Today
Today, the unthinkable happened. Today, I missed the Audi. It was the first beautiful day in Portland since August...oh, 1997... and it was a perfect day for a convertible. Notwithstanding the new transmission (the only one in the country), new clutch, new brakes, new battery (two of those), new alternator, $700 window and $500 blinker switch (and the extra kidney and cornea I had to auction to pay for those things - boy, Beto really misses those)... Notwithstanding that the tow companies knew us by name and our mechanic sent his kid to the Ivy League on our invoices, alone... I still missed the car... but just for today.
You would think I would have learned about VW-related cars, given the 1974 VW Bug with the exploding floorboards, failing brakes and the heat that seared your ankles and left the rest of you frost-bitten, or the VW GTI with its $500 headlights and 6 mufflers, that was stolen and stripped of everything including the windows, and excluding the radio... nope. No how, no way.
Today I still wish I had the car. Of course, that nostalgia would promptly end the next time we had to roll the car off the road and wait for a tow truck or live in panic at each new rattle, thump or wheeze.
The good news is that we were never alone in our misery - www.MyAudiTTSucks.com
You would think I would have learned about VW-related cars, given the 1974 VW Bug with the exploding floorboards, failing brakes and the heat that seared your ankles and left the rest of you frost-bitten, or the VW GTI with its $500 headlights and 6 mufflers, that was stolen and stripped of everything including the windows, and excluding the radio... nope. No how, no way.
Today I still wish I had the car. Of course, that nostalgia would promptly end the next time we had to roll the car off the road and wait for a tow truck or live in panic at each new rattle, thump or wheeze.
The good news is that we were never alone in our misery - www.MyAudiTTSucks.com
PS
Did you know that Bilbo Baggins was in Alien?
Week of the Weird
I've been trying to come up with a creative way to spin what was last week, but to no avail. So, here's the deal. I had a weird week. As a matter of context, I spent the majority of the week in depositions while Beto was in Brazil.
Tuesday morning, after suffering a night of insomnia and before backing my car into our neighbor's stone retaining wall, my mom's dog Cosmo bit me in the jugular. That's right - a canine throat-punch with crooked teeth. My initial concern was the embarrassment I'd suffer in heaven when the mean kids circulated my obituary which described how I bled out on my bed next to the villainous 12 pound great white carpet shark. (Don't ask me how it is mean kids get to heaven... adrenaline tends to blur reasonable thought.) Upon realizing that Cosmo's tiny little impaling death grip didn't puncture the main vein, my next concern was how to convince the people in my deposition that no, it was not a hickey, and yes, it's true I was bitten by a dust mop. No luck on that one, even though there were four or five clearly distinct bright red teeth marks.
So, on the way in to work, after backing my car into our neighbor's stone retaining wall, I received an urgent call from my assistant to the effect of "Um, the woman you are supposed to depose is freaking out in the elevator lobby on 19 because she's terrified of heights. She won't move, she's yelling and the receptionists want to know what to do."
Okay. Well, if I were afraid of heights, I'd consider that before pressing the button for the 19th floor in the elevator that travels only to floors 15-30. But who am I to judge? So, after offering a few alternatives including the one in which the panic-stricken woman's attorney would handle the mess, we ended up taking the deposition in the now-defunct restaurant in one of the lobbies in the building, for all of the Starbucks crowd to witness. You probably have to be familiar with depositions to know just how strange that was.
And then, on Friday, I just missed Obama by a hair. He was apparently working out in the gym in the building where that day's depositions occurred. Okay, that story is not quite as entertaining, but I did think it was fairly strange.
The good news is that this week is proving itself to be tremendously boring and uneventful. That, and my open neck wound is healing nicely.
Tuesday morning, after suffering a night of insomnia and before backing my car into our neighbor's stone retaining wall, my mom's dog Cosmo bit me in the jugular. That's right - a canine throat-punch with crooked teeth. My initial concern was the embarrassment I'd suffer in heaven when the mean kids circulated my obituary which described how I bled out on my bed next to the villainous 12 pound great white carpet shark. (Don't ask me how it is mean kids get to heaven... adrenaline tends to blur reasonable thought.) Upon realizing that Cosmo's tiny little impaling death grip didn't puncture the main vein, my next concern was how to convince the people in my deposition that no, it was not a hickey, and yes, it's true I was bitten by a dust mop. No luck on that one, even though there were four or five clearly distinct bright red teeth marks.
So, on the way in to work, after backing my car into our neighbor's stone retaining wall, I received an urgent call from my assistant to the effect of "Um, the woman you are supposed to depose is freaking out in the elevator lobby on 19 because she's terrified of heights. She won't move, she's yelling and the receptionists want to know what to do."
Okay. Well, if I were afraid of heights, I'd consider that before pressing the button for the 19th floor in the elevator that travels only to floors 15-30. But who am I to judge? So, after offering a few alternatives including the one in which the panic-stricken woman's attorney would handle the mess, we ended up taking the deposition in the now-defunct restaurant in one of the lobbies in the building, for all of the Starbucks crowd to witness. You probably have to be familiar with depositions to know just how strange that was.
And then, on Friday, I just missed Obama by a hair. He was apparently working out in the gym in the building where that day's depositions occurred. Okay, that story is not quite as entertaining, but I did think it was fairly strange.
The good news is that this week is proving itself to be tremendously boring and uneventful. That, and my open neck wound is healing nicely.
Hilarious
Cuteoverload.com gets me through the day, but I recently found icanhasacheezburger.com and ihasahotdogs.com
which are, in a word, hilarious. May they talk you down from the ledge as often and successfully as they will inevitably will for me.
see more cute dogs and puppies
see more crazy cat pics
which are, in a word, hilarious. May they talk you down from the ledge as often and successfully as they will inevitably will for me.
see more cute dogs and puppies
see more crazy cat pics
Another Truth...
You want me to do W H A T ??
There are certain unspoken and profound truths, one of which I discovered this weekend:
... a person should never, ever be instructed to stick a digital thermometer in her cat's ass...
...particularly when that cat - upon falling into the bathtub - recently initiated a water-frenzied mauling that simultaneously rivaled the Bellagio's water fountain show and Roy Horn's attack in Las Vegas. I had more puncture wounds than 50 Cent.
But alas, the world's best veterinarian, Dr. Anders, gave us only two options: violate the kitty** or take him to DoveLewis for emergency overnight care to monitor a troubling fever. My response? Unmitigated horror punctuated only by a silent scream and a pause in the time-space continuum. Beto's? Uproarious laughter.
So, Beto and I struck a deal. I'd commit the impropriety (because let's face it - it is simply improper to stick anything in your animal's butt), if he went into the store to buy the thermometer and the vaseline. I got the raw deal, the short end of the stick - so to speak.
And so it was, that for 8 seconds every 4 hours this weekend, notwithstanding the dread, the gagging, the apologies, the near-chant-like recitation of "oh for the love of ALL that is sacred, I CANNOT believe I have to do this," and the hope that I would walk away with my eyeballs intact (resisting the urge to gouge them out myself if Oliver didn't do it for me), our world stood still as we discovered new geographic locations for areas where, in fact, the sun does not shine ....
...and for the remaining 3 hours, 59 minutes and 52 seconds, poor Oliver went into hiding, one very, very angry kitty.
** I begged for an ear thermometer.
... a person should never, ever be instructed to stick a digital thermometer in her cat's ass...
...particularly when that cat - upon falling into the bathtub - recently initiated a water-frenzied mauling that simultaneously rivaled the Bellagio's water fountain show and Roy Horn's attack in Las Vegas. I had more puncture wounds than 50 Cent.
But alas, the world's best veterinarian, Dr. Anders, gave us only two options: violate the kitty** or take him to DoveLewis for emergency overnight care to monitor a troubling fever. My response? Unmitigated horror punctuated only by a silent scream and a pause in the time-space continuum. Beto's? Uproarious laughter.
So, Beto and I struck a deal. I'd commit the impropriety (because let's face it - it is simply improper to stick anything in your animal's butt), if he went into the store to buy the thermometer and the vaseline. I got the raw deal, the short end of the stick - so to speak.
And so it was, that for 8 seconds every 4 hours this weekend, notwithstanding the dread, the gagging, the apologies, the near-chant-like recitation of "oh for the love of ALL that is sacred, I CANNOT believe I have to do this," and the hope that I would walk away with my eyeballs intact (resisting the urge to gouge them out myself if Oliver didn't do it for me), our world stood still as we discovered new geographic locations for areas where, in fact, the sun does not shine ....
...and for the remaining 3 hours, 59 minutes and 52 seconds, poor Oliver went into hiding, one very, very angry kitty.
** I begged for an ear thermometer.
Check out the Fur Beans!
Oprah and Taxes
I remember watching Oprah when she co-hosted a Baltimore morning show. I think I was maybe 6 or 7. And the divide between Oprah and me as it existed in the Year of Our Lord 1980 grew only bigger as the decades wore on.
Oprah, for example, has her "Aha!" moments where her endless self-examination collides with some outer-Oprah event, distilling for her - to the point of Buddhist-like clarity - some life lesson.
Yes, Oprah has her "Aha!" moments...
..... and we have our "Oh shit!" moments...
... like, for example, today, when our accountant emailed us to find out how much we had paid in quarterly taxes for 2007. Between you and me, didn't know we hadta pay quarterly taxes.
Oops...
Oprah, for example, has her "Aha!" moments where her endless self-examination collides with some outer-Oprah event, distilling for her - to the point of Buddhist-like clarity - some life lesson.
Yes, Oprah has her "Aha!" moments...
..... and we have our "Oh shit!" moments...
... like, for example, today, when our accountant emailed us to find out how much we had paid in quarterly taxes for 2007. Between you and me, didn't know we hadta pay quarterly taxes.
Oops...
House Hunters Gone Wild
I had to post. I could not resist. We just watched HouseHunters. These Texans paid $1.5 million for a house on ... wait for it... Ambergris Quay. Now those of you who did not read the detective story in the first grade about whale ambergris might not be so quick to jump on my bandwagon, so consider this:
am·ber·gris [am-ber-grees, -gris] –noun an opaque, ash-colored secretion of the sperm whale intestine, usually found floating on the ocean or cast ashore
I suppose the real estate on the Llama Spit Peninsula was overpriced.
am·ber·gris [am-ber-grees, -gris] –noun an opaque, ash-colored secretion of the sperm whale intestine, usually found floating on the ocean or cast ashore
I suppose the real estate on the Llama Spit Peninsula was overpriced.
WaffleGate
I am mourning the breakup of a relationship. A relationship that has lasted more than 9 years. A relationship with a local breakfast joint.
I've gone to this place for breakfast since my early days in law school. It's a roadside diner, no smoking, decent basics, with decor that hasn't changed since Rick Springfield topped the charts and jelly bracelets were all the rage.
Beto and I went for breakfast recently. We plopped ourselves down on the red marble vinyl booth cushions that had just enough duct tape to simultaneously rip and bind whatever you might be wearing on the bottom half of your body. As we looked over the menu, Beto announced, "Here comes your boyfriend."
Now, this "boyfriend" was obviously nothing of the sort... in fact, he was the guy we'd typically try to avoid. He's the guy you look at with a curious head tilt and think, "hmmm... I could picture him in the news for boiling bunnies and stowing away the neighbor's body parts in his basement freezer."
Beto calls him my "boyfriend" because one day, EIGHT YEARS AGO, he presented me with a belgian waffle, topped with a heart made out of whipped cream.
Now, I have to admit, that it takes a remarkable sum of cajones to present a woman with a whipped cream heart when it's obvious that the love of her life has joined her for breakfast. So, I had to assume that he did the same for all the ladies, and didn't make much of it.
After we ordered on this recent Saturday, I said to Beto, "You MUST knock off the boyfriend thing. That was EIGHT YEARS AGO." And I was so consumed by the concept that I failed to order the waffle sans EasyWhip.
And 'lo and behold, here comes my boyfriend, with another belgian waffle with a whipped cream heart.
I've gone to this place for breakfast since my early days in law school. It's a roadside diner, no smoking, decent basics, with decor that hasn't changed since Rick Springfield topped the charts and jelly bracelets were all the rage.
Beto and I went for breakfast recently. We plopped ourselves down on the red marble vinyl booth cushions that had just enough duct tape to simultaneously rip and bind whatever you might be wearing on the bottom half of your body. As we looked over the menu, Beto announced, "Here comes your boyfriend."
Now, this "boyfriend" was obviously nothing of the sort... in fact, he was the guy we'd typically try to avoid. He's the guy you look at with a curious head tilt and think, "hmmm... I could picture him in the news for boiling bunnies and stowing away the neighbor's body parts in his basement freezer."
Beto calls him my "boyfriend" because one day, EIGHT YEARS AGO, he presented me with a belgian waffle, topped with a heart made out of whipped cream.
Now, I have to admit, that it takes a remarkable sum of cajones to present a woman with a whipped cream heart when it's obvious that the love of her life has joined her for breakfast. So, I had to assume that he did the same for all the ladies, and didn't make much of it.
After we ordered on this recent Saturday, I said to Beto, "You MUST knock off the boyfriend thing. That was EIGHT YEARS AGO." And I was so consumed by the concept that I failed to order the waffle sans EasyWhip.
And 'lo and behold, here comes my boyfriend, with another belgian waffle with a whipped cream heart.
It's beginning to look a lot like.... summer?
Reason #5,326 I Am Not Intended For Motherhood...
... I think these would make a hilarious mobile for a kid ...
Coming soon to a baby shower near you: Lil' Beasties
P.S. It's snowing at the house. Apparently, instead of a snack basket, our realtor should have gotten us a lease option on a sherpa. It's nearly APRIL for crying out loud.
Coming soon to a baby shower near you: Lil' Beasties
P.S. It's snowing at the house. Apparently, instead of a snack basket, our realtor should have gotten us a lease option on a sherpa. It's nearly APRIL for crying out loud.
Ding Ding Ding! Dinner with the Dantas Duo
Me: What are we doing for dinner?
Beto: I don't know, what do you want to do?
Me: It's up to you.
Beto: No, you decide. I decided last night.
Me: No you didn't. We didn't have dinner last night.
Beto: You decide.
Me: No, you decide. I really don't care. You decide.
Beto: Okay. I can cook.
Me: Cook what?
Beto: You decide.
Me: I really don't care - you decide. I don't feel like deciding.
Beto: We could have chicken with black beans and rice.
Me: We eat that all the time.
Beto: What about spaghetti?
Me: Yuck. Let's go out to eat. I don't feel like putting the dishes in the dishwasher. Can we get a new dishwasher?
Beto: No. Our dishwasher is perfectly fine. What about Chinese?
Me: It doesn't match the new refrigerator. Chinese is too fattening... MSG headaches.
Beto: [ignoring refrigerator comment] Okay. What about Mexican?
Me: Just plain too fattening.
Beto: [growing impatient] Okay, what about Japanese?
Me: Not fattening enough. And too rich.
Beto: Fine. You decide, then.
Me: No, I seriously do not care. You pick. Really, just pick a place.
Beto: Thai?
Me: Too far away. I don't feel like driving.
Beto: I'll drive.
Me: I don't feel like riding, either.
Beto: Henry's?
Me: Too hip.
Beto: McMennamin's?
Me: Too hippy.
Beto: Higgins?
Me: Too dressy.
Beto: Manzana?
Me: Bleh. Blah.
Beto: That new place in the Pearl?
Me: I am NOT waiting 2 hours for a table.
Beto: Lucy's Table?
Me: Never been there. Not in the mood to try something new.
Beto: You decide.
Me: I don't want to decide. Just pick a flipping place already.
Beto: How about Pizzicato?
Me: If I have another arugula pear salad, I'll throw myself off a bridge.
Beto: Subway?
Me: Uninspiring.
Beto: You decide, then.
Me: No, you decide. I decide all the time.
Beto: Hooters?
Me: Nevermind. I'm not hungry anymore. You pick dinner tomorrow night.
Beto: I don't know, what do you want to do?
Me: It's up to you.
Beto: No, you decide. I decided last night.
Me: No you didn't. We didn't have dinner last night.
Beto: You decide.
Me: No, you decide. I really don't care. You decide.
Beto: Okay. I can cook.
Me: Cook what?
Beto: You decide.
Me: I really don't care - you decide. I don't feel like deciding.
Beto: We could have chicken with black beans and rice.
Me: We eat that all the time.
Beto: What about spaghetti?
Me: Yuck. Let's go out to eat. I don't feel like putting the dishes in the dishwasher. Can we get a new dishwasher?
Beto: No. Our dishwasher is perfectly fine. What about Chinese?
Me: It doesn't match the new refrigerator. Chinese is too fattening... MSG headaches.
Beto: [ignoring refrigerator comment] Okay. What about Mexican?
Me: Just plain too fattening.
Beto: [growing impatient] Okay, what about Japanese?
Me: Not fattening enough. And too rich.
Beto: Fine. You decide, then.
Me: No, I seriously do not care. You pick. Really, just pick a place.
Beto: Thai?
Me: Too far away. I don't feel like driving.
Beto: I'll drive.
Me: I don't feel like riding, either.
Beto: Henry's?
Me: Too hip.
Beto: McMennamin's?
Me: Too hippy.
Beto: Higgins?
Me: Too dressy.
Beto: Manzana?
Me: Bleh. Blah.
Beto: That new place in the Pearl?
Me: I am NOT waiting 2 hours for a table.
Beto: Lucy's Table?
Me: Never been there. Not in the mood to try something new.
Beto: You decide.
Me: I don't want to decide. Just pick a flipping place already.
Beto: How about Pizzicato?
Me: If I have another arugula pear salad, I'll throw myself off a bridge.
Beto: Subway?
Me: Uninspiring.
Beto: You decide, then.
Me: No, you decide. I decide all the time.
Beto: Hooters?
Me: Nevermind. I'm not hungry anymore. You pick dinner tomorrow night.
Shout Out to my Aunties...
Fun with Fishies
Pics of House
Below are some pics of the house. Blogger is being disagreeable and the photos on the edit page are showing up in HTML code - which is about as understandable to me as Brazilian Portuguese, the tax code, your basic dinner recipes - so I apologize if there are duplicates. At this point I can't tell what the heck I've uploaded. More later -
Photography -
I'm finally in the process of putting together a real photography website, so here it is in all of its draft-form glory:
Dantas Photography
Dantas Photography
Boston Update
If anyone out there actually reads this thing and you are just on pins and needles waiting for additional observations of the east coast, well, you're in luck, my friend. Today's depositions ended early and I got to the airport far, far in advance of my expectation, and so I have tons and tons of time to ramble on and on and on.
I have only a few observations, really.
1. Additional things I have forgotten about the east coast:
a. Underwater traffic tunnels (trippy); and
b. Emergency Broadcast System alerts (boy, that'll get your attention if you haven't heard one of those in, oh, 12 years).
2. Additional things I hate about traveling:
a. Boston airport's questionable decision to play three Lionel Richie songs within 45 minutes;
b. People who find it entertaining to whistle to themselves and have no regard for the fact that their would-be orchestral rendition of Carlos Santana's duet with that guy from the band I can never remember really is not music to my ears; and
c. Questionable upholstery.
I was remotely tempted on my drive from Concord, NH to Boston, to keep on driving to see all of my friends down the east coast and all of their new kidlets. Alas, though, work calls... and so does my first class seat with sufficient overhead bin space.
I have only a few observations, really.
1. Additional things I have forgotten about the east coast:
a. Underwater traffic tunnels (trippy); and
b. Emergency Broadcast System alerts (boy, that'll get your attention if you haven't heard one of those in, oh, 12 years).
2. Additional things I hate about traveling:
a. Boston airport's questionable decision to play three Lionel Richie songs within 45 minutes;
b. People who find it entertaining to whistle to themselves and have no regard for the fact that their would-be orchestral rendition of Carlos Santana's duet with that guy from the band I can never remember really is not music to my ears; and
c. Questionable upholstery.
I was remotely tempted on my drive from Concord, NH to Boston, to keep on driving to see all of my friends down the east coast and all of their new kidlets. Alas, though, work calls... and so does my first class seat with sufficient overhead bin space.
New Hamp... Sure!
When the boss says "go to New Hampshire," you go, and so here I am. I think I belabored this point sufficiently in the Brazil posts, but I really hate traveling. I especially hate traveling alone.
In those posts, I also belabored the point that Beto is a saint, and so in keeping with that theme, my #1 Homey hooked me up with first class upgrades on the flights, which certainly has made the experience mildly palatable (and assured sufficient overhead bin space... hallelujah neuroses, can I get an AMEN?). But here I sit, getting ready to crash at 7:41 PST so I can be up at 7 am EST for depositions, and all I can think about is how much I miss my husband, and my kids, and... well, that certain comfort that comes with knowing that the dust mites in the bed are all your own (c.f. Oprah exclusive on microscopic disgusting things) and the nastiness in the shower is just soap scum.
It did occur to me, though that I really am no longer an east coaster. Not only am I surprised by how rude people are and how unintelligible the New England accents are, but I had completely forgotten about toll roads and 8 foot high snow banks. I am also paying a ridiculous rate for an SUV because I have forgotten how to drive in the snow. Yes, ladies and germs, I've gone soft. But I'm no hippie.
Buenos Nachos Bell Grande.
In those posts, I also belabored the point that Beto is a saint, and so in keeping with that theme, my #1 Homey hooked me up with first class upgrades on the flights, which certainly has made the experience mildly palatable (and assured sufficient overhead bin space... hallelujah neuroses, can I get an AMEN?). But here I sit, getting ready to crash at 7:41 PST so I can be up at 7 am EST for depositions, and all I can think about is how much I miss my husband, and my kids, and... well, that certain comfort that comes with knowing that the dust mites in the bed are all your own (c.f. Oprah exclusive on microscopic disgusting things) and the nastiness in the shower is just soap scum.
It did occur to me, though that I really am no longer an east coaster. Not only am I surprised by how rude people are and how unintelligible the New England accents are, but I had completely forgotten about toll roads and 8 foot high snow banks. I am also paying a ridiculous rate for an SUV because I have forgotten how to drive in the snow. Yes, ladies and germs, I've gone soft. But I'm no hippie.
Buenos Nachos Bell Grande.