USPS or FedEx?

I'm seriously impressed by our mailman. Actually, I've been impressed by the mailman for about a year and a half now because the guy knows both me and McMoose by name and face, and he RECOGNIZES THE DOG. And considering the fact that he comes around at 2 in the afternoon and so he's probably seen us out with the dog maybe, oh, three times in the past two years, it's pretty damn conscientious of him to know he belongs to us. Actually, he probably knows me because half the time, my car insurance bills still get sent to the old address, despite the numerous phone calls I have made to the insurance company. And apparently, the post office itself sucks, and cannot be bothered to put the little change of address sticker on my mail, despite the numerous forms I have filled out for them. But it's all good because my mailman? Oh, HE IS AWESOME. And he brings me all the mail that's addressed to my name, even if it has the wrong address on it.

As it turns out, the FedEx delivery guy recognizes me too, but for different reasons entirely. Thanks to all the wedding presents that have been shipped to my name over the past two months, the FedEx guy now knows me by name and by the fact that I always get Bed, Bath, and Beyond packages. As a result of which I just had to show him two (2!) pieces of mail with McMoose's name on it to convince him that he does, in fact, live here and that I am fully capable of giving him his package. So I'm thinking the mailman definitely trumps the FedEx guy in terms of awesomeness.

In Which I Dread Tomorrow

Ok, confession time: I'm a procrastinator. As in I'd-rather-get-a-root-canal-than-fold-laundry type procrastinator. Which might explain why there are two baskets of unfolded laundry and one dishearteningly large pile of unwashed laundry vegetating in my apartment. And it might also explain why I still have a bag left to unpack from the honeymoon (but it's a small one...minuscule, really). And it might also explain why I haven't called the management at our new apartment complex to make sure the application went through, and why I still don't have a notarized copy of the marriage license, and why I have no idea how to go about changing my last name.

And mostly, I'm okay with all the things I just mentioned because most of those things are at least marginally interesting, so I know that eventually, they'll get done. Well, except the laundry, which is not at all interesting, but eventually, we run out of underwear, which tends to be a pretty powerful motivator. But. There is one task that's so burdensome, so uninteresting, so completely UNSAVORY that I've conveniently managed to not think about it for about 4 months now. And that task is called "Writing my thesis proposal."

And today? Today is the very last day that I'll be able to not think about it because tomorrow, I have to go back to work and I know, I KNOW that the first question my advisor will ask me is "So...How's the proposal going?" And I'll have to make the shameful admission that in fact, it's not going anywhere. And that in my enthusiasm to avoid writing the thing, I've knitted 3 hats, 1 sweater, 1.25 blankets, and 1 mitten, and that I've cleaned rooms that don't need cleaning and bathed dogs that don't need bathing and in fact, that I've even gone so far as to START A BLOG. And then, if all goes as planned, I will step into the GIANT BLACK HOLE OF MY EMBARRASSMENT and fall into the center of the Earth.

Dear Dog: CHEER UP

While we were in India, the Dog was staying with some friends of ours who are trying to decide whether they want to enter the realm of pet ownership themselves. I was worried about leaving him, because the Dog? He tends to be kind of...troublesome. He has to be watched constantly. He's scared of thunder and diesel engines and the FedEx guy. He tries to run away every chance he gets. He licks the carpet. That kind of thing.

Apparently, I underestimated just how much these friends wanted a dog though, because they were very interested in keeping my oh-so-troublesome dog forever. And don't tell McMoose, but I thought about the extra 15 minutes of sleep that I could get in the mornings, and I seriously considered it...for about 53 seconds. So a couple of days ago, I drove up to Virginia to pick him up--in the middle of the day, so that I didn't have to face the heartbroken 8-year-old. Yes, I'm that much of a coward.

And that darn Dog has spent the past two days pouting. Like as if THEY'RE his family and I'm just a common kidnapper. If it weren't for the 4 hour drive and the RIDICULOUS price of gas, I might be tempted to go drop him off again.

The Greatly Peskiferous System

McMoose has a GPS thing that he got last Christmas, and the thing has its benefits, but for the most part? It kinda sucks. I mean, it's useful when we want to find a gas station in the middle of nowhere (really, really useful), but that's about it. For one thing, it talks with a British accent, and although that was cute at the beginning, it's not so exciting when you have to try to figure out that it's telling you to "Take ramp ahead" as you're driving 80 miles per hour down the interstate.

But yesterday, I didn't feel like turning the computer on, waiting through all of its tantrums, and then waiting for the wireless Internet connection to kick in just to get some directions, so I took Diana (Yes, we named the GPS) along. And for the first 15 minutes, it was smooth sailing. And then, it decided it hated interstates, so it directed me along every back road between here and Virginia. And because I had nothing else to do that day except drive to and from Virginia, I decided it might be fun to take the back roads. Turns out, I was partly right because it's a much more scenic route. But then, there was the part that made me want to pull out my hair, strand by painful strand.

The problem with back roads is that they don't have much in the way of gas exits, so when you get to the first gas station in 50 miles, you convince yourself that even though you still have half a tank left, you still need to fill up or else your car will die and the grizzly bears, THEY WILL EAT YOU. So I filled up at a station which had exactly 1 working pump. And then I thought maybe one of my tires looked low, so I pulled up to the air pump, only to find that the gauge was broken. So I decided, in my great foolishness, to go talk to the attendant.

Me: Hi, the air gauge on the pump is broken. Do you have another one?
Attendant: Now, why don't you ask your Daddy to fill up your tires for you?
Me: Um. Because my...daddy...lives in Canada...but I can do it myself, if you just have an air gauge?
Attendant: Well, then, I see you have a ring on your finger. I'm sure your husband would be happy to do it for you.
Me, getting a bit annoyed: Yeah. Actually, I know how to fill the tire, I just need an air gauge.
Attendant: Well, see, my son-in-law took it to Wyoming and hasn't brought it back yet.

Ok...so (a) why didn't he tell me in the first place that he didn't have an air gauge? Was all the added commentary really necessary? And (b) could someone please explain to me why it's apparently IMPOSSIBLE for me to meet a halfway normal human being, EVER?

Why I Shop at the Dollar Store

While in India, my uncle bought me a new watch and a pair of sunglasses. They're both very nice, and both more expensive than I was comfortable with, but that whole not looking a gift horse in the mouth thing? Yeah, I'm a firm believer. Of course, now that it's a week later, I'm remembering why I'm so uncomfortable with anything that costs more than twenty dollars.

The sunglasses? I really, really thought I packed them. I mean, I checked the ENTIRE ROOM before we left, and there was NOTHING left. Except that when we were unpacking, they were nowhere to be found. So my theory is that I packed them, but then a burglar hid in the cargo hold of the plane, unlocked my suitcase, carefully extracted the sunglasses and left everything else untouched, and then re-locked the suitcase so that no one would ever suspect what had happened. It's possible, right?

But at least I know where the watch is: on my left wrist, where it's supposed to be. It keeps time masterfully and looks very cool. Just one thing: I can't figure out how to make it tell me the right date. I've set it approximately 14 times in the past two days, and still, it finds a way to jump to some strange date. So this morning, I decided to just let it do its thing, and what I have figured out is that apparently, this watch changes dates about every four hours. Super. Now all I have to do is move to Jupiter, and I'll be set.

The Intricacies of Good-bye

It's considered bad luck to say "Good-bye" in India. My grandmother, in particular, disliked it when I would say good-bye to her. "Never say good-bye," she would chide gently, "it's too permanent. Always say 'I'll see you later.'"

When I visited her this time, it was almost impossible to believe that the woman who corrected my when I said good-bye was barely capable of saying hello. The woman who used to spend hours telling her grandchildren stories and who knew all her family members' favorite foods couldn't speak without being instructed to do so, couldn't recognize her own children. And although I used to spend my weekends at a nursing home visiting with Alzheimer's patients who didn't know me from one week to the next, this was different. This was ridiculous. The grandmother who had helped name me couldn't remember my name.

She would be proud that I remembered to say "I'll see you later" at the end of the visit, but this time, it felt like "Good-bye."

...But Not a Drop to Drink

We're gonna talk about water some more today (excited, aren't you?) No, I'm not going to ramble about showers again. Instead I'm rambling about drinking water.

Before we left Raleigh, McMoose spent a few hours searching for Iodine drops (maybe?), which turn your water orange, but make it much safer to drink. Being unable to find any, he promptly turned into THE MOST PARANOID PERSON EVER. By which I mean that if he could, he'd gladly shower in bottled water. He'd turn the ocean into bottled water so that when we walk along the waves at the beach, he'd be touched only by Pure, Filtered Goodness. As it is, he unhappily settles for just brushing his teeth and washing his toothbrush in bottled water.

Whenever we go into a restaurant, he owlishly guards his glass against the onslaught of waiters whose PURPOSE IN LIFE is to poison him with bad water. And he looks suspiciously at any beads of water left on dishes after they've been washed. And he questions the Character and Upbringing of every bottle of juice and soda and beer before letting it pass through his lips. And the worst part? He has ME doing it too.

Water, Water Everywhere

We've been staying at my Grandfather's house for the past few days, and I always forget how inconvenient it is to take a shower here. I tend to take hot water for granted--you turn on the faucet with the red "H" on it and lo and behold, the mighty heavens, they open up and pour upon ye Hot Water. (Did I get a little carried away there? Sorry.) In India, however, getting hot water is a Long and Arduous Process involving many trials, tribulations, and wombats.

Ok, so maybe I lied about the wombats. And maybe it's not so difficult after all. But it's also nowhere near as easy as turning on a faucet. So let me outline the process, step-by-step:

1) Turn on faucet. Get drenched with cold water. Stand there stupidly for a minute, waiting for the water to get warm before realizing that you've forgotten the preliminary steps. Jump back out of shower.

2) Look for switch for water heater in bathroom. Turn off lights in the process. Realize that switch is located oh-so-conveniently OUTSIDE the bathroom. Hesitantly open door. Be hit by wave of freezing cold air. Shiver. Chatter teeth. Look for switch for water heater outside bathroom. Turn on lights. Wake up grumpy McMoose. Find correct switch, turn on, retreat into bathroom before grumpy McMoose begins throwing things.

3) Stick hand in water. Find that it's still cold. Retract hand. Wait 30 seconds. Repeat ad nauseum.

4) After about 30 minutes, the water will finally turn warm. Hop back into shower, only to find that the water is now SCALDING! Hop quickly back out, by which time your skin will Most Displeased. Play with faucets until water reaches appropriate-ish temperature. Get back in. Begin soaping IMMEDIATELY because you have approximately 85 seconds to shower before you run out of hot water.

Of course, McMoose bypasses most of this by showering in what he calls "pleasantly cool" showers, and what I call "water that's so cold that even a polar bear would freeze to death."

Canine Encounter

I understand the concept of having guard dogs. I really do. I mean, if you have a German Shepard or, I don't know, a 120 pound St. Bernard, I'm thinking a potential burglar would probably think twice about entering your house. And as long as you have this large, potentially menacing dog like that and you're dealing with the hair and the drool and the fact that it probably wants to share your bed with you, you might as well make its presence known to potential burglars, right? After all, there's no such thing as a free bag of dog food.

Across the street from my grandfather's house is a gated yard with a sign that reads, "Beware of Dog." Impressive, yes? Except that on the inside of this gate, maybe about 10 feet from the sign, there sits a very small, very fluffy thing that appears to be half poodle and half guinea pig. And I can't help but feel that if I were a burglar, that sign would feel less like a warning and more like an invitation to rob their house because come on...a 10-pound guard dog? That's what's supposed to keep their house safe?

A Slight Disconnect

I've been switching back and forth between my Indian and American accents when talking to people, which has been the source of great amusement for McMoose. I thought I was doing fairly well, until I had to call the front desk at the resort because housekeeping had taken all our towels and cups and forgotten to leave us new ones.

Me: Hello?
Front Desk: Yes, ma'am.
Me, in an American accent: Yes, I'm calling from room 103. Could you send us some towels.
Front Desk: Yes, ma'am? **Note: See the question mark at the end of that "Yes ma'am?" That translates loosely to "Look, woman, I have no idea what you're talking about, but you're paying me, so I'm going to humor you."**
Me, in an Indian accent: I'm in room One-Knot-Three. We need some towels.
Front Desk: Yes, ma'am?
Me, still in an Indian accent, trying to ignore the fact that McMoose is now rolling on the floor with laughter: Room. One. Zero. Three. Can you send towels? Please?
Front Desk: Yes, ma'am.

Ten minutes later, they showed up with a menu from the restaurant and some coffee. So still no towels, but at least we now have cups.

The Drought Filled Pool

There's a pool at the resort we're staying in, which was Very Exciting News for me. Granted, we have a pool at our apartment complex in Raleigh that we could use, oh, every day if we wanted to, but somehow, a vacation-pool seems much more exciting than an at-home-pool. The first day of our stay at the resort, there was a Lion's Club Picnic by the pool, which meant it was filled with a gazillion children. We stayed away. The second day, the water seemed more green than blue. We tentatively asked the management whether it was safe, at which point we were promptly informed that we couldn't use it until the next day, when the pool cleaner was scheduled to come.

So the next morning, the pool cleaner was there at 8 AM, which filled us with great hope that he'd be done by 9. When we headed back out at 10, he was still there, making swirly motions around the edge of the pool with a net. An hour later, the swirly motions were still being made, so we approached him to ask when he'd be done:

My mother: When can we swim?
Pool attendant: All day.
My mother: But when will you be done cleaning?
Pool attendant: All day.

Right. So we figured we'd swim on the other side of the pool and let him keep swirling up his side. About twenty minutes later, we thought we might like to use the lovely looking water slide:

McMoose: Can we turn on the water slide?
Pool attendant: No water.
My mother: Can we turn on those sprinkler showers?
Pool attendant: No water.
My mother: How about the jacuzzi?
Pool attendant: No water.

Since we were all standing shoulder deep in water at the time, we didn't quite believe his assertions that there was no water, but not knowing what to say to him, we let it go. Two hours later, another party with a gazillian children came along and the man very promptly turned on the water slide, the sprinkler showers, and the jacuzzi.

Do You Feel the Rhythm?

There's this restaurant at the resort where we're staying, and it has very yummy, authentic Indian food. It has very yummy authentic Indian coffee. It has very yummy authentic Indian tea. It has very lovely, not-so-authentic Indian air conditioning. In fact, it's like a little oasis when you're hot and hungry. Except for the music.

As it turns out, we're one of the only people staying at the resort, and therefore, one of the only people who eat at this resort. And as it further turns out, they took one look at McMoose and decided that he would prefer to listen to American music. So every time we go to this restaurant, they immediately turn off the lovely, authentic Indian music, and turn on the punk rock. Or the disco. Or the whiniest country they can find...and I actually like country, usually, but they've found the absolutely worst songs ever.

So last night, after listening to angry teenage punk for about 20 minutes, my grandfather asked them to kindly turn off "this noise," as he called it, and turn on some decent, Indian music. At which point there was a flurry of activity and some turning of the radio dial, and the station they settled on? Evanescence set to a dance beat. Awesome.

We Went to the Animal Fair

Ok, well not quite the animal fair, but we did go to the crocodile farm, which was just as good. Actually, at first, I was completely convinced that we had been completely ripped off and that all the so called "crocodiles" were actually plastic because they DID NOT MOVE. At all. Not even to breathe. And I may not know much about crocodiles, but I assume they breathe, right?

So we very disappointedly walked around, trying to convince potentially fake crocodiles to move or blink or something. I was tempted to poke one with a stick, but was prevented from doing so by the sign that showed a very sharp-toothed crocodile jumping out of its enclosure to eat a person. (Did you know that crocodiles jump? Because it was news to me).

Then, we happened to come across a very enthusiastic man who offered to let us hold a baby crocodile. McMoose did. I took a look at the baby crocodile's sharp baby teeth and respectfully declined. Then, he offered to let me hold a python, assuring me that "This snake must get bigger before he can kill you." Again, I respectfully declined. But then, THEN! For about $1.25, he said he would feed the crocodiles some treats and let us watch. And obviously, I couldn't turn THAT down, so we paid up, and the guy went to get the bucket of random bones and...the plastic crocodiles CAME ALIVE! They crawled over each other to get to us. They scaled walls. THEY JUMPED. And it was worth each and every one of those 125 pennies.

Animal Paradise

We woke up this morning to what sounded like an animal being killed. As it turned out, it was not an animal being killed, but rather a very young cat being carried around by its mother. Aww, how cute, right? Except that the place that it was being carried to was our bathroom window. And when I say "window," I mean "open hole in the wall" because apparently, window glass? Not always a big priority for old fashioned resorts.

So I spent a while worrying that the possibly rabid, possibly very mean cat might bring its kitten into our bathroom, and that it might then abandon said kitten in said bathroom, and then, not only would I not be able to take a shower, but McMoose and I would also have to figure out the intricacies of (a) importing a cat from India to the U.S. and (b) lying to our new apartment managers about the number of pets we have living in our zoo. Luckily for us and for the kitten, the mother cat decided that we didn't look all that trustworthy after all and, kitten in mouth, left in a huff.

With the cats gone, I decided that I should seize the opportunity to take a shower before any more of the local wildlife decided to visit. After waiting for a torturously long time for the water to get oh-so-deliciously warm, I hopped in, only to discover a lizard watching me from the ceiling and looking like he was ready to jump on my head the instant I closed my eyes to shampoo my hair.

Maybe tomorrow, I'll be able to squeeze in that shower.

Automotive Adventures

Before leaving Raleigh, McMoose visited several websites that were apparently aimed towards the Paranoid World Traveler, because he kept coming up with tremendously useful pieces of information like, "Taxi drivers in India kidnap tourists, steal their money, shave their hair, and then throw them into crocodile infested swamps." So he was understandably skeptical when I suggested riding in an "auto," which is roughly the equivalent of a covered go-cart that can be hired to drive passengers around the city.

However, I had my way today, as I often do, and we RODE! AN! AUTO! It was very much like riding a roller coaster, except that instead of going up and down hills on a track, we went around every curve in the city at what seemed like a break-neck speed, but was actually about 10 miles per hour. I was perfectly confident that we wouldn't be kidnapped and fed to crocodiles, although if we had, it would've been a pretty interesting story.

So here's something I didn't know about auto drivers: They're commissioned by certain touristy stores around the city to find them customers. So our driver completely ignored us when we told him to TAKE US HOME and instead, took us to a furniture store at the other end of town. At which point I began to wish that I had paid more attention to McMoose and his crazy paranoia because...well...it was kinda like a kidnapping. And if we could be taken to random furniture stores against our will, we could probably be tossed to crocodiles against our will too, right?

As it turned out, he DID NOT shave our hair OR toss us to crocodiles. He DID, however, make mean and grouchy faces in the rear view mirror and drive a little bit more recklessly on the way back, and really? That's all the excitement I need in my life.

Like This

You know those smells that everyone always talks about that remind them of home? Apple pie and freshly cut grass and all that jazz? I've never been too fond of those smells. Apple pie smells too sweet, freshly cut grass smells too sticky. And it used to worry me because I thought there must be something fundamentally wrong with me, to not like such homey, American smells. Of course, it occurs to me now that this might be because...um...I wasn't raised in America. At least, not at first. And maybe the homey smell associations are made early in life.

McMoose and I often have the following conversation:
Me: Ooh, this smells like India!
McMoose: Um. What does India smell like?
Me: Like this.

We walked into a clothing store yesterday and McMoose took a deep breath and said, "Ohh, this is what India smells like." And in case you're not familiar with the smell, "this" is a mixture of sandalwood and coffee and newly printed paper and dust and people and linen, all rolled into one and baked at 100 degrees for a couple of centuries. For me, this smells like home. For McMoose, this probably smells like jet lag and an endless afternoon of sari shopping.

Money Talks

I went to the doctor a couple of days before I left Raleigh in an attempt to ensure that I arrived back to the US alive and relatively whole. Unfortunately, I'm taking a 6 week break from work right now, which means that I'm taking a 6 week break from my insurance. See where this is going? Did you know that it costs $133 just to talk to a doctor for 2.3 minutes? And did you ALSO know that when you go in knowing exactly what the problem is AND how to fix it, they still test you for pregnancy, cholesterol, ear infections, holes in the heart, spina bifida, small pox, and brain tumors?

And to make it all that much worse, they took three VERY LARGE VIALS of blood. And when I asked them why that was necessary, they said they needed to test for STD's. At which point, I informed them that Mother Teresa would've been more likely to have an STD than me, that I didn't WANT to be tested for STD's in the first place, that I hadn't authorized that test, and that they were VERY BAD PEOPLE. They ignored me. I told them I wouldn't pay for it. They promptly stopped all further tests, and I left there, having paid approximately $8,192,485 for a piece of paper with illegible writing on it and a doctor's name and phone number on the corner.

It's Getting Hot In Here

A few days ago, when I was still at home, I was watching the weather forecast on the news, which warned that Raleigh would be experiencing a heat wave and that it was expected that temperatures would soar into the 90's or even the 100's. My first thought upon watching this forecast was, "Oh, thank goodness we won't be in town for that." The thing that I very conveniently ignored was that the reason we're out of town is that we're in INDIA. You know, that country that's kinda close to the equator? Where it's hot, oh, ALL THE TIME?

The past two or three visits I've made to India have been around Christmastime, when I've been perfectly happy to escape the cold and the snow and the NEVER ENDING, UNSTOPPABLE WIND that have graced my last two places of residence. Plus, in December, the weather's pretty nice in this part of India--and by "pretty nice," I mean that it's usually in the lower 80's. In the beginning of June, however, comes the hottest part of the summer. And if "nice" means lower 80's, "hottest part of the summer" means that I'm melting. Slowly. Painfully. SWEATILY. And McMoose looks roughly like a turnip with a goatee.

All Dressed Up with No Place to Go

Every now and then, I decide it would be fun to dress the animals up in various costumes because I tend to be slightly sadistic when I get bored. So the last time, I asked McMoose to take some pictures so that I could share my sadism with the rest of the world.

Here's Black Cat:

See how calm she is? How laid back? If I had left her alone, she'd happily have stayed in that same position for the next thirteen hours. And I think this is probably because she was raised primarily by McMoose, who is also pretty calm and pretty laid back and pretty content to stay in the same position for thirteen hours. And who also likes hats.

Enter Yellow Cat:

See how very un-calm he is? See the smoky frustration pouring from his floppy ears? See the disgruntle-ment (why yes, it IS a word, thank you for asking) mirrored in his eyes? If this was a movie instead of a photo, you'd see his tail swishing in rage. About two seconds later, you'd see him swipe the hat off his head. You'd hear him growl and hiss and snarl. Care to venture a guess as to who raised him?

It's Not DiGiorno, It's Delivery

Last week, we had a furniture store deliver a coffee table and two end tables that we had bought on Memorial Day. So this furniture store left us no fewer than 5 messages, informing us that we should "Please expect delivery of furniture on Tuesday, June 3rd between 2 PM and 5 PM." So I made sure that I was home and ready for any curveballs that the delivery people might throw at me, because invariably, they do. At 4:57 PM, I got a phone call:

Lady from furniture store: Ma'am? Is this Apartment 7207?
Me: Yes.
Lady: Are you expecting a furniture delivery?
Me: Yes.
Lady: Could you open the door please? My driver is there. They rang the doorbell
Me: Um...Ok...I didn't hear the doorbell. *Walk to door. Open it. Look around. No one's there.* Hello? Are you still there?
Lady: Yes, ma'am.
Me: There's no one at the door. Or in the parking lot.
Lady: My driver says he's there.
Me: Ok. But I'm here, at home, standing outside the door. And he's not here.
Lady: I'll tell him to call you at this number.

Two minutes later, the driver calls and informs me that he is in front of the playground. Which is, oh, about 2 parking lots away from my building. So I walk on over there, only to find him parked in the middle of the street, far away from any and all apartment buildings. So exactly which doorbell did he ring?

Leaving on a Jet Plane, Part II

15 hours. I've spent 15 hours on a plane. I take back everything I said about liking to fly. I don't like airports, I don't like the smell of airplanes...but I do still like the food that comes wrapped in tin foil. You know what else I do like? Babies on the plane. Granted it's a little bit (a LOT) annoying when you've been in the air for 8 hours and for all but 20 minutes, the kid in the seat behind you has been crying. BUT--during those 20 quiet minutes, he's the sweetest, most adorable human being on the planet, and I love that.

And, I'm not sure if you're aware, but planes? A great place to have odd conversations. A couple of years ago, I was making another Very Long Trip, and found myself sitting next to a woman with twin one-year-olds, one of whom ended up spending much of the flight sitting in my lap. And as it turned out, the woman had gone to the same university that I was attending at the time, and we spent most of the flight talking about the campus, the town, and the professors that we both loved and hated at the same time. And during those 8 hours, we divulged more about ourselves that we normally would in 8 months of knowing someone.

This time, of course, I have McMoose and my mom and my step dad to talk to (and, more likely than not, be grouchy to), so outside conversations were few. But invariably, there are still a few conversations with random people that will stay in my memory and demarcate this trip as, say, "The one where we met the furniture salesman from Prague."

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Ok, time to divulge an odd fact: I really, really like flying. I like airports. I like the smell of airplanes. I like that the meals come wrapped in that tinfoil stuff. In fact, I often wish my local supermarket sold airplane food. I even kind of enjoy the whole going through security, removing your shoes process because come on, now. How many times do you ever get to walk around in your socks in a public place?

There is, however, one thing I'm not so fond of: changes in schedule. I like knowing, down to the minute, when I'm supposed to be boarding, and taking off, and enjoying my trail mix and coke. So I don't particularly enjoy it when flights get delayed or cancelled. But as much as I dislike that, I've decided that I like it much less when flights get pre-poned.

About a month ago, I got an email informing me that my flight to Newark, which was supposed to depart at 11 am was now scheduled to depart at 8 am. Which meant that McMoose and I had to wake up at 5:30 this morning so that we could get everything in the car, panic about last minute things, say good-bye to the cats, panic some more, get to the airport, park the car, take the bus, and so on. It was the first time I've been up that early since high school. I'm not pleased. And once we get to Newark, we will have approximately 8 hours of sitting around and waiting for our next flight. And since we're both already grumpy travelers, that means we get to start the "honeymoon" with 8 hours of sniping at each other NON STOP. Can you feel the love?

A Very Uninteresting Post

See the title of this post? Consider yourself warned. I've been running (RUNNING!) around all day trying to get things accomplished before we leave tomorrow and it's approximately 180 degrees out today, so I am completely incapable of being interesting today. Sorry.

So far today I:
-Went to work (where I accomplished, oh, NOTHING).
-Signed papers that I thought I had already signed.
-Figured out my online banking system.
-Had lunch with a friend whose birthday was today.
-Went to the bank. Had a fight with the ATM. Deposited 10 checks. Had another fight with the same ATM.
-Went to the post office. Stamps are more expensive today than they were two weeks ago. Why?
-Went to the vet's office to get my dog's medical records, just in case he has a fit of hypochondria while we're gone and manages to convince his babysitters that he is allergic to air.
-Talked to the vet assistant about looking in on the cats. She agreed. I rejoiced. McMoose grumbled about me making unilateral decisions and allowing strange people into our apartment.

Things I have left to do:
-Laundry.
-Take Yellow Cat to the vet to get his rabies shot. Because you know, rabies is oh-so-common in INDOOR CATS who are never exposed to any other animals, ever.
-Have a "consultation" with the pet sitter about...something that she said was very important, but that I have promptly forgotten. Super.
-Pack for India.
-Pack for India.
-PACK FOR INDIA.
-More laundry.
-Scan the dog's health records into my computer and email to his baby-sitter.
-Pay the cable bill.
-Call State Farm to inform them that as they have not sent me my bill and as I will be out of the country for two weeks and as they have no online bill pay system, the bill will not be paid on time. I predict that this call will end badly for all involved.
-Check the itinerary. Check flight status for all 4 of the flights we'll be on tomorrow.
-Convince McMoose that not all pet-sitters are evil.
-Quietly go insane from ALL THIS STRESS.

Ok. Tomorrow's post will be less crazy, and very probably more interesting. I promise.

The Doctor Will See You...Soon-ish

I spent three and a half hours at an urgent care center this afternoon, not because I have an urgent medical issue, but because I have a somewhat annoying medical issue which could, potentially, turn into a more urgent medical issue. And normally, I quite enjoy playing the let's-ignore-this-and-see-if-it-goes-away game, but since we're leaving on Friday for a two week trip to India, I felt that it would be a good idea to actually take care of it in a timely manner this time.

In case you weren't already aware of this fact, urgent care centers? Very creepy places. Worse than hospitals, even. I sat next to a guy who was casually reading a copy of Country Living after part of his ear had been CUT OFF. I mean, how do you even assimilate that into the rest of your day? How do you sit there reading about how to keep your linens smelling like springtime while you're holding a Tupperware container with part of your EARLOBE in it? But he pulled it off. And I sat there, thinking that if I were him, I'd be (a) screaming nonstop, and (b) very, very unhappy about being left to sit there ear-less, while someone with a sore throat was taken back to see the doctor. I mean, I get that this is supposed to be first come, first served unless it's a life threatening situation, but I feel that most people in that waiting room would have been perfectly happy to let that man cut ahead in line.

A Series of Very Fortunate Events

I really don't think I'm overstepping when I say that it is entirely possible that I had the least stressful wedding in the history of weddings. Which was absolutely fantastic, as well as being wholly unexpected, because considering how many wedding-related things went wrong in the months before the wedding, I pretty much expected my world to implode on the big day. And I was very pleasantly surprised because contrary to my expectations, everything happened at around the right time, everyone got along with each other, and even though I had no idea where my car keys were THE ENTIRE WEEKEND, I was surrounded by people who very graciously helped me look for them.

And as people were leaving, several of them mentioned how nice everything had been and what a good job McMoose and I had done of planning the thing, and I felt slightly...guilty. Because in reality, I think it was nice despite us, and not because of us. See, we had no Grand Vision for this day. In fact, we pretty much let the professionals do whatever they wanted. And the few guidelines that we did provide? Completely spur of the moment decisions. For example, when the baker asked what cake we wanted, our response was "Um...maybe...white? And with...hm...let's see...blue frosting? And some kind of decoration on it might be nice...right?" And we had very similar conversations with the DJ, the florist, the pastor, and the very patient woman at the reception hall. And, as it turns out, these people? They're pretty damn good at their jobs.

And the not-so-much professionals who were involved in this wedding did their jobs perfectly too. The hyperactive 8-year-old ring bearer did an admirable job of not losing the rings, the various family members did an even more admirable job of being civilized and getting along, and people actually got up and DANCED at the reception (albeit with a good deal of encouragement). And despite a forecast of thunderstorms, even the weather was unrelentingly cheerful. And now? I get to play with the MOUNTAIN of presents in my living room.