in that shop, and grew to consider many of them friends. It was “our” coffee shop.

So in the wake of its abrupt closing, I have to wonder if it’s not a sign of some sort – the Seattle’s Best opened up just as we were moving back to Austin… so what does it mean that it’s closed now? Hmmm… I guess, just as we’ve been doing for so long, we’ll just have to wait and see…

Hey! A new post!

Wow, I’ve been MIA for a whole week… my poor blog has been abandoned and neglected. But in my defense, it CAN be difficult to keep this thing consistently updated. I mean, you guys should try it some time. You would all fail miserably. Mwahahahahaha! (Evil dictator laugh… that is NOT to say that I’m an evil dictator, of course… I just happen to laugh like one…) :)

So in case anyone hasn’t heard – the Yankees have clinched a spot in the playoffs! They’re moving on to the post-season! And, if by some miracle they can manage to win their last few games, and Boston loses theirs, they might even be AL East champions again. (Well, now that I’ve brought it up, I’ve completely jinxed it… so that won’t happen. I’ll just be happy with the wild card spot.)

Sadly, however, the end of regular season baseball is also the end of fantasy baseball. It was a disappointing year for me, as my offense started the season with all the power of a hamster in a little plastic ball. They scampered along for a couple months, struggling mightily, until they finally remembered they were men (I think) and not rodents. But by then it was too late, and I was firmly entrenched in the bottom half of the league. A few weeks ago, I took heart in the fact that I was quite safely in eighth place. I mean, I OWN eighth place. Eighth place is MINE. (No, it’s not quite as satisfying as ending up ten points out of first place like last year, but oh well.)

I’m just happy to see the Yankees in the post-season again, in another year when everyone counted them out in the middle of the season. But that’s something that I’ve learned about the Yankees – unless they’re wallowing in last place, twenty games back, with half the team on the DL, you CAN’T count them out. You never know what’s going to happen with them. Which is one of the reasons it’s so much FUN to follow them if you’re a fan. (And if you’re not a Yankee fan, it’s probably aggravating and annoying… and that’s why you should be a Yankee fan… come to the daaaaark siiiiide…)

Of course, when I first started following the Yankees, they weren’t very good at all. They were nowhere near the top of their division, they lost games every time my dad and Eric would go to Yankee Stadium, and I didn’t understand what the big deal was about baseball. It wasn’t until I went to a game myself – until I saw the Yankee Stadium grass and swore it was greener than the rest of the grass in the world – that I started to truly appreciate baseball.

And what’s more, the Yankees WON that very first game I attended. They also won the second game I attended. And the third. Even though they were playing horribly overall, I was convinced that my presence in the stands was the catalyst that brought them good luck. Even at that early juncture, before I understood all the rules or knew all the players’ names, I recognized the value of some good old fashioned baseball superstition. It was ME – I was the reason the Yankees won games. I was their good luck charm, and they didn’t even know it. Eventually they DID lose a game when I was in attendance, of course. Which left me trying to figure out what I’d done differently to change the course of the game…

Don Mattingly was playing when I first started following the Yankees… and Dave Winfield… and Rickey Henderson. And a couple guys named Mike Pagliarulo and Dave Righetti, who were known by the nicknames “Pags” and Rags.” I actually might never have known that had it not been for an unbelievably annoying ad that constantly aired in the New York/New Jersey metropolitan area. It was a “come to Yankee Stadium and support your last place team!” kind of ad, and at the end, a little kid in a ball cap would exclaim, “Pags! Rags!” in a gratingly jarring way that made me want to throw Righetti’s baseball right at his or her little head. Apparently, I was supposed to set off to the stadium so I could see Pags and Rags in action, and that little kid wanted me to know how exciting it was. And that ad was SO annoying that I STILL remember it. Pags! Rags! Argh! Shut up!

Fortunately, it didn’t deter me from my Yankee addiction, and I can’t wait for the post-season to start. And if the Yankees lose, I’ll know exactly why – it’s because I (their good luck charm) wasn’t there…

30-minute post...

So the other day when I was in that Borders bookstore looking for the meaning of “Chindogu,” I also browsed through the cooking section. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular – I just like to try new things once in a while, so I wouldn’t mind finding some sort of unusual cookbook with some interesting recipes. As I passed by various titles (“1000 Indian Recipes” – yum, that sounds good… “The Biggest Loser Cookbook” – well, the recipes might be good, but do I really want to feel ridiculed by my cookbook? “The Cheese-Lovers Cookbook” – hey, I know what dad is getting for Christmas!) I found myself in the middle aisle, next to a table piled with books by a single author – Rachel Ray.

And I suddenly realized, as I shuddered at the sight of those books, that Rachel Ray is my Matthew McConaughey. Now, for anyone who hasn’t already heard, Eric REALLY doesn’t like Matthew McConaughey. I mean, he can NOT stand that guy. If you show Eric a picture of Matthew McConaughey, he might very well rip it out of your hands and shred it to bits. Or, if he happens to be near a fireplace in Montana, he’ll just burn it:


Yes, he really WAS burning a People magazine with Matthew McConaughey on the cover. And, if you ask me, he was relishing the experience just a bit too much. Pyromaniac…

And it’s not like there’s any real reason why Eric dislikes Matthew McConaughey so much. I mean, sure, Matthew McConaughey WAS in that horrible movie “Contact”… a movie which should be forever relegated to the bargain DVD bins at Best Buy. But hey, he was also in, um… uh… wait a second, I’ll think of something… uuuhhhhhh… okay, truthfully, I’ve got nothing… But regardless – is a lackluster movie career reason enough to hate the guy so much?

Anyway, like I was saying – Rachel Ray is MY Matthew McConaughey. Because for some reason, I can’t stand her. She annoys me to no end. The mere sight of her picture on the cover of cookbook after cookbook in the middle of Borders made me want to knock over the table on which they were perched. And I’m not sure WHY I dislike her so much. Maybe it’s because she has an irritating habit of saying the word “delish” about five times during every one of her shows… maybe it’s because she maddeningly calls extra virgin olive oil “E-V-O-O – extra virgin olive oil” (yes, she says it in its entirety every time she pulls the bottle out) instead of simply saying “olive oil” or even “EVOO”… maybe it’s because she’s loud and obnoxious and has this bizarre way of over-pronouncing half the words she uses (“I LLLLOOOVVVE garlic!! It’s SO GOOD!!! I LLLLOOOOOVVVE it!!!!”)… or maybe it’s just because her so-called “30-minute meals” would actually take the average person a good hour to cook.

The point is, there’s no really good reason for why I can’t stand Rachel Ray – just like there’s no really good reason for why Eric hates Matthew McConaughey. But as long as pictures of both of them continue to exist, we’ll have plenty of fires to keep us warm in Montana…

Yes, I'm talking about baseball... and cats...

Well, judging from Greg’s comment underneath that post a couple days ago, apparently my blog is really boring unless I’m talking about fantasy baseball. But he’s right – my own team didn’t do so well this year, and I am firmly entrenched in eighth place at the moment. So I’ll just have to talk about Greg’s fantasy baseball team. HIS team is great. Greg’s team is super special. All hail Greg and his super special fantasy baseball team. Actually, if it was REALLY great, he’d find a way to finish in first place instead of third… because why should Tim the Self-Perceived Doer of No Wrongs in Fantasy Baseball Land end up in first? So I’m rooting for you Greg – find a way to make up that 250 points between you and first place… c’mon, you can do it… :)

Of course, even more interesting than fantasy baseball right now is REAL baseball – the Yankees are finally starting to show their determination to make it to the postseason. Which I’m sure is thanks in no small part to the Yankee Voodoo that Eric and I seem to have perfected over the last few weeks. There’ve been a few close calls – Rivera loading the bases in the ninth inning, that sort of thing – but we’re trying to save up the really potent voodoo for the postseason games.

Speaking of the postseason (assuming the possibility that Boston will be there), did everyone hear about that kid in Boston who got Shelley Duncan’s autograph, but he and his mom got all bent out of shape about it because the autograph said, “Red Sox suck! – Shelley Duncan”? Oh come on – you actually go out and contact the media because a Yankee player wrote “Red Sox suck” before his autograph? If David Ortiz signed my notebook, and it said, “Yankees suck! – David Ortiz” I’d be like, “awesome! David Ortiz signed my notebook! And he has a sense of humor!” If this kid wants to be Red Sox fan for very long, he’d better get used to hearing things like that… it’s just part of the Red Sox/Yankees rivalry. If I had a nickel for every time I heard “Yankees suck”… well, I’d have a whole bunch of nickels… If your feelings are gonna be hurt by a silly “Red Sox suck” autograph, then maybe you’d better go be a Pittsburgh Pirates fan or something...

Actually, I have a theory about this whole autograph uproar – I don’ t think the kid was upset at all. His mom, maybe – but only because moms like to try to shield their kids from disrespectful language like “suck” (although if that’s the case, you’d better never attend another Red Sox/Yankees game… I’ve heard worse than that from the mouths of nuns and boy scouts…). No, I don’t think it was a matter of being “upset” about the autograph – I think this kid realized that he had something cool, and the more media attention it received, the more money he could get when he sold it on eBay…

Okay, that concludes the “baseball” portion of this post. I shall now move on to a subject that is much more boring – namely, cute and cuddly kittens. Allegro and Piva are getting along a bit better now, as is evidenced by this picture:


They still have occasional arguments, however – like the one they were having this morning at about 6:30. I think what usually happens is that Piva likes to hide under the black cupboard in the foyer, and when Allegro walks by, she’ll jump out. This does NOT make Allegro happy, and much hissing and spitting ensues. Piva will try to hiss back, but she’s still so small that it ends up sounding more like a little sigh… and it’s much too adorable to be intimidating in any way. And really, how could you EVER be intimidated by this face?

They also have packing tape... and bubble bath...

I had some freelance proofreading work for a couple days, courtesy of Jen up in Chicago (thanks Jen! :)). I read through a catalog full of journals and calendars and photo albums – which, to be honest, was a lot more interesting than the freelance work I get every year from my previous employers. They like to inundate me with 40-page annual reports every winter, each one prefaced with a desperate plea of “is it possible for you to get this back to us today?” Um, no. (Actually, that's not true. It IS possible now and then, especially if I don’t drive all the way home to proof… last year I picked up a report from the bank and then drove to a Starbucks a couple miles away, where I fueled up with a triple-shot caramel macchiato and knocked the whole thing out in three hours flat. I then triumphantly returned the report to the bank, where I was greeted like the hero that I am and carried back out to my car on the shoulders of grateful typesetters. I’m pretty sure that’s the way it happened, anyway. Although I MAY have been imagining that “hero” stuff because of my caffeine high…)

Anyway, the catalog was a nice change from my usual proofreading work. And although I found plenty of reasons to wield my Red Pen of Corrections, I only found ONE misspelled word in the entire catalog. One. I hate it when that happens. I mean, on the one hand, it can mean that whoever typed that thing was a very good typist and speller… but on the other hand, it can mean that I missed all the OTHER misspelled words. What if there were fifteen misspelled words, and I only caught one? What kind of horrible proofreader would that make me? I just know that somewhere in that catalog, “stationery” was spelled “stationary,” and I totally missed it. I skipped right over the stationary stationery. How could I have missed that? Sigh… (I suppose there’s also a possibility that I’m being paranoid…)

After I finished proofing the catalog yesterday, I looked at FedEx’s website to see where I should go to return it to Chicago. And I was happy to see a “Pak and Ship” store listed on the website, located right across the street from my neighborhood, barely a mile away. Well, that would make everything quite easy and convenient. So I went over to Pak and Ship… but as soon as I walked in, I had a bad feeling about the place. It seemed less a packing and shipping store and more a Hallmark and bath store. I’m not sure you should ever see tubs of “body butter” for sale at your local FedEx shipping establishment. What’s more, the store was manned by an older couple, who were apparently going for a “mom-and-pop” atmosphere. But I went ahead and showed Pop what I needed to FedEx, hoping the racks of birthday cards and tubes of hand lotion were simply a façade for what was, in reality, a very professional business. However, my hopes began to fade when he took one look at the catalog and said, “oh, I’m not sure we have a box for that…”

So I waited patiently as he rummaged around on a shelf and pulled out a “small” FedEx box, then held it next to the catalog and said, “nope, that won’t work.” I explained that the catalog had arrived in a MEDIUM box of the same type, assuming he could return to the shelf and bring one back to the counter. Instead, he mumbled something about “I’m pretty sure we don’t have any of those boxes” and disappeared into a back room. When he returned, he confirmed that they had NO medium FedEx boxes in the store, but if I wanted to, I could buy a larger plain cardboard box and use that. But seeing as I was hoping to look at least SEMI-professional with this proofreading job, I declined the plain cardboard box, worrying not only about how a non-FedEx box would look, but also having a slight suspicion that Mom and Pop would slip some jam and Pepperidge Farm cookies into the package…

I ended up going to Kinko’s… specifically, FEDEX Kinko’s – it seemed like a much better choice, considering the fact that “FedEx” was right there in giant letters on the sign over the door. They had plenty of FedEx medium boxes and FedEx airbills, one of which I filled out with several bits of information in the wrong spaces, so I had to cross things out until it looked like it had been filled out by a ten-year-old. As I carried the box to the counter, all I could think was, “these people are SO going to think I’m an idiot…” Is it really THAT hard to fill out a FedEx airbill? Oh well… at least I found a real FedEx box…

Is anyone else having a strange craving for Pepperidge Farm cookies? Maybe I’ll head over to the Pak and Ship… I mean, at the very least I can pick up a tube of lilac hand lotion…

I'd like to see them try to make a movie out of this...

I have finally finished Salman Rushdie’s “The Satanic Verses,” after several months of on-again off-again reading (pausing now and then to read more “mindless” books that required little thought), and searching for commentaries on the text that would not only help me wade through the myriad metaphors, but also translate the many random Urdu/Arabic/Hindi words scattered throughout the story. And now that I’ve finished it, I have to say – wow. I’m not sure what I expected before I started the book, but it turned out to be so different from anything I could’ve envisioned. Completing the book was like reaching the end of some kind of fantastic journey – a trip where you saw so many amazing things, and learned so many foreign customs, and collected so much knowledge and so many memories that you’re almost loath to return to your mundane, everyday existence. There were so many threads woven into this book’s story that I feel like I could re-read it immediately and catch more details I missed the first time – this is part of the reason I took so long to finish the entire book. There were days when I would read a mere 30 or 40 pages, and feel like I’d devoured a wealth of creativity and thought-provoking images. This is not the kind of book you want to speed-read… skip over a sentence, and you might miss something profound…

It’s hard to even say what the “story” was about in this book. The concrete part of the novel is thus: (and this, by the way, is a technique quite often employed by Rushdie in his writing – the use of an introductory phrase, followed by a colon: “This happened: He observed this: Listen:” etc…) Two men – Saladin Chamcha and Gibreel Farishta – are on a hijacked plane, which terrorists blow up over the English Channel. So, at thirty thousand feet or thereabouts, Saladin and Gibreel tumble out of the sky, hurtling toward the earth, obviously in a situation that no one could ever conceivably survive. So what happens? Why, they both survive, of course.

But that is where the “concrete” part of the novel ends and the “what is going on here?” part begins. After they fall to the earth, Saladin and Gibreel both undergo strange metamorphoses – of course, it’s not always clear what is supposed to be a “literal” metamorphosis, and what is merely symbolic or imagined. Saladin, the more reserved of the two, begins to change into a devil-like creature, complete with horns and hooves… while Gibreel – an outgoing, arrogant movie-star – begins to change into a halo-crowned angel (namely, Gibreel the archangel). But is Saladin LITERALLY growing horns and hooves? Does Gibreel LITERALLY have a visible light glowing around his head? Or are these descriptions meant to reflect some of the emotions the men are now internalizing after their brush with death? Is the whole thing simply an illustration of the “evil” and “good” inside all people?

At times the answers are obvious – like one particular passage where Gibreel is certain his archangel status has transformed him into something larger than life. He feels it is necessary to have the attention of the London populace, but even as he looms over the city, casting a gigantic shadow on the highway and watching tiny cars zoom below him, no one pays him any notice. So he decides to take drastic measures and heave his giant feet onto the highway, where he is certain he will crush several cars – but at least then he’ll have everyone’s attention. What results, of course, is not Gibreel crushing a car, but rather a car almost crushing the very-normal-man-sized Gibreel. At other times, however, the answers aren’t as obvious – Saladin does, in fact, take refuge with a kind family who are willing to hide him even when he begins to take on the form of a man-goat, and they do seem to see in him the same things he sees in himself. Eventually, though, his appearance returns to normal – although the “evil” that was awakened inside him later appears again in an attempt to destroy Gibreel.

Saladin and Gibreel take on an “archenemy” type relationship – Saladin hating Gibreel because the latter man never attempted to help him during his bizarre metamorphosis… and Gibreel, convinced he is the archangel, certain the changed Saladin is his enemy. And woven within the entire novel are Gibreel’s “dreams” – stories within the story that at times seem random, but upon further reflection are very subtly and skillfully intertwined to the rest of the book. There is SO much that happens in this book, and, I would guess, so many different interpretations of what everything means…

And I thought it was funny that as I neared the end of the book this morning, I came across this passage, spoken by Saladin Chamcha as he attempted to secure a visa: “’I’ll tell you who I am,’ Chamcha bellowed… ‘I’m the poor bastard who got blown up by terrorists, fell thirty thousand feet out of the sky because of terrorists, and now because of those same terrorists I have to be insulted by pen-pushers like you.’” Interesting, isn’t it, that I should not only read this particular passage on 9/11, but also that this book was written back in 1988? Apparently the disruption of people’s daily lives because of a handful of cowardly, moronic idiots has been a problem for quite a while now… in fact, The Satanic Verses touches on so many timely issues – racism, religious fanaticism, political disputes, actors and actresses in obvious need of rehab – that at times I totally forgot I was reading a book that was written almost two decades ago.

I’d have to say this was one of the best books I’ve ever read, if only for the fact that it’s one of the most INTERESTING books I’ve ever read – it’s unlike anything else in my personal library. I doubt I know ANYONE who would actually sit down and read the entire thing… which is too bad, because it would be fun to discuss it with someone else who’d read it. But in order to read this book, it probably helps to be slightly nutter-butter to begin with – because then all the bizarre imagery doesn’t HAVE to make sense. If it’s a bit nonsensical, so what? It is, in the end, a book about life – and since when does life make sense anyway?

I have nothing to say...

Slow week… I guess I didn’t have much to write about. And the same goes for today – so here are my Saturday random thoughts:

Well, we have now left the house several times while Piva was out of her room, trusting that Allegro won’t eat her in our absence. And so far, everyone has been in one piece when we return home. I think Allegro is starting to understand that this new creature is here to stay, so she is beginning to tolerate her slightly, while still proclaiming her superiority whenever Piva ventures too close. But right now at this moment, Allegro is sleeping peacefully in her favorite place on the couch, and Piva is in the foyer batting around a little fabric mouse with a bell on its tail… (And Echo, as usual, can’t hear a thing, so it’s all good…)

Speaking of Piva, she has an annoying little habit of walking across the computer keyboard when I’m trying to use it. Which means I’ll be typing along quite nicely, and then suddenly she’ll hit the precise combination of keys to cause everything I’ve typed to disappear… or five random windows will pop up… or the Quicktime player will start running… or I’ll simply end up with a word like, “owyeoirh9—uje” at the end of my sentence…

Eric and I have been honing our Yankee voodoo this week, preparing it for possible postseason necessity. It’s actually been eerily on target this week – it began with a game a few days ago when our pitcher walked two batters in a row with nobody out. I sent a hasty Yankee Voodoo text message to Eric, and was immediately rewarded with a pop out and a double play, so the opposing team never had a chance to score. The same sort of situation seemed to be panning out in the next inning, so again I sent my voodoo message… and once again the Yankees managed to work their way out of a sticky inning. I then realized that what we really needed was OFFENSE voodoo – so I sent my voodoo text message. And the Yankees scored TEN runs within the next two innings. The next day, I was a bit late with my voodoo messages, so the Yankees were losing 2-1 as they went into the seventh inning. So I sent Eric some Yankee voodoo, and WHAM – eight runs in the seventh inning. And yesterday my voodoo messages were rather sporadic, thanks to eating dinner at Rick’s parents’ house and me leaving my phone in the living room. But I managed to send enough voodoo to ensure a 3-2 Yankee victory. I only have about a half hour before they play again… I’d better get my cell phone ready… (Eric?? Get the voodoo dolls and pins!)

Has everyone heard of that Burning Man festival in Nevada? It’s like this big gathering of people who fancy themselves artists (I’m sure some of them are… and I’m sure some of them are just people who do things like throw cans of paint at a pile of garbage cans while hula hooping in Marie Antoinette costumes, in an obvious display of anarchic, anti-government, George W. Bush-is-a-moron-and-should-be-impeached, we’re-serious-artists-and-you-just-don’t-get-it-man displays of “artistic expression.”) The whole thing culminates in the conflagration of a giant wooden man, which, I suppose is also some kind of “artistic expression.” Well, this year, some guy decided to set fire to the giant man a few days early – and he was arrested for it. Now, let me make sure I understand this correctly – a guy set fire to the guy who’s supposed to be set on fire, only it wasn’t the right time for the guy to be set on fire, so the fire-setting guy was arrested… right? Um, huh?? If the giant man is supposed to burn anyway, and his burning is an artistic expression, then who’s to say that burning the man a few days early isn’t ALSO an artistic expression? I mean, if the whole festival is about anything goes, breaking all the rules, expressing yourself, then how can there be any justification for arresting the Burning Man Early Burner? Just seems a little nonsensical to me… (but then again, I’ve always hated fire…)

Well, the UT game and the Yankee game are about to start, so I’m off to send voodoo…

Stupid pretentious flip flops...

Over the weekend, we ate at a McCormick and Schmick’s restaurant that recently opened in Austin. This is not to be confused with Smith and Wollensky, which is a steakhouse… McCormick and Schmick's specializes in my worst culinary nightmare – seafood, seafood and more seafood. (Incidentally, on a side note: the last time we ate at a Smith and Wollensky – in Chicago – it was HORRIBLE. I doubt I’ll ever return there again. Especially when a couple blocks away there is a perfectly wonderful Morton’s steakhouse, where I’ve had three perfectly delicious meals in the last few months, not to mention three perfectly decadent chocolate lava cakes… the Smith and Wollensky across the river pales in comparison… just FYI… in case anyone happens to find themselves in Chicago in the future – Morton’s = good steak… Smith and Wollensky = horrible, inedible, meat by-products.)

Anyway… we ate at a new McCormick and Schmick’s that just opened in the Domain – the Domain is a big shopping center/apartment complex establishment that popped up a few months ago in north Austin. (At least that’s the way I see it – there’s so much construction in Austin that buildings seem to appear from nowhere and the roads are constantly changing direction…) The Domain has a lot of high-end shops like Neiman Marcus – Rick and I went in there once to see why Neiman Marcus was such a beloved Dallas landmark, and I think we decided it must be because so many people in Dallas want so many OTHER people to know how much money they have. If you say, “I bought it at Neiman Marcus,” what you’re really saying is, “I paid about 200 percent more for this than I actually had to, but I’m, like, totally rich and the tag says Prada so it’s, like, super worth it, and anyway, my chihuahua told me I HAD to shop here – didn’t you, Princess Puppy Paws?” Seriously, while we were wandering around the store, we saw various 150-dollar t-shirts (t-shirts – you know, those things you can get for 15 bucks at Gap?)… and, I swear to the Hindu elephant god Ganesh, a 200-dollar pair of flip flops. FLIP FLOPS for goodness sake. Yeah, I don’t think I have a need to prove my loyalty to overpriced, self-important fashion designers THAT much…

But I digress… I believe I was talking about the McCormick and Schmick’s, which, like I said, is famous for its seafood. So out of the dozens of items on the menu, I was left with a tiny little “steaks” section. I ordered something called filet mignonettes – I was worried my meat would arrive tied up with strings in a puppet theater, but it actually turned out to be quite good. Three very small filets, served on a bed of wild mushroom risotto. I was happy to discover that this almost-exclusively fish restaurant could serve quite a decent steak, as well. (My only complaint is that I saw NO chicken or vegetarian options on the menu… which means if I ever go back, I’ll really only have one option for dinner…) This was the second really good restaurant we’ve tried in the Domain – we tried one a few weeks ago called the Kona Grill, which serves all kinds of sushi (I didn’t try any, obviously) and specialized in a macadamia-nut encrusted chicken (finally! Somebody who serves chicken! :)). The chicken was extremely good, and I also had these really yummy avocado eggrolls as an appetizer.

So after these rather good dining experiences, it was interesting that Rick discovered a blog yesterday that was written by “food critics” (really, I think, just people who like to complain) who denounced the Domain and every culinary establishment within it, proclaiming all the food to be “bland.” Their assessment was that the Domain is filled with pretentious Dallas-wannabes who pay too much money for their purchases, and then proceed to pay too much money for “bland” food. And while I can definitely agree that shops like Neiman Marcus have an annoying air of pretentiousness, there are plenty of down-to-earth shops in the Domain, as well. I’m sure there ARE people who shop there simply to show off designer-names to their friends, but there are just as many financially-strapped couples and unassuming families with kids and strollers who are out and about for the fun of it.

And what I found really ironic about this “food critic” blog was that immediately after condemning the “pretentious” shops, patrons and restaurants of the Domain, several of the critics declared their oh-so-obvious knowledge of all-things-food by pointing out the fact that “I used to live in New York City, so I KNOW what good food is supposed to taste like.” And don’t get me wrong – I adore New York City. And I HAVE eaten in some great restaurants there. But I’m also not so “pretentious” myself that I can’t recognize good food in AUSTIN when I stumble across it. Just because Austin isn’t a giant metropolis doesn’t mean we don’t have a few chefs who know how to cook…

Apparently we also have people who are willing to shell out 200 bucks for a pair of flip flops… but I’ll just stick to eating in good restaurants…

Weekend random thoughts...

Check it out – I finally figured out how to add a picture to my profile… and it only took me, like, five thousand years. Or two years… something like that. Not the best picture when it’s squished down into that little box – the pixels are too pixely or something. (Yeah, I said pixely… it’s a word… sort of… kind of… maybe not…) Anyway, it looks better at full size, but I guess it’ll do for now. Maybe I can find a picture that works better…

So today we were out driving home from Best Buy, and we saw a carpet cleaning truck. Underneath the name of the company it advertised a “24-hour emergency” phone number. And I couldn’t help but wonder – what kind of horrible thing would you have to spill on your carpet to warrant an “emergency” call to a carpet cleaner at, say, 3 or 4 in the morning? I mean, what could possibly happen that would cause you to pick up the phone in a panic and demand, “I need my carpets cleaned NOW!” as opposed to mopping up whatever you could with a roll of paper towels and making a mental note to “call that carpet place first thing tomorrow”?? If you really need your carpets cleaned that badly, I think there might be something going on in your house that the rest of the public doesn’t want to know about… or possibly something the police DO want to know about…

Yankees lost to Tampa Bay tonight – I don’t know what it is about Tampa Bay, but that team could lose every other game of their season and STILL manage to beat the Yankees with some ridiculous score like 17 -1. Tonight it was only 9-1, but really – why do the Yankees have such a problem with this team? They just managed to sweep Boston and now they let TAMPA BAY walk all over them? That just doesn’t make any sense… oh well. Yankees are only 5 and half games behind Boston, and Boston is losing tonight (hopefully they won’t stage a last minute rally)… and Seattle lost, too, which is good, because they’re one game behind the Yankees in the wild card race. I’d just be happy to see the Yankees in the playoffs, no matter how they got there…

I keep hearing about this whole Owen Wilson suicide attempt thing… I’ve heard people derisively remarking that Owen Wilson had so much money and fame and a great job, etc – so why would he want to kill himself? It always amazes me that people still buy (no pun intended) into the myth that money makes everyone happy. Money can only buy temporary THINGS, and that’s it. And “things” can be nice and all, but no matter HOW nice they are, their appeal always wears off. Always. Which is why people who DO believe that money can buy happiness are constantly buying MORE things. Once you have your shiny, sparkly prize, it starts to look a bit more dull and tarnished… so out comes the credit card and another possession is acquired and maybe THIS one will be the one that brings true happiness – but of course it’s not. It never is. When I think about what in my life has made me TRULY happy, more often than not people and relationships are involved. Even when money is required – like for travel, which is one of the things I love most – it’s the people who are with me and the experience itself that bring happiness. So it doesn’t surprise me that someone who’s perceived to “have it all” might, in actuality, be extremely depressed. Money really CAN'T buy happiness…

So I’m sort of half-watching Snakes on a Plane on HBO, and it’s making me never want to fly again. I mean, not only is this plane completely overrun with poisonous snakes, but it’s flying through the worst turbulence ever. Actually, this would be a great in-flight movie… it would probably freak out all the passengers. I was flying somewhere once, and the in-flight movie was “Panic Room” – that movie with Jodie Foster about the guys who break into her house and she locks herself in her protected room – and at a particularly suspenseful part of the movie, the plane started flying through turbulence and I could see lightning from a storm in the distance. And instead of being really scary, it actually made the movie better – we were bouncing around and lightning was flashing outside and Jodie Foster was frantically running from the bad guys and I was like, “argh! She’s not gonna make it! Run, Jodie, run!” In fact, I think if I HADN’T been on a plane flying through turbulence when I watched that movie, I wouldn’t have liked it all that much…

Wow, tomorrow is already September 1st… which means school is back in… which means I can finally once again go to the mall during the week and not feel like I’ve stumbled into the middle of a school field trip to the Gap. Actually, I don’t go to the mall all that often… but when I do, I prefer it to be as uncrowded as possible…

I guess that’s about all the random stuff I’ve got right now. Hope everyone has good weekend. :)

They'll all be playing Monopoly together in no time...

Well, I’ve been attempting to integrate Piva into the rest of the brood… letting her out of her “safe room” a couple times a day for a few hours, and watching to make sure Allegro doesn’t pounce on her. Actually, Piva seems to want to pounce on Allegro every now and then – a fact that greatly vexes Allegro and usually results in much hissing and growling. For the most part, though, Allegro seems to ignore Piva when she’s out exploring, and only reminds the kitten who’s boss when they’re within a couple feet of each other. Echo – ever the sweet, eager-to-please dog she is – has been just fine with the new addition to the household. Of course, Piva had never seen a dog before she discovered Echo asleep in the kitchen a few days ago. At first, she was merely curious – she cautiously crept up to the sleeping creature and sniffed her nose, and then quickly retreated lest Echo suddenly awake. But if Echo is up and about, and happens to sneak up on Piva when her attention is focused somewhere else, Piva will puff up until her tail is all fluffy and start hissing at Echo as if she’s never seen such a frightening sight. I hope Piva gets used to her eventually, because right now there’s this weird sort of aggressiveness triangle – Allegro hisses at Piva… Piva hisses at Echo… sometimes Allegro still hisses at Echo… and poor Echo just wants to be friends with everyone.

Here are a few pictures I took today:

Piva has been fascinated by the television -- she'll sit and watch until someone on the TV makes a sudden move, and then she'll run away for a few minutes until she thinks it's safe to watch again...

The big stare-down... who will make the first move? Hmmm...


Hanging out under the globe, looking all cute and kitten-like... :)

Back home...

We’re back from Chicago – I didn’t have much time to write or post anything while we were there, so I apologize to my multitude of loyal fans (or maybe just one fan? Mom, is that you?) who’ve no doubt been waiting anxiously to hear all about my trip. (What? No? No one has been waiting with bated breath to hear what I did in Chicago? Well, good… now I don’t feel so bad for not posting anything… :))

We stayed at the Hotel Monaco this time, which was just down the block from where we usually stay. The hotel was a bit less run-of-the-mill than a typical chain hotel, and dad and I decided we really liked it. Mom and Rick weren’t as sure, because they’re much more boring and much less fun than dad and I. (Or maybe they’re much more traditional and much less bizarre?? Well, whatever… :)) I should’ve taken some pictures of the hotel, but mom and dad probably have some I can post later. The rooms had fun light green and yellow striped wallpaper, a satin-lined TV armoire, and a minibar full of unusual goodies – like organic chocolate bars, stuffed goldfish, and a toothbrush (presumably in case you eat too much of the minibar chocolate and can’t make it ten feet into the bathroom to find your OWN toothbrush…). What I really liked about the hotel were the little details – every room was stocked with an umbrella (which would end up coming in handy)… the hotel robes were in animal prints (we got a zebra and a giraffe)… and the nightly turndown service included cool candy on the pillows – like flavored Tootsie rolls and Ghirardelli chocolate. Plus the doormen wore these crazy Hawaiian shirts and purple slacks, so I half expected to be offered a mai tai every time I returned to the hotel. The only disappointment was that our rooms were on the wrong side of the hotel – meaning the only view we had was of the Morton’s restaurant next door. And if we’d had a room on the OTHER side of the hotel, we not only would’ve had a view of the river, but we would’ve had really cool window seats to hang out on. I was really hoping for a window seat room…

Anyway... we had a busy few days, hanging out with Eric, helping him pick out a computer desk (it’s not on the floor anymore! Yea! :)), walking around Lincoln Park, visiting the zoo and the Chicago history museum, and driving out to Schaumberg to shop at a huge, crazy M.C. Escher mall (seriously – the stairs were all over the place and it seemed like there were about five different levels in a three-story building…). But the most interesting part of our visit was the day of unexpected severe thunderstorms – we were hanging out in Eric’s condo Thursday afternoon, and around three o’clock, I noticed the sky getting darker. So I went out on the balcony, and actually watched a line of dark clouds rolling into the city – as the clouds reached streets and buildings, it was as if the streets themselves exploded with whipping winds and torrential rains.

We waited out the storm at Eric’s place, and after a while, Rick noticed the forecast on the Weather channel was predicting another line of storms. We decided to walk to a place a couple blocks away to get some dinner, thinking we could make it before the storms arrived, and eat while it was raining. And we did make it to the restaurant before the storm arrived – but while we were there, the rain started up again, along with the crazy wind and lots of thunder and lightning. And part of the restaurant’s ceiling began to leak – fortunately no one was sitting at the table where the water began to fall. And then I heard a rushing noise coming from the back door of the restaurant , a few feet from our table. I looked over and realized water was now pouring down the door, forming a little mini waterfall. It sort of felt like we were on a sinking ship, and I was hoping no one would open that door – because if they did, I was certain a wall of water would rush into the dining room, saturating my lovely mushroom risotto and sending all of us diners out into the street on a rogue wave…

And for some reason, we decided to walk back to Eric’s place before the rain had completely stopped – so the five of us sloshed down the sidewalk as quickly as we could (this is where I realized that hotel umbrella was a really good idea), fervently hoping the conspicuous skyscrapers in the near distance would provide the lightning strikes enough incentive to stay away from us. That was a rather nerve-wracking stroll through the neighborhood… But later on, safe back in Eric’s condo, Eric and Rick and I hung out on the couch and watched a movie. And in the couple hours we were there, we saw lightning hit the Sears Tower at least fifteen times. And even for someone who hates lightning as much as I do, that was SO COOL…

Some pictures:

View of downtown near the Lincoln Park Zoo...

Some rather surprised-looking camels...

Eric's rhino friend, aptly-named Stinky. Okay, actually, WE named him Stinky. But trust me, he is quite aptly-named...

Some kind of wild dog...

It's always best to let sleeping lions lie...

An upside-down swimming seal...

Eric's spiral stairs...

Eric's street...

The leaking door on the Titanic... er, at the restaurant where we ate dinner...

I stood out on Eric's balcony for the longest time, because there was so much lightning in the distance I thought maybe I could catch some on film. But all I could get were some blurry downtown pictures...

The storm aftermath...

Uprooted tree and mangled fence...

My new computer (and my coffee)....

Check out my new computer! Rick bought it for me for our 14th anniversary (which is today – Happy Hanukkah, Rick! :)). I definitely needed a new computer – my old computer was falling apart. And I mean that literally. The case was continually cracking – I even lost entire little bits of the corners – which prompted me to make use of the warranty and have it replaced a couple times. A technician would come out to the house and pry the offending plastic off the computer, and within minutes it would be replaced with brand spanking new plastic. I would then assume that my case-cracking problems were resolved, and I would return to using my computer as a doorstop, an emergency soccer ball for David Beckham, and of course as a hotplate for bowls of mashed potatoes and soup. I don’t know why the case kept cracking like that…

And recently I’ve been having problems beyond a cracked case and missing bits of plastic. The computer would refuse to start when I hit the power button, opting instead to freeze up at a black screen that simply proclaimed the supremacy of Windows… I wasn’t able to actually USE Windows. I was only able to stare at its stupid logo until I powered the computer off and turned it on again. At which point my computer would remind me that it had failed to start properly and did I want to start it in safe mode?? (No, I don’t want to start you in safe mode! Just run like a normal computer already!) It was also starting to deny me access to my email, refusing to send or receive anything for me. I could hit the “send/receive” button all I wanted, but it would never move past “50 percent completed.” Eventually it would give up and ask me arbitrary questions, like, “what’s your password?” and “do you come here often?” and “how high do you think the price of milk will climb?” and I would realize that it had no intention whatsoever of sending or receiving any email.

Anyway, Rick informed me that little annoyances like this can be indicative of impending hard drive failure, so we backed up my email and pictures and my gazillion Word documents, lest my computer decide to crash and burn. (And I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it had really, literally caught fire…) But that was just a temporary measure until I could procure a spiffy NEW computer that actually starts up when I hit the power button and doesn’t protest when I want to read email. Yippee! :)

On to a completely different subject… I was hanging out at home late Saturday night, flipping through some of my movie channels, and I saw the movie “Pan’s Labyrinth” was about to start. Well, I’d heard SO many good reviews of that movie, from critics and regular movie-goers alike, that I decided to give it a shot. It was billed as a fantasy – a sort of dark journey through a fantastical world of imagination. I mean, that’s what it LOOKED like from all the previews. And at first, that’s the way it seemed to be moving – it began with the fairy tale story of an immortal princess who had lived in a kingdom underground, and she wanted to see the world above. So she snuck out of the kingdom, and became mortal, and eventually died. But her soul was still out there in the world somewhere – and some day she would return to the underground kingdom and once again be immortal…

I suppose my first hint that this movie would not be what I was expecting should’ve been the fact that the immortal princess lived in the UNDERWORLD. I mean, she was like the princess of Hades or something. But at first, I just ran with the melancholy mood of the film, and tried to appreciate the great cinematography and special effects. But as the movie went on, it was much less a “fantasy” movie than a graphic war movie with occasional fantasy elements thrown in… and with quite a bit of horror movie, to boot. And by the time it got to the part with the über-creepy “Pale Man” (a bizarre, extremely disturbing man-type creature with sagging skin, dagger-like fingernails and eyeballs in his hands), I found myself thinking, “what the heck am I WATCHING here???” There was too much shocking, graphic violence for the “fantasies” to seem real… the fantasies were too grotesque to be a believable figment of a little girl’s imagination… and the reality was so disturbing and depressing that I was left with a distinct feeling of hopelessness and futility by the end of the movie. I suppose it could be considered a “good” movie in some ways, and it does touch on themes like courage and loyalty and good overcoming evil, but it seemed a bit too disjointed for my tastes. I’ve been unable to decide if I actually “liked” it, or if I was totally disappointed by it. But judging from the confusion of reality and fantasy mixed within the movie, perhaps the director WANTED people to be totally confused by his vision…

Oh well… I have to go deal with the confusion of packing for our trip up to Chicago… will it be warm? Cold? Both? Who knows… :)

Friday randomness...

So last night I was flipping through the channel guide on my TV, and I saw a movie was on Showtime called “The Proposition.” But when my eyes were scanning the titles on the screen, I initially thought it was a movie called “The Preposition.” And I was like, wow, an entire movie devoted to a part of speech! That’s amazing. I wonder which preposition has the staring role… In? Of? With? By? Do other parts of speech have parts in the story? Is there some kind of crazy, digitally-animated battle between the pronouns and the verbs at the end of the movie? But then I realized I’d read the title wrong, and my interest in the movie waned… (oh, it’s The PROposition… who cares…)

And speaking of prepositions, I recently read something about that popular grammar rule we were all taught in school – “never end a sentence with a preposition.” As it turns out, this particular “rule” was carried over from Latin grammar, where it really IS improper to end a sentence with a preposition. English grammar, however, easily accommodates this “erroneous” sentence structure. In fact, literature is full of sentence-ending prepositions – even literature written centuries ago by very proper British ladies and gentlemen who would never think to sully the English language. So I think it’s rather obvious that this particular grammar decree is ignorable. Now all I have to do is decide which preposition I want to end this paragraph with…

I have a huge bruise on my wrist, and I can’t remember how I got it. I do have a vague recollection of banging my arm against something a couple days ago, although I can’t remember what. And now I have this big greenish/yellowish/purplish blotch on my arm. It’s lovely, really. I should coordinate my clothing colors to match my charming little injury…

So I’ve finally broken away from ninth place in my fantasy baseball league, and have climbed all the way up to eighth. I rule. Okay, maybe not. I hope the Yankees will start remembering how to win again soon… they were doing so well for a while there. And, for some reason, I decided to play Pettitte tonight… so they’d really better win. I’m serious. I’ll fly up there and bean them all in the head with baseballs if they lose again…

We’re flying up to Chicago next week, which I’m really looking forward to. I can’t wait to visit Eric in his sparsely-furnished condo. (I wonder if he has a desk yet, or if his computer is still sitting on the floor?) We’re trying a new hotel this time – we usually stay at the Renaissance, but when mom called for reservations a couple weeks ago, they couldn’t guarantee king-sized beds. (And I’m sorry, but once you’ve been sleeping in a king-sized bed for a while, you start to wonder how anyone could sleep in something smaller… :)) So I’ve been wanting to try this hotel I saw on Great Hotels on the travel channel a while ago – it’s called the Hotel Monaco, and it looks a little more “eclectic” than the traditional Renaissance hotel. Samantha Brown on the travel channel seemed to like it…

And speaking of Samantha Brown – right now I have an episode of “Passport to Europe” on, and she’s in Salzburg, Austria, birthplace of Mozart. She’s eating Mozartkugeln – these really yummy little hazelnut/pistachio/marzipan chocolates that someone created in honor of the composer, and now they’re sold all over Austria, and in various other places around the world. There’s an “original” Mozartkugeln that really is the best – but the “imitations” aren’t bad, either. (It’s chocolate – how bad could it be??) The last time I found Mozartkugeln was when we were in San Francisco – San Francisco was such a chocolate-crazy town that I’m not surprised I found it there. But I wish it was easier to find… (although I guess it’s good that it’s not – I’d probably have piles of Mozartkugeln all over my house, and little hidden stashes of Mozartkugeln in closets and pieces buried in dresser drawers…)

Okay, I guess that’s enough randomness for today… time to find something to eat for lunch… hope everyone has a good weekend!

Maybe Allegro would like some cognac...

Well, Allegro has had a few glimpses of Piva now, and she is NOT pleased. Yesterday Rick went into the bedroom where we’ve been keeping the kitten and coaxed her toward the door – and I found Allegro and carried her over to the other side of the door so they could look at each other. Piva seemed to be fine – she just sort of looked at Allegro with mild curiosity, seeming neither scared nor upset that another cat was living in the house. Allegro, on the other hand, immediately started hissing, which then dissolved into a fit of hacking on a hairball. Rick said she was showing her anger and her age all at once. (Hiiiisss! Hiiisssss!! Hii- ackhackhackhackhack…) Poor Allegro… trying to cough up an errant hairball and Rick and I start laughing at her… it really WAS pretty funny… :)

I was encouraged, at least, by the fact that Allegro did not attempt to rush into the kitten’s room and ambush her. She seemed intent on running away – unlike mom and dad’s cat Kiko, who likes to attack other cats and drive them into corners and under beds… and then, once she has made it known that she rules the household, she will return to acting like a sweet, innocent little cat who would never lay an angry paw on anyone or anything. Kiko is such a con artist…

Anyway… I was just reading about how the old Edgar Allan Poe “toaster” story may be a hoax. The story says a mysterious cloaked figure shows up at Poe’s grave every year on his birthday and leaves three roses and a bottle of cognac. No one has ever known who it was, or if it was a single person or many different people, or if anyone ever drank all those bottles of cognac… And now the man who led the efforts to preserve the cemetery where Poe is buried claims the story was a promotional hoax – a legend he made up to create more interest in the dilapidated burial grounds. Some people are upset by this admission – but really, does it ultimately matter? I mean, at this point, the legend (fiction or not) has been around for so long that it actually HAS become tradition. Even if the roses and cognac were left at the grave by the cemetery’s caretaker, the story has gained such recognition that I’m sure it will continue to be told.

Of course, I think it would’ve been more in line with the manner of Edgar Allan Poe to maintain the secrecy of the midnight grave visitor. Poe, after all, was the master of mystery and melancholy. I know some people find his work to be dark and dreary and depressing, but I have to say I LOVE Poe. Ever since I read The Tell-Tale Heart in my ninth grade English class. Sure, his stories ARE dark and dreary and depressing, but he has such a way with all those dark, dreary, depressing words. One of my favorite Poe stories is The Masque of the Red Death – obviously not a cheery piece of work. But I love it because of all the symbolism woven throughout the story – the seven colorful rooms, laid out east to west (symbolizing the stages of life, from the rising to the setting of the sun)… costumed revelers determined to escape the deadly plague by sequestering themselves in a lavish castle (an illustration of man’s futile attempts to secure permanent happiness with wealth and possessions)… the heavy black clock that temporarily stops the festivities when it clangs every hour (man’s realization that time continues to pass unhindered)… It’s one of those stories you have to read several times, just to be sure you’ve caught everything of significance.

And Poe wasn’t all doom and gloom – take The Purloined Letter, for example. This little detective story merely shows how the obvious can be overlooked when we put TOO much thought into problems. The important stolen letter in the story was not hidden in any sort of complex, out-of-the-way place… not under the rug, or behind the wallpaper, or stuffed into a hollowed-out chair leg. No, it was simply tucked into an old letter-holder, in plain sight – plain sight, where no one was bothering to look because everyone figured the letter must be “hidden.” Ever since I read this story, I’ve remembered that lesson – now when I lose something, I always make sure to check the most obvious places first, even if I assume I would’ve seen my missing item had it been lying out in the open. And more often than not, I end up finding what I’m looking for. (Ah, the wisdom of Edgar Allan Poe…)

And hopefully, eventually, my little kitten will be able to walk around in plain sight, instead of hiding from Allegro’s hisses in the back bedroom. I suppose I should go once again attempt to strike up a friendship between those two…

A cat by any other name (part two)...

Gosh, who would’ve thought it would be so difficult to name a kitten? We considered Dolce, Aria and Adagio… we considered names from operas, like Carmen and Tosca (Rick said he could only think of Carmen Electra when he heard the name “Carmen,” so that name was out… and I didn’t know much about Tosca, so I read a synopsis of the story and discovered that the opera’s namesake commits suicide at the end. And did I really want to name my cute little kitten after an operatic soprano who throws herself off a building at the end of her show?), and, as I said in my previous post, we THOUGHT we’d settled on Toccata. But the more I used it, the less it seemed to fit the kitten. And besides that, Aunt Carol mentioned that the shortened nickname “Tocci” (presumably pronounced “toe-key”) reminded her of marijuana because “toke” is slang for smoking pot. Now here’s what I want to know – how is it that Aunt Carol is so clued-up on marijuana lingo?? Hmmm… (just kidding, Aunt Carol!! :))

So after all of that, I finally went back to a name I’d been thinking about a few days ago – Piva. I passed over it initially, because I’d never heard it before, and also because in Italian it can mean “bagpipe.” And while it might be weird to name a cat “Bagpipe,” its Italian counterpart sounds much cuter – and besides, if the last few days are any indication of the future, this kitten is going to be quite talkative. But “Piva” is also the name of a fast dance from the 16th century, or its accompanying music – and our little Piva is definitely fast. Rick has already discovered that she can go from zero to the speed of pouncing on your hand in about half a second… he has the scratch mark to prove it. And Piva just FITS her – she looks like Piva, she sounds like Piva… unlike the other names we’ve tried. So this SHOULD be the final christening…

It’s funny how much easier it was to name my cats when I was a kid. My first cat was a gray tabby with lighter-colored paws that I immediately named Mittens. I mean, since she looked like she was wearing mittens, why not name her the same? We also had an all-black cat that we named Blackie. Such creativity. Later, we added Squeaky to our household – Squeaky, of course, had a meow that sounded like a little rubber squeaky ball. And then came our Siamese – Eric and I decided he should be called Boots. (Gee, Boots, Mittens – what was it with us and accessories? Hey, my cat has a lot of fur, I think I’ll name her Coat…) My mom, however, had another name in mind for the Siamese cat – she wanted to call him Sammy. Eric and I were vehemently opposed to this departure from the specific characteristic-descriptive monikers we’d bestowed upon all our cats up until this point. So much so that we taped a sign to Eric’s bedroom door that said we refused to call Boots “Sammy,” and then barricaded ourselves inside the room in protest. I think we may have gone on a hunger strike. For about, oh, you know, like an hour or so. We were serious. We meant business. We would call that cat Boots for the rest of his life. (And mom, I believe, called him Sammy for the rest of his life. So the cat had two names… it’s not like cats will come when you call them anyway. Unless they really WANT to…)

It wasn’t until I adopted my very own cat from the humane society that I decided I should try to be a bit more creative with my naming process. And I’m glad I was – because although I’m sure there are a million cats in the world named Mittens (and probably TWO million Siamese cats named Boots), I’ve never run across another Allegro. And unless there are a lot of Scottish-Italian bagpipers with cats out there, I probably won’t find another Piva any time soon… :)

A cat by any other name...

Well, after much contemplation and several perusals through my extensive music dictionary, I think we’ve finally settled on the name Toccata for our new kitten. Rick wasn’t sold on “Dolce,” and he thought it sounded weird if you said it more than two or three times (Dolce, Dolce, Dolce, Dolce… hmmm… I dunno… maybe a little…). But I don’t want to write anything in stone just yet, seeing as we’re rather indecisive with this whole naming thing. (It really is a good thing we don’t have a kid… poor thing would be nameless for a year and half while we searched for something with the right “ring” to it…)

I managed to snap a few pictures of her under the futon – she’s gotten to the point where she’ll come out while I’m in the room, as long as I’m down at her level. Which means the only way to convince her it’s safe to emerge from underneath the furniture is to sprawl out on my stomach on the floor. I hope she starts getting a bit braver soon, because it’s not exactly the most comfortable way to hang out with her… :) But she’s been venturing further and further out into the room every day, so I figure it’s only a matter of time before she’ll come out while I’m SITTING on the floor, as opposed to lying on it…

Here are a few pictures:

Safe under the futon...

I figured out that the pictures I took without a flash looked better, but this one came out a little blurry because of the dark, under-futon lighting...

Starting to chill out a bit more...

Almost out from underneath the futon...

Baseballs and kittens...

So was anyone else more excited about Arod’s 500th home run than they were about Barry Bonds 756th? I was rather peeved by the fact that the Yankee game was blacked out on Saturday (apparently Fox has a monopoly on baseball every Saturday – so unless the Yankees happen to be playing the Rangers or the Astros, we never get to see the game) – and of course that’s when Arod decided to break his long stretch of homerunlessness (yeah, that’s right – homerunlessness. It’s a legitimate word. A legitimate word I just made up.). So I had to watch the replay on MLB.com later in the day. It made me think of how much I miss going to Yankee games…

But when I heard that Barry Bonds finally hit number 756, I was overcome with a case of “I don’t really care that much.” I was, however, interested in the crazy melee that ensued immediately after the hit. You’d think that ball was encrusted with rubies and emeralds, or stuffed with endless wads of money. Although I suppose it will be WORTH quite a lot of money, so maybe a plain old baseball that happens to be someone’s 756th homerun is exactly the same as a money-filled baseball that happens to be someone’s, say, 127th homerun. The reaction of the crowd was just insane – I mean, once the ball had landed where fate decided it would land, and the people from two or three rows in all directions had formed an impenetrable mass of humanity, there were STILL baseball-seekers throwing themselves on top of the crowd – as if the person with the ball on the bottom of the pile would eventually emerge and toss his prize into the air once again. People seemed unwilling to accept the fact that if they happened to be ten or twelve rows away from where the ball landed, they were NOT going to be lucky enough to leave that stadium with it. These tenacious (or perhaps simply idiotic) fans were crawling around like ants on top of a dirt pile. It was ridiculous. I was watching the TV and thinking, “dude, just give up already… someone else has it… accept it and move on…”

But I absolutely LOVE that the guy who ended up with the ball is from Queens. Leave it to a New Yorker to determinedly fight their way through a sardine-packed crowd of people and reappear battered but victorious. Did anyone really think a San Franciscan would end up with that ball? C’mon – San Francisco? Peace, love, hippies, rainbows, hybrid cars, environmental responsibility? Yeah, right. New York rules. (Hey, don’t get me wrong – I love San Francisco. It has great chocolate. It’s just… not New York. :))

Well, on a totally different subject… we may have a new addition to our little family – one of the many “outside cats” from mom and dad’s backyard. Mom has decided she will never again feed a stray cat, because they have an uncanny way of multiplying rather rapidly. What began as one homeless cat on the back porch eventually turned into a couple of kittens, which eventually turned into a few more kittens. Right now, there’s a Mom Cat who has pretty much made mom and dad’s backyard her home, and she had four kittens a few months ago. One of them eventually disappeared (snatched away by a hawk? Or a snapping turtle? There are all sorts of critters wandering around that backyard…) but the other three have been happily romping around the backyard for the last few months. And while all three of them are cute, Rick particularly liked one that looked like one of his parents’ cats – a whitish, brownish cat with blue eyes named Simon. So my mom started calling the little kitten Simon/Simone (since we weren’t certain whether it was a boy cat or a girl cat…), and yesterday, she was able to catch it and carry it off to the vet. Turns out it was a Simone. And after the vet, mom brought her over here, and we’re going to see if we can integrate the new kitten into the rest of the brood.

But since Rick and I have this sort of “musical” theme happening with Echo and Allegro, we’re thinking of naming the new kitten “Dolce,” which means “soft and sweet.” So far, “Dolce” seems to fit her quite nicely – she has been sweetly sequestered underneath one of the futons in our extra room, probably traumatized not only by her vet visit, but also by her brand new surroundings. And she has a very soft little meow, which I hear every so often when I stoop down to check on her. So right now, Dolce does seem to have a “soft and sweet” temperament. Of course, who knows how she’ll be acting once she gets used to things and meets the resident dog and cat. We may end up changing her name to Fortissimo eventually (“very loud,” for those not familiar with the term… :)).

Anyway, once she gets to be a bit braver and starts to venture out from under her protective futon, I’ll take some pictures and post them. I’m a bit worried about the new cat’s introduction to the old cat – will Allegro be okay with this curious little interloper? I’m actually not worried at all about Echo – Echo isn’t a bit bothered by new cats or dogs, as is evident when she stays with mom and dad or with Rick’s parents. But Allegro is used to being the one and only cat. The queen of the house, or so she thinks. I guess we’ll see what happens…

I shall report on any strange dreams in the morning...

Mmmm… my friend Cindy and I went out to dinner tonight, to an Indian place I’d heard was “the best in Austin.” I’d heard it, as I mentioned in this post, from a stranger who was sitting behind me on a plane – some random guy I never even bothered to turn around and glance at. For all I knew, he was wearing a big plastic button that said, “I have horrible taste in Indian food.” But I decided to go with his suggestion anyway. And fortunately for us, he must not have been wearing that button – because dinner was gooooood. I think I can still smell curry in my hair… mmmm… curry hair…

After perusing the extensive menu full of barely-pronounceable items (did I want to try the tandoori subjiyon ki numaish or the khuroos-e-tursh? Well, maybe, but could I get a side of phonetic pronunciation with those? I’m such a stupid monolingual American…) we decided on something with a decidedly exotic-sounding moniker: “dinner for two.” This was a great way to try several different dishes at one time – a good thing, if, like me, you look at the menu at an Indian restaurant and see about twenty different things you want to try (I really WOULD like to try the tandoori subjiyon ki numaish and the khuroos-e-tursh… if I go back to the restaurant some day, I’ll just have to point to the entrée of my choice and offer up a horribly mangled version of its proper name…).

With our dinner for two, we were able to try vegetable samosas (gosh, I love samosas… I could eat samosas all day…), a plate of tandoori chicken, salmon tikka and tandoori prawn (I, of course, only tried the chicken and left the seafood for Cindy… I don’t care how spicy it is, it’s still seafood… :)), plus lamb korma, saag paneer, and chicken tikka masala. And it all came with rice and onion kulcha (which was a reeeeeaaaaallly yummy bread… much too yummy… it must’ve been really bad for us…). I think the saag paneer was my favorite… who knew something so goopy, green and lumpy could taste so darn good? Green, lumpy, cheese-filled goop of the gods…

Dessert was included with this whole thing (Cindy took about half of our dinner home – there was just no way we could eat all of that…). We were given a choice between two equally interesting-sounding desserts, so we got one of each and split them. The first was some sort of cottage cheese-type curdy thing with nuts (that sounds rather unappetizing, and I honestly don’t know what I was eating – but it was actually surprisingly good…). And the second was a mango “ice cream” which was also good – but Cindy and I spent several seconds attempting to discern what sort of ingredients had been blended into the dessert. It was frozen, yes – but it was also much less sweet and much more starchy than any ice cream you’d find at the grocery store. (And what’s funny is that now I’m watching “Bizarre Foods” on the travel channel, where the host’s motto is “if it looks good, eat it”… everything looked really good tonight. Everything except the fish…)

So all in all, we really enjoyed our dinner, and I have to send a shout out to that strange guy on the plane who unknowingly recommended it to me. (Thanks, strange guy on the plane who’ll never read my blog!) After our dinner, Cindy and I were wondering why “American” food is so bland compared to foods from other parts of the world. We decided it must be because America is a relatively young country, and by the time it got around to creating its “own” culinary identity, all the cool spices had been used by other countries. So American food is just food from other countries with all the spices removed. And then probably deep fried. If you took away all the interesting ingredients from my dinner tonight, you’d be left with plain old chicken, with some cheese and bread on the side. Fry it up and you have chicken fingers, cheese sticks and pancakes. American food at its best.

I mentioned to Cindy that I LOVE the smell of curry, and will occasionally open the jars I have in my spice cupboard just to take a whiff of their spicy aromas. She thought that was rather amusing, and insisted I mention it in my blog. :) And now I’m off to bed, to see if I have “curry dreams” as Eric swears he has every time he eats Indian food. But I think maybe Eric is just weird…

This salad doesn't taste right...

Well, I managed to successfully pass along my cold to Rick, even though I was very careful about washing my hands/not drinking out of the same glass/etc. Maybe I shouldn’t have sneezed onto his pillow every night before I went to sleep… oh well. No sense worrying about it now. What’s done is done. It’s been interesting to see all the same symptoms I had manifesting themselves in the exact same way and following the exact same timeline with Rick. First the scratchy throat… then the head congestion… then the fever… Actually, it hasn’t been EXACTLY the same – last week at this time, I couldn’t smell or taste a thing. But Rick has managed to hold on to all five of his senses. Well, that just doesn’t seem fair. Perhaps it’s just been delayed. Perhaps Rick will lose his sense of smell and taste tomorrow. I mean, I refuse to allow last week’s misery to be without Rick's company… (just kidding, Rick… maybe… :))

So since we’ve spent the last two weekends eating copious amounts of chicken noodle soup (and since Rick’s illness is at the “end of fever” stage so he’s feeling a bit better), we decided to go out to eat tonight. We went to Chili’s with mom and dad, and I ordered the boneless buffalo chicken salad. But apparently my much-too-quiet voice once again betrayed me (as it did a few years ago when I was at a steak place and ordered a steak “medium well” but the waiter heard “medium rare”) – because my “boneless buffalo chicken salad” somehow morphed into “boneless buffalo chicken fajitas” by the time dinner arrived. (Really? Did it really sound like “fajitas” when I said “salad”?? It sure sounded like salad to me…)

But, me being the nice, patient, benefit-of-the-doubt-giving person I am, I decided to just go ahead and try the fajitas instead of waiting for the kitchen to make the salad. And the waiter seemed so surprised by my reaction – it was like, “really? You’ll just eat what I brought you? But most people complain and yell and get angry! Wow…” And when he came back to ask us how everything was, and I said the fajitas were good (although I have to admit not quite as good as the salad I’d really wanted), he once again seemed amazed that I was such an amiable good-sport about my screwed up dinner order.

It reminded me of when my older brother Robert ran a little restaurant on Lake Mohawk in New Jersey. He used to tell me that he’d never let me wait tables at the restaurant, because he knew the patrons would eventually make me cry. I guess there’s a lot of angry complaining aimed toward table servers at restaurants, and little Lisa is much too sensitive to handle it. (Actually, Bob is probably right… I really don’t like it when people yell at me…) So I have to assume that most people aren’t as forgiving as I tend to be when a dinner order isn’t what’s expected. I have to assume that most people would’ve flung that sizzling skillet of fajitas onto the floor and demanded the salad, as originally ordered.

And maybe I SHOULD have done that, because the waiter went ahead and CHARGED us for the fajitas, even though I ordered the salad (the salad was about three dollars cheaper). So instead of showing some appreciation for my quiet acquiescence and offering me a free dessert or appetizer, the waiter actually charged MORE than if I had demanded what I’d really ordered. That just seems wrong.

Next time, I am SO gonna make the waiter cry…

That 70's baseball game...

My cold seems to be dissipating quite nicely. I’m feeling much better than I was over the weekend. (Over the weekend I felt like a million bucks. A million bucks that had fallen off a truck. Into a mud puddle. Where it had been repeatedly trampled by random pedestrians. And run into the ground by various fast-moving vehicles. And pecked at by scavenging birds. You know, THAT kind of million bucks…) But now I’m feeling more like, oh, ten bucks and pocket change… lying undisturbed on a coffee table. Is that a good analogy? Probably not… especially since I’m the one who wrote it, and it doesn’t even make sense to ME…

Okay, so maybe I’m not 100 percent back to normal yet. But I’m getting there. I’m feeling well enough that I’ll probably go ahead and work out this afternoon. I’ve been lounging around like a couch potato for the last five days, and I think it’s time to increase my activity again. Especially when dad is out there walking like 40 miles a week or something like that… I can’t believe I’m letting my dad get in more miles than me. I mean, I’m all young and sprightly, and dad is, well – remember that fateful movie he attended with Faisal a few years ago? I believe the teenage punk movie employee referred to him as “kind of elderly.” (Which is hilarious… I bet teenage punk movie employee couldn’t walk ONE mile a week, let alone 40… he’s probably too busy playing World of Warcraft on the computer in his mom’s basement…) Anyway, I’ll have to start adding miles to my weekly totals to try to catch up to dad.

So last night, I was sitting around wondering about the same thing I wonder about every night: What would Eric look like if he had a lot of hair and he was wearing a cheesy polyester circa-1970’s jacket? And lo and behold, the answer to my question appeared in the form of a picture message on my cell phone:

Apparently last night was 70’s Night at Wrigley Field (at least that’s the excuse Eric gave me for why he was dressed like this at a baseball game). And the Cubs won, which is good for Chicago, since the Yankees quite convincingly beat the White Sox 16-3 last night. (Of course, I would have liked it if the Cubs had won on Monday, too, when MY pitcher Ted Lilly was pitching. But whatever…)

I think I’ll go watch some reruns of the Brady Bunch…