Tag Archives: Alan

It wouldn’t be summer without the waterpark.

29 Aug

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It’s become something of a tradition for me to go to the waterpark with Alan and the kids when he has them for the last week of their summer break. So this past weekend… was Splashdown time.

Good news about this year’s trek – the Lazy River did not close once while we were there. (Perhaps because they now sell rubber diapers in the snack shop? Compliments to the chef!)

On a somewhat related note, when we took a lunch break and passed around a bottle of water, Alan’s son suggested we were drinking dinosaur pee. Alan refuted that, saying, urine and water are not the same thing. Helpfully, I chipped in, “But I’m going to guess every one of us has consumed human pee today.”

The kids looked disgusted and responded, predictably with, “No way!”

I raised my eyebrows. “Have you put your head IN the water in the Lazy River?” They nodded. “Fine. Then it’s a lock you’ve had urine in your mouth at some point today.”

Silence.

The kids recovered quickly and soon moved on to more important things.

Alan’s son informed me that you could bleed to death from any cut. “Maybe,” I said, “But in most cases you’d really have to work at it. I mean, you’d have to milk it like a cow.”

Alan’s daughter observed that it would be weird of you milked cows and blood came out. Then pointed out that Dracula would probably like that.

Which led us to speculate that perhaps he would be renamed, “Cownt Dracula” if that’s how he got his blood.

Image Source: http://funnydrive.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/apple-crack-funny-fruit.jpgWe all processed that for a minute, then someone said, “These apple slices are GOOD.”

“I would’ve brought more,” Alan explained, “But these were the last two apples.”

“In the WORLD?” we all asked at once. Points for us.

“Yes,” Alan said, “Ever. These slices mark the end of apples on the planet.” Points to Alan for playing along.

The conversation moved on to other things and, checking his watch, Alan suggested that we wrap up the meal and return to the waterpark. He looked at the kids and realized they were eating very slowly. “Come on! Let’s get moving.”

I’d been watching the situation unfold and said, “Good luck. I think we’ve reached a stalemate.” At some point, the kids had decided they each wanted to be the one who consumed the LAST bite of the LAST apple on Earth.

And so A’s slice remained untouched in the Tupperware container and K hid hers in her hand behind her head. I explained this to Alan and the kids started laughing, busted.

“I have an idea,” Alan said. “Let’s count to three and you can both eat them at the same time so it’s a tie.”

After many attempted psyche-outs, they finally both put the apples in their mouths. We started walking toward the gate. And here’s how the conversation went…

K: Did you swallow yet?

A: Nope. Did you?

K: Yeah.

A: Oh. (GULP)

K: Not really. I win.

A: Me too. I still have some in my mouth.

K: How much?

A: Flecks.

Alan: ENOUGH. I don’t want to hear about or see your apples!

Miraculously, the kids listened.

Now if only everyone at a waterpark could refrain from displaying their fruit. I might not have to barf in the Lazy River.

This post is as random as my cat’s stomach.

12 Aug

Image Source: http://weknowmemes.com/2013/02/let-me-tell-you-a-story/I went to Boston last week for work. I usually travel a lot, but haven’t been on the road since I got Miss Moneypenny. Normally, Alan would stay with her and make sure all was well, but he got called to NYC himself last week, so I scrambled to find a sitter. I even went so far as to contact a professional pet sitting place to see if someone could stop in… but then my friend Alison hopped to the rescue.

We were at dinner a few days before my trip and I mentioned that I needed a sitter. “I’ll do it,” she offered.

“No,” I said, “It’s for multiple days…”

“That’s fine,” she said. I wish I were that laid back. She hadn’t even MET Miss Moneypenny when she volunteered to cat-sit.

Her friend Shawn piped up, “Careful! Ask her what happened when she cat-sat for me!”

I looked at Alison expectantly. “It wasn’t my fault,” she said. “How was I supposed to realize the cat and dog had separate bowls?” Turns out, she’d emptied the cat’s bowl into the dog’s bowl and only fed the dog for the week. In her defense: it’s not like there wasn’t food around. If the cat got hungry enough, she could’ve snacked from the dog’s bowl.

Fast forward three days from hearing this story… There we were with fresh sheets on my bed so Alison could house/cat-sit and play with Miss Moneypenny until Alan returned from New York.

The report cards (which arrived by text) were positive regarding Miss Moneypenny. (“She’s so sweet!”) But not so positive when it came to my upstairs neighbor. (“Dude. Is your neighbor a GIANT? Does he LEAP instead of WALK?”)

Oh crap. Forgot to caution her to bring sleeping pills to cancel out McStomperson.

NOT my cat. But note the tummy.

NOT my cat. But note the saggy tummy.

Alan arrived back from NYC in time to relieve Alison for the last day. He called me with an odd question. “Have you ever noticed, when you’re behind or above Miss Moneypenny, and she runs somewhere in a hurry – like to her food bowl…”

I knew exactly where he was going with this, so I cut him off. “Yes! You’ve seen her fupa!”

Alan started laughing. “EXACTLY. What is going on there? Her stomach swings like a gate from side to side when she runs!”

(If you don’t know what a fupa is, it stands for “fat upper pubic area” and is generally used to describe loose fat that hangs down into a person’s pants somewhere between their stomach and their crotch. As it turns out, cats can have them too, even though they don’t wear pants.)

Time-out: My sister just informed me that “fupa” is not a technical term. Apparently I shouldn’t treat UrbanDictionary as a legitimate reference source. Alicia says the actual term I’m looking for is “pannus.” (See? This blog is educational. Which means classy. You’re welcome.)

Anyway. The moral of the story is: Miss Moneypenny  survived the week without me. And you have to love a cat whose stomach waves in greeting… almost as much as I love this photo:

This has NOTHING to do with this post, but absolutely slayed me.

This has NOTHING to do with this post, but absolutely slayed me.

Red, white and blood?

8 Jul
"Do you think I need to go to the Emergency Room?"

“Do you think I need to go to the Emergency Room?”

I mentioned in my last post that our Fourth of July became a bit of an adventure when Alan came for me at the community pool, squeezing his finger as blood flowed down his hand.

(You’re WELCOME, fellow residents, who previously only wondered if children had peed in the pool.) 

He opened with, “I don’t think it’s anything major…” but the fact that he’d walked down to find me meant that he actually did think it could be major and wanted a second opinion – or a driver to take him to the ER.

I quickly gathered my items and followed him back to his place. We examined his finger under running water, and every time he stopped cutting off circulation to his finger, blood gushed out in time with his heartbeat.

Some people might be squeamish, but we’re both pragmatic. I hated to even ask the question. “Do you think you should go to the emergency room?”

Alan took a deep breath. I knew what he was thinking. We hate the emergency room and will go to great lengths to avoid it because it’s inefficient and generally requires a minimum of a six-hour time commitment. And on a heavy drinking holiday like the Fourth? It’d probably be overflowing with dumb drunk injuries and mean an overnight.

“I’m actually not sure,” Alan concluded.

So we talked it out. We should go to the ER if we couldn’t stop the bleeding. Or if it seemed infected. Otherwise, there was nothing to be gained, we reasoned. After all, he’d shaved his entire fingertip off, so it’s not like there were “edges” that could be stitched together. Short of grafting skin to the area, the doctors wouldn’t be able to do anything we couldn’t do at home.

Plus, we had two fat rib-eyes ready to throw on the grill. If there had been any doubt about our ER avoidance plan, this factor effectively killed it.

Later in the evening, as I tidied up the kitchen, I spotted a number of paper towels in the trashcan from the earlier drama. At the top of the pile was a cocktail napkin with Amtrak’s logo on it in blue, surrounded by red blood drops. “You should carry that on your next trip to New York and stumble off the train with it in your hand, commenting, ‘Hell of a ride…’ to anyone you see.”

Alan shook his head. “Actually,” I reconsidered, “It looks rather patriotic, what with the red, white and blue motif. You certainly know how to honor Independence Day!”

“Well,” Alan said, “As Jefferson said, ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots.'”

Good point.

Just not sure Jefferson envisioned combat taking place with potato peelers.

We call this independence.

6 Jul

I live in our Nation’s Capital and I love it.

It’s a great city for so many reasons: It’s super walkable; there are hundreds of miles of bike paths around the area (56 miles in the District itself!); the architecture is pretty; each neighborhood has its own distinct personality; the residents are some of the best educated in the nation; the public transit system is clean and safe; there’s so much culture – museums, theaters, galleries – and most of it is free… I could go on. And on.

But one thing I do not like about living here: The tourists.

DC Tourists

See what I mean?

I know, I know. This city belongs to all Americans, so I can’t really get territorial.

But from April to September, DC is transformed into the urban equivalent of Walmart as loud people wearing Cheetoh-stained flag shirts and fanny packs crowd the sidewalks (four-across, no less!) with their mouths agape, making it hard for those of us who live here to get from Point A to Point B. I’m here to tell you that the stereotype of “Obnoxious American Tourists” isn’t reserved for how we behave in other countries.

So then, to continue the analogy: If DC is like Walmart for six months of the year, Independence Day is like Black Friday. People show up early. They push and shove to jockey into position. There are more people than real estate. And Neil Diamond is playing over the PA system.

Most locals either stay home and watch the fireworks from their roof decks or scoot out of the city all together, choosing to relax on a beach for a week while the inmates run the asylum back in DC.

Alternate Source: www.animalcapshunz.comThis year, since Independence Day fell on a Thursday and Alan had to work on Friday, we decided to stay in the area. The forecast was hot and humid, so rather than hanging in the District, I hopped on my bike Thursday morning to head to Alan’s place in Arlington so we could relax by the pool and grill up some steaks for dinner, far from the crowds.

We thought we were clever – hatching a plan that allowed Alan to avoid the District in his car on a notoriously crazy traffic day – but apparently we had overlooked a wee detail. Namely, the fact that it hasn’t even been three months since the Boston bombings.

Meaning: Homeland Security spared no effort in securing our Nation’s Capital, something I hadn’t realized until I was on my bike, trying without luck to cross Constitution Ave in front the White House.

As I came rolling down 15th Street, I saw a crowd ahead of me, blocking my path to Constitution Ave. I could tell they were watching a parade (as evidenced by the people dressed in old-timey gear, riding old-fashioned bicycles in circles while waving over the on-lookers’ heads), but this in itself didn’t deter me – I’ve accidentally participated in races, runs and parades before due to bad timing. (The most memorable was when I accidentally became the pace car for the Gay Pride Parade because I remembered to move my Jetta just as the cops where showing up to tow it.)

Image Source: http://www.jointaction.org.uk/media/Joint%20Action%20Media/News%20Pictures/X-Ray%20Bike%20Rider%20(colour)%20(smaller).JPGSo the crowd was thick, but I was going to try to wiggle through and cross – until I saw that the Mall had an eight-food chain link fence barring access to the other side of the street. Huh? (After Googling, I’ve learned the barricade actually ran 32,000 feet in length.)

I did a U-turn and asked a cop for advice about where I’d be able to cut across the Mall. He was friendly but useless. Apparently when they’d done the briefing for the event, he had only paid attention to his specific role – not the overall design of the parade route and city plan in general.

I thanked him for nothing, then rode back up 15th Street, where I asked a Secret Service agent the same question. As expected, he was more dialed in and offered good advice. I’d have to cut up to the Memorial Bridge and take that route out of the city. No problem.

Or at least – no problem until I got to the bridge and saw that it was blocked by a series of Metro Buses parked nose-to-tail, creating a rather effective barricade, with cops monitoring the only gap that remained. Turns out, the ENTIRE Mall – from the Lincoln Memorial/Memorial Bridge to the Capitol Building, was fenced in. The only way to get out of town was to pass through one of nine pedestrian checkpoints.

So I biked back half a mile, then stood in line with other bikers and walkers trying to get to (or across) The Mall. The police inspected my bag and wiped my bike down with the chemical/explosive detecting wand typically used at airports.

The security measures ended up adding 30 minutes and two miles to my commute out of town. A headache on a hot day, but it appears the efforts were effective since there were no major “events.”

Unless you count Alan fetching me from the pool later that afternoon, blood dripping off his hand at an alarming rate after he took the tip off his finger with a potato peeler. Guess next year we’ll have to put an eight-foot fence around his kitchen.

Introducing… Miss Moneypenny!

2 Jul

I got a cat.

I know what you’re thinking: Aren’t you ALLERGIC to cats? Didn’t you give BACK a kitten once? How will a cat work with your OCD tendencies?

Or maybe you’re not thinking that at all – maybe I’m projecting?

To answer your (my) questions:

  1. Yes. I am allergic to cats. But my intestines are apparently allergic to food and I haven’t stopped eating. At least I can pet a cat. And a cat will never cause me to shit my pants or need surgery. So overall, I think the cat wins this one. Did I mention I can PET it?
  2. Yes. Factually, speaking, I did once give back a kitten. But in my defense: my co-worker had found a litter in her garage and pawned them off on people for “trials” hoping we’d get attached. And the particular kitten that I got was something of an asshole. So of course I gave him back.
  3. Way ahead of you on this one. I’ve set up a lidded litter box with a swinging door, and it’s perched on a litter mat that grabs loose litter of my cat’s paws. Also? I deliberately chose a cat that matched my couches and rug so that fur would blend in. (That is: any fur that I miss during my twice-daily wipe downs.)

So now that we’ve resolved your (my) initial concerns, let me introduce…

Miss Moneypenny  © 2013 pithypants

OK, I’ll admit, her given name is “Squeaky.” And as Alan has pointed out, it’s probably ridiculous to try to rename an animal something that involves five syllables. But I think we all agree that “Squeaky” requires updating for obvious reasons. So why not go with a James Bond character?

Alan actually first suggested (to one of my co-workers, nonetheless) that we were naming her Pussy Galore. I’m sure I don’t have to explain why Miss Moneypenny seems a tad more fitting, but in case you’re slow on the up-take: because I’ve always wanted a secretary.

Duh.

One step closer to becoming a crazy cat lady. Wait for it.