Coming attractions

So we've been total bums lately. Which I think is okay. I thought that the Fourth of July would yield some interesting stories, but we ended up isolating ourselves in the apartment, hanging some pictures, and having a Buffy marathon. Then Holly came over and we had fish tacos and watched Harry Potter. At least, I think that might be the right day I'm remembering... I managed to be out of town every single day of the short week before the holiday, so I didn't really feel like doing much that weekend. Particularly if it required sitting in a car for longer than ten minutes.

The end point is that not much has happened in the Tracy and San household of late, aside from some quality time with some friends and seeing the ever-funny Arj Barker at Lakeshore Theater. Which reminds me that I should recommend that you check him out - www.arjbarker.com. I have no idea why he doesn't have youtube video up, but it's a bit negligent. The crowd was an unfortunately bad match to his comic style, which involves long lead-ups and some subtle humor, but we got several good laughs. In fact, I think Carolyn narrowly avoided peeing herself a couple of times. It was all good fun.

I predict, however, that the above statement regarding domestic bummage will soon be null and void. San made me get out of bed before 6 a.m. this morning (notice that it's Saturday!) to drop him off at the airport. I will be joining him in a few days to meet his family (*gasp*) and serve as arm candy as he presides as Best Man at his friend's wedding. If there aren't stories, I will be extraordinarily disappointed. San is already working on collecting them. I spoke with him mid-afternoon, and he had already flown via regional jet to New York, taken a brewery tour, eaten barbeque, bought comics, and taken a nap in preparation for an evening out. I think he may have even met up with his parents at some point. In the same span of time, I had driven home from the airport, eaten yogurt, run by the vet's office to pick up a list of potential cat-sitters, and taken a shower and two naps.

Stories will be shared after we get back from almost-Canada.

Kitty Goes to the Doctor

We have two geriatric babies: Hektor, who is a 14-year old black kitty with fangs of terror (also known as the breaker of horses and men), and Toby, who is a 16-year old siamese kitty with bulimia. They are both needy, whiny, and shed, but they purr, so they get to live with the heroes of this blog.

Today marked our first dependent-related medical procedure: we dropped Hektor off at the vet this morning for surgery. Because he was a foul-mouthed beast. In other words...Hektor went to the dentist.

San slept poorly last night, worrying about the impending procedure to his baby. Two weeks ago, the vet predicted that three teeth would come out. She did, however, admit that she was so excited about the first bad one that caught her attention that she hadn't really looked at the rest.

At the appointed hour, we deposited kitty with the receptionist. Tracy went to work; San worked from home with his phone on his person at all times and nerves on full alert. When Tracy checked in around lunchtime, San was still formulating fifty gruesome scenes of dental disaster and had nearly given himself an outbreak of gout. Ten minutes later, San finally got a call. Hektor made it through surgery, was groggy, and the vet had extracted EIGHT teeth.

That's right: eight.

Promptly at 4:30, San and Tracy went to fetch the feline. The vet tech reported that Hektor was missing six teeth when he went in for surgery, and that eight more had come out. And that he was supposed to have 32. Quick math revealed that he has 18 left, which is just over half. In fact, the left half. Much to San's relief, the infamous upper fangs remained intact.

Armed with three syringes of pain medication, a bottle of antibiotics, four pages of instructions and patient information, and a bid from the tech to, "Call us if you have any questions at all!" Tracy, San, and Hektor went home. The black cat wobbled drunkenly out of his cage, leaned on nearby legs for precarious support, and headed straight for the other kitty's food dish. Tracy quickly popped a can of Fancy Feast and fed the beast a third of the can. An hour later, after much kitty whining and the discovery that Hektor had eaten the Toby's third, she fed the beast the last third. And still another hour later, Tracy was forced to open a second can to calm the insatiable patient. He finished filling his not-so-little kitty tummy and passed out on the futon, where he still sleeps as we write.

Moral of the story? Brush your teeth before bed.

Operation: Strawberry Short

A few years ago, San attended a wondrous event in Long Grove called the Strawberry Festival. Since the day he met Tracy and realized that she could eat a quart of strawberries in one sitting, he set his heart upon taking his love there. How could she resist a festival dedicated to a yummy red berry?

Last Sunday morning found Tracy and San on their way to Long Grove, Illinois, anticipating a gluttonous day of strawberries. As they approached the festival, the first clue to their proximity was the fact that the street into Long Grove was lined by parked cars. Even though the two municipal parking lots were already full, San gracefully parked the car in a ditch, between an SUV and a minivan, only a half mile north of the northernmost entrance.

In summary, the festival was a bust. Our heroes wandered through the sprawling mess of tents, which were situated between renovated homes that now sheltered touristy boutiques. They found a reprieve from the kitsch at one tent that served very yummy strawberry donuts, but they were disappointed that the "strawberry/lemonade drink" turned out to be $3 Kool-aid. Questing further past the tents selling corn and kabobs, they finally found one fruit stand that sold tiny little wild strawberries from "Micigan."

Fending off complete and utter dismay, our heroes ventured into a quaint Norwegian shoppe, hoping to find helmets, swords, and busty blonde Valkyries with pigtails wielding warhammers. Instead we found Viking Tour 2009 shirts. And snowglobes. And bobblehead Thor.

We left.

Tracy and San drove home, but made sure to stop by Dominicks to buy large, red, flavorful strawberries from Mexico with which to make strawberry shortcake. It was yummy.

An Incomplete Diary On Ireland

During our trip to Ireland I somehow had the bright idea to keep track of everything I experienced. I wanted to preserve my mad adventuring with the written word so that my children and their children and the robot clones of children 3.0 would know of my great and heroic journey across the sea.

So I bought a fancy magnetic journal adorned with Irish doors, took pen to tiny page and tried. Four hours later I had already failed to keep pace with the adventuring and the Guinness.

Having said that, what I shall pass down to the Robo-Sans is that this Irish Odyssey was so epic, so intense, so incredibly rich, that no words could quite capture its grandness. And they will understand because they will be fucking robot clones. They will shun paper and occasionally laugh electronically at the living. But for you, my present humans, I share this unedited, incomplete proof...

March 20, 2009 - Ire

Preparation for trip is a bit hectic. Too much work. Too many dreams of Guinness.

American Taxi is run by robots. There are no humans present at trans headquarters. Robots make me angry, especially when you can't see their robot faces.

Cab driver tells Tracy a joke. I don't hear it. He says he can't repeat it because he's afraid I'll punch him. I almost give him a mitt sandwich for being coy.

Cab becomes hot. Whined. Conditions normalized by cabbie, who tell us he was once a well-traveled aristocrat with a hard-on for Cypress. Former punch possibility fades. Tipped cabbie too much.

Aer Lingus airline tells us our seats aren't together. Unacceptable. Destroy! Requested managerial assistance. Seats changed. Aer Lingus man avoids destruction.

Ate a $9 sandwich. $10 with tax. Note to self: $10 sandwiches at airport bad. Smuggle in proper treats next trip.

Plane satisfactory. Seats in the very back. Explored galley. Irish Air hostess not pleased. I acted dumb, "Where is the lavatory, miss?" Went back to seat. Exploration of snack secrets failed. Further espionage needed on return trip.

Trip over ocean is pleasant. Watery crash death only enters mind once. In the dream I survive and rip out the eye of a shark. Tracy also survives. Looks fetching in coconut bikini. Island life enjoyable. Meat is plentiful. I make a "Wilson" out of a large, exotic fruit husk.

Back to reality - plane
Note: Diary includes a drawing of a plane. A bad drawing and not an actual representation.

Watched first ep of Kings. Very good drama. Ate some kind of beef stew with potatoes that looked like sparrow eggs. Not bad. Tasted even better after seeing Tracy's vegetarian meal (shudder).

Snuggled. Nice. Tracy is a darling. I love her a lot.

Plane lands in Ireland! Greeted by fog. We have journeyed into a cloud. This is Cloud City without a Lando.

Customs takes a while. Some French couple won't stop french talking. Whatever they discuss does not seem important. They realize they are in the wrong line and leave. Sweet cobra... relief!
Customs guy is unfriendly but efficient. Stamped. Baggage and Guinness await.

Walk is long. Boots heavy. Tracy's hand feels warm and inviting.

Bags acquired. Call Holly (my good friend who has been in Ireland for nearly 3 months). 1/2 hour away. We are little waves in a sea of green rugby jerseys. Ireland plays Wales later. Should they win, they will be the first team to sweep all other nations in the 6 nations conference. Rugby is tough. Want jersey.

Call Holly again. Been over an hour. She fails to meet at rendezvous point as discussed. She may be a robot. Turn to walk and Holly is found! So good to see her! Hugs! Her failure is excused. And she has brought me an Alan.

Alan is a thin Asian who was born in Ireland. He has decent taste in music but his driving skills are mediocre. He knows the band Mastodon, so I decide he can continue driving me. I discover he lived in the states for a while before returning to his Irish roots. His lack of brogue is mildly disappointing. I think about telling him to work on it, but I choose not to be a dick this early in our relationship.

Grafton Capital Hotel. Demure check-in girl says we can have our room in a 1/2 hour. Just enough time to fill bellies with Irishness. Note: bacon in Ireland kicks American bacon's ass.

Checked in. Slept. Dreamed of a river of Guinness and Irish sea faeries. Some were topless and Tracy was their leader.

Guinness brewery tour! I now know the secrets of its brilliance. Old dudes threw stuff together and stumbled upon a mighty concoction. Manly and mighty. Tracy and Holly don't like Guinness. Holly asks a bartender to contaminate her pint with Black Currant and was properly dismissed. "No Guinness shall be altered in any way at our brewery!" Dismayed, Holly returned to her seat, whereupon her glass was passed to me. Tracy was also defeated by the rich power of Guinness. Her pint soon passed to me. The king is triple crowned!

BUZZED! I buy stuff.

Off to the hotel bar where we are to meet Alan and watch the Irish rugby team attempt the 6 nation sweep. It's been 61 years since anyone has accomplished the feat. Only Wales stands in their way.

I drink many a Guinness and the match is fantastic. With only 3 minutes remaining Ireland kicks the ball through the uprights and goes up 2 pts. They hold off Wales and the nigh impossible becomes possible! Elation avalanches through the bar. The streets. The country. Rugby good.

Pissed (drunk in Irish) and full of glory, we stumble into a restaurant called Captain America's! As a comic book geek extraordinaire, I am suddenly jizzing my pants. Comic book murals adorn the walls. The waitresses wear T-shirts adorned with Cap's shield. I order a cheeseburger and a drink named after Cap's arch nemesis, the Red Skull. The drink is bad. Nazi bad. I give it to Alan. He's too hammered to reject evil.

We joke and laugh. I mist Holly with food particles. I purchase a Captain America's T-shirt. Happy. Ireland is sweet.

Airport stories

Things I've seen this week while travelling through various airports:

• Mr. Popped Collar. He got off a plane in St. Louis, channeling some Ryan Seacrest-esque spiky bleach blond hair, wearing oversized aviator glasses (did I miss when these came into fashion?), and a short-sleeved brown polo with the collar popped.


• The Turquoise Family. A mother, father, and seven children, aged approximately 15 down to 6. Five boys and two girls. The father and several of the kids had a cool European accent. They were headed to Spain, which one of the middle boys quipped was famous for their chocolate. The men in the family were all clad in turquoise polo shirts, and the women sported turquoise t-shirts. I guess color-coding your kids would make them easier to pick out of a crowd.
  
• Musak. The music choice in Wichita baffles me. I heard an instrumental elevator rendition of Smash Mouth's Walking on the Sun. Never in a million years could I have predicted that this particular song would be immortalized as musak.


• Sunglass Challenged. A commonality among annoying men who think too much of themselves: they wear their wrap-around sporty sunglasses backwards or tucked into the back of their collar.


• Loud Talker. Sitting behind me at O'Hare, an aging baby-boomer heading out on vacation was discussing the status of his buddy drinking, getting sloshed, getting slammed, being inebriated, getting hammered, and various other frat-boy euphemism for being totally drunk to his other buddy via cell phone. Maybe he was wearing his sporty sunglasses on the back of his shirt...but I didn't want to turn around and look.


• Preppy Boy. Lincoln Parker wearing a white polo, white shorts, white no-show socks, and white tennis shoes sat near me, eating a powerbar and a banana. Thankfully he didn't talk.


• Tattooed Woman. I tried hard not to stare, but a woman across from me had full tattooed sleeves on her arms, and was wearing an ill-fitting sleeveless top that clung to her in a very unflattering manner.