A brief taste of freedom for the Foo

At the beginning of May, I vacated my old two bedroom apartment with a secured entry as I ventured out into the world of the duplex, that magical place that's not quite an apartment and not quite a house. The beauty of my old place with its secured entry was that if the Foo did manage to make a break for it and escape our modest little place, she found herself trapped in a dingy hallway and was easily corralled and routed back to her captivity. Sadly, the duplex has no such entry, and the Foo was quick to capitalize on this mistake on the architect's part. This is an account of Tofu (who, if you don't know and have been wondering about, is my cat. It's not like I'm one of those creepy people who steal kids and then keep them locked up for years or anything, don't worry) and her brief taste of freedom.

This is how I imagine it went. The Foo, being the brilliant and devious tactician that she is, upon our arrival at the new apartment, immediately took note of all the exits, filing away their weaknesses in the case that an opportunity arose. She carefully noted that the storm door doesn't actually latch closed, and with only a slight push, can be opened. She gleefully saw that the screen on the window of the storm door is only connected on the top and one side, leaving the bottom left corner to flap open. She noticed that there isn't room to stand between the closed main door and the storm door, so by necessity there is a window of time in which both doors are invitingly open. She therefore made three assessments: A. perhaps during those days when her captor leaves the main door open with the storm door shut to enjoy the day, she could push it open, B. if the door proves itself too heavy to open, she may be able to use her cat-like (because she is, in fact, a cat) agility to soar through the flapping screen that separates her from joyously frolicking in the foliage, and C. if all else fails, she could take advantage of her captors often distracted thoughts and creep stealthily past her as she or a friend exits the apartment.

She sadly found that the door is indeed too heavy, and that she herself is too heavy to soar through the screen door, the fatty, and so she was forced to resort to Plan C. So she waited, patiently biding her time, for the perfect opportunity. And there it was, pulsating with a warm, orange glow, choirs of angels singing, bidding her to make her move: both doors open, distracted people chatting. Her little heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and fright, she sneaked by, making her way into the dark night. What followed was a glut of rolling in dirt, hunting insects, and exploring the wonders of the neighborhood. Night became day, and finally, around seven in the morning, a great hue and cry was heard when the jailer discovered that there was an escapee. The Foo hid under porches, behind bushes, beneath cars, avoiding detection by the search party who circled the area throughout the day, asking passerby if they'd seen the runaway. Finally, late in the afternoon, driven by hunger and thirst, Foo resigned herself to captivity, if only for food and water, but ever watchful for the next lax moment when she could escape.

Seriously though, I called my mom sobbing early Friday morning, literally taking ten years off her life, convinced that I would never see Foo again and that she was probably dead somewhere. I called in sick to work, spent hours walking/biking through my neighborhood, asked everyone I saw if they'd seen her, posted on craigslist.com's pet section, and spent a whole lot of time crying. It was ridiculous. And then at 4 o'clock, she just walks right up like nothing has even happened. That little shit. And then she did it again. That little shit. No gratitude, that's what. You feed them, pet them, clean up their litterboxes, and what do they do for you? They run away and leave you in tears. Those little shits. I'll tell you what, it's not happening again. No cats are going to sneak by me again. Eagle-eye. That's what they're gonna call me in their little cat-circles. Only they'll whisper it, cause they'll all be in fear of me. FEAR ME! That's right. I hope you're reading this, Foo. If you are, you just remember this. Remember that my wrath is great and my punishment is swift. And don't even THINK about escaping again. Cause I'll find you.

My new bike's replacement

After the bicycle-scapades (see previous post), I have decided to replace my bicycle with a less-expensive*, more environmentally-friendly** mode of transportation: the catbus. Many may have already seen this vehicle, which was posted on craigslist, as I have waged an extensive fund-raising campaign in an attempt to acquire the moneys necessary to purchase it. I will be honest and admit, this post is part of that extensive fund-raising campaign. You will find, below, an image of the catbus and the accompanying description.

I HAVE A 1995 MO' VAN THAT GOT TRANSFORMED INTO THIS CATBUS. I BROUGHT IT TO A SHOPS AND I WAS LIKE HEY, CAN YOU TURN THIS INTO A CATBUS? SO THEY DID. THEN THAT DAY I DROVE IT HOME. THE CAT BUS ONLY HAS 50K, WHICH ARE ALL HIGHWAY MILES AS I DROVE IT TO WORK 2 DAYS A WEEK AND THAT WAS IT. IT'S IN REALLY GOOD SHAPE AND ALL THE FUR IS STILL ALL THERE. THE STEERING WHEEL HAS A CAT ON IT. IM ONLY ASKING 2900 FOR THE CATBUS BECAUSE ITS REALLY FURRY AND SOMETIMES PEOPLE GET SICK ON IT.

(original url: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/alb/621862265.html)

As you can see, the catbus, with its low mileage and silky fur, is relatively inexpensive, ringing in at just $2900. Therefore, even the smallest donations will be helpful and appreciated. If you or someone you know would like to contribute to the Catbus4Cassi fund, please email me at c4c@gmail.com with your credit card number, expiration date, and the amount you'd like to contribute***. All donations are tax-deductible.

*Projected four year cost for bicycle (factoring in one inner tube plus labor per day): 15486.6 (10.60/inner tube change x 365 days/year x 4 years +1 day for leap year) + 479.95 (original cost of bicycle) + 42.31 (helmet) + 28.76 (locks) + 21.20 (cyclocomputer) + 3.42 (pink plastic tassels for handlebars) = 16062.24 dollars
**I am certain that this vehicle should get at least 8/mpg city, 10/mpg freeway due to its aerodynamic fur which drastically decreases**** air resistance by greatly increasing the surface area and thus the amount of friction as determined by the equation Fd= -1/2pv^2ACdv
***Really, don't email me your credit card information. The Catbus4Cassi fund is completely fictional. c4c@gmail.com is an email address that is unaffiliated with the fictional Catbus4Cassi fund. Donations are not tax-deductible, because the Catbus4Cassi fund does not exist. If you would still like to just give me money, perhaps out of admiration for my mad blog skillz, or out of pity for my bicycle-scapades, I am more than happy to accept and if you will only let me know, I will send you information on how to deliver said money. Thank you.
****I realize that this is completely untrue.

Bicycle-scapades

Yes, after a long hiatus, and many heart-felt pleas by my many fans to revisit my exceptional blog, I am, indeed, sitting at my computer to compose yet another of my fabulous blog posts. As you may have guessed by the title of this post (which is, as you can see, a clever play on the fact that "bicycle" ends with "e" while "escapades" begins with an "e"), I will now detail my late adventures with the bicycle I recently acquired.

When my sister Nicole purchased an inordinately (for me, anyway) expensive bicycle back in March for her birthday (see Nik's ridiculously expensive bike post), and in the spirit of our usual sibling rivalry whereby she is always in competition with my vastly superior intellect, prodigious wit, and all-around stupendousness, I decided that I, too, must purchase a relatively expensive bicycle. Well, actually, I was only going to buy a cheap-o one but she kept badgering me to buy a better one. Finally, I gave in when I found out I was going to get some extra money on my paycheck for April, and thought, Why not? Why not take this money that I could use to pay off one of my credit cards or put in savings in case someday I suffer some catastrophe and lose an eye or my pointer finger and thus can no longer pipette things at work, leading to the loss of my job, or worse, lose the ability to left click on my mouse, resulting in the loss of my ability to play first person shooter games, and spend it on a bicycle which will somehow save me money on gas if I ride it for 30 miles a week every week for the next four years? Clearly, it was a hands-down decision in favor of the bicycle.

So as I was driving back to Utah, after spending several hours researching bikes on the internet, thus becoming an expert on quality and value in those two-wheeled locomotive units, I decided to purchase a low-end brand name bike, if I could get a good price, or a bike from bikesdirect.com, which, while not name brand, consist of the same components as the name brand bikes but for much cheaper. We happened to stop for the night in Cheyenne, after a tortuous and mind-numbing drive through Wyoming, and while there, visited the Sierra Trading Post outlet store. Anyway, cutting it short cause this is getting way too long, I bought a K2 2006 Mach 2.0 bike (below) there for about 50% off, along with free shipping here to Omaha. I spent a lot of time congratulating myself on my purchase while waiting for it come, which it did, last Monday.



Unfortunately for me, it shipped only partially assembled, and I had to put it together myself. Rather than take it to a bike shop and pay 45 dollars for them to do it, I decided to use my vast knowledge of bicycles (which sadly, does NOT extend to mechanical manipulations) to put it together myself. The result: several hours of finger pinching, cursing, and name-calling. Plus one assembled bike. At this point, I'd like to thank Brielyn's (one of my new roomies, more on the move to come in a later post) massive, clunky mountain bike for providing a template of how the gear shift assemblage should look on my sleek, aerodynamic road bike.

After spending an increasingly worrisome amount of money on accessories for the bike--you know, locks, helmets, cyclocomputers, little pink plastic tassels to dangle from my handlebars--I put the bike to good use, riding it to work and around town on errands. Then, on Thursday, I got off work and rode the bike up the 35% incline, three block long hill to the Red Cross to donate blood (incidentally, I swear my 84 pulse was because of that hill, not any lack of in-shapeness on my part). After donating, I got back on my bike and started riding home, only to find that the back tire was most definitely flat. So I walked it to the bike shop that's just about a mile from my house, decided to buy both a $2 patch kit and a $5 inner tube, and also decided that it was worth it to save the whole $5 in labor and use my previously-mentioned bike mechanic skills and non-existent bike tools to patch/change the tube myself. After oh, maybe an hour, I had, through the successful wielding of two butter knives, removed the flat inner tube and patched it. Then, once more wielding my trademark butter knives, I reassembled the tire with the tube. Then I pumped it up. And listened as the air went whooshing right back out the new (and apparently massive) hole I'd made when I put it back in. Ah, the pangs of failure! I think at this point I threw something, but that might have been later.

I took it in the next morning, paid the 5 bucks, and had them fix it. After riding it around that day for maybe nine miles, I got home to find that it was once again flat. At this point I did throw something. My helmet. And my backpack, too, I think. Then I took it to the shop again. So, my vision of riding my bike to work and around every day, saving money on gas and getting more exercise, has changed to an eternal damnation of going to the shop every freaking day to have a flat repaired. So, borrowing from Nik's bike post, when the nuclear holocaust has hit, and the shit is coming down, and she's gliding along on all her bikes (literally, on all of them; you know, kind of like in those movies where one person is riding two horses with one foot in each stirrup--she'll just have one foot on each pedal), I'll be walking my damn bike with its flat tire.

I want da gold

Kyle showed me this hilarious video of a newscast from Mobile, Alabama. He's from the northwest area of Florida, and tells me that occasionally they'll catch segments of the news from Mobile. Seriously, this is an actual newscast. According to Kyle, it's rather characteristic of Mobile, which makes me totally want to move there just so I can live out the rest of my life in a state of constant entertainment.



He also showed me this amazing remix of the newscast. I almost died watching this. Literally. I laughed so hard that I think I nearly suffered an aneurysm. There's really just nothing more I can say about how awesome this is.




"It could be a crackhead...."
"This suit wards off spells..."
"This is a special leprechaun flute that's been passed down from THOUSANDS OF YEARS ago by my GREAT-GREAT-GRANDFATHER"
"I wanna know where da gold's at. I want da gold. Gimme da gold."

The Eye Twitch

This is a post about The Eye Twitch. I'm capitalizing it because I've now had it for so long that it's coalesced from a minute annoyance on the fringes of consciousness into its own entity, a living blight that threatens to drive me to insanity. The Eye Twitch took its fledgling breaths early in December, appearing as a brief series of muscle spasms in my left eyelid. Since that time, it's slowly been gathering strength, repeatedly occurring at the most inconvenient times. Indeed, I can only conclude that the people at my workplace consider me to be some sort of pirate, what with my twitchy eye and the fact that often the only thing that makes it bearable is to scrunch it up in an "Arr, matey!" sort of look. That, or perhaps they think I have Tourette's. If so, I may take advantage by yelling profanities and inappropriate comments whenever I feel like it.

Regardless, I don't believe I actually have Tourette's, nor am I a pirate (although that would be some swashbuckling fun). I was driven in desperation a few days ago to search for eye twitching on the internet, and found several sites that blame the cause on anxiety, fatigue, and stress. Also, genetics may play a role. And I did find out that my mom has had previous eye twitching episodes, as well. So I could blame her for it. But, I've actually come up with my own theory for the cause behind The Eye Twitch. Here it is: my eyelid is so sick of being attached to my body that it's gradually building up its strength to make its big escape, possibly while I'm asleep to prevent me from forcing it to stay. And to be completely honest, I don't blame it, and I've long suspected some of my limbs of plotting escape. So it comes as no surprise. Unfortunately, I can't just let it go, you know? I mean, where would my eye be if I had no eyelid? All dried up and frankly, kind of freaky looking. Plus, then my eye would probably rebel and make it's own escape, and I'm sure that would just start a chain reaction. First the eyelid, then the eye, then what? Anyway, the point is, I'm actually on the verge of ripping off my eyelid and gouging out my eye.

Life in Dundee

So it's that most glorious time of the year again. You know what time I'm talking about. No, not the holidays, stupid. It's January, for crying out loud. I mean the time of year when my car is constantly covered with the sugar-salt-sand mix they plaster on the roads, when my parking lot turns into a skating rink for automobiles, and when the wind is so cold that I'm in constant danger of losing fingers and toes. Yes, it is that time. And let me tell you, I love it. Please, let me give you just a couple of examples of why it is, indeed, so wonderful.

First, freezing rain. Need I say more? Oh yes, yes I do. There's nothing quite like driving with both your windshield wipers on full speed and your defrost on full blast because the rain freezes on the glass if you don't. Unless it's walking out to your car the next morning and discovering that someone has replaced it with a 1997 Honda Civic-shaped ice sculpture. (As a side note, it took me fifteen minutes to chisel off the quarter inch of ice from my driver side window.)

Second, the lack of anything resembling a snow plow in the entire city of Omaha. Instead, they use a technique colloquially referred to (by me) as "sprinkling the snow and slush with crap in an effort to permanently disrupt the ecosystem by removing the nation's topsoil and mixing it with salt and sugar, thereby contaminating said topsoil and preventing its further use in agricultural settings, which doesn't matter anyway because it's no longer in an agricultural setting, unless you count the streets of Omaha since they're now covered with a nice, thick layer of sediment." You have to admit it's pretty amazing to come home from your vacation (all the while driving on the sandy morass of the streets) and find that the parking lot behind your apartment building is a solid sheet of 2 inch thick ice. And you thought tire chains were just for driving up canyons to ski resorts.

Finally, I'd like to say how much I enjoy the freezing temperatures coupled with gale-force winds, which seem to be concentrated in the fifty feet of space located directly in front of the entry to my work place. It's very invigorating, that life or death challenge of reaching the door. How many people have the good fortune to wake up in the morning, think, "Today I may lose my pinkie on my way to work," then drag themselves out of their warm bed to face the excruciating pain of slowly freezing to death?

Why I need to wash my car...

Last night I parked in the stall next to the garbage bin in our parking lot. This morning I began driving to work (yes, I was driving to work, which is about five blocks away, because I was too lazy to walk), wondered why my windshield was so dirty, and realized there were paw prints all over it. Apparently the neighborhood raccoons had a little party last night in the garbage bin and on my car, which makes me slightly worried about what, exactly, those paw prints consist of.