GreenCanary

Hey, When The Beaver Offers You A Fish, You Take The Fish!

2009-12-23T12:36:00.005-05:00

The other day I posted a set of photos in which was this tasty gem:
Awww, look at that sweet lil' raccoon face. That bon-bon nose, the adorable superhero mask, the pert little ears. Is he not the cutest raccoon-in-a-doghouse you ever did see? He most certainly is. But don't you get too attached to him because that raccoon is D-E-A-D, dead.

Several weeks ago, Mr. Mystery and I trooped out to a semi-local-but-not-so-much animal shelter we have taken to volunteering for. Once there, we (and by "we" I really mean "me") took to chasing all of the preshus feral kitties wandering the grounds. (This particular shelter has homes for both dogs and cats, as well as outdoor abodes for their large and lively feral cat colony.)

Looking at one of the outdoor shelters, I saw a furry little head a-sleepin' on a blanket. "Oh! KITTY!" I yelled and immediately began making my way towards that furry head. I had to - HAD TO - pet the furry head. I approached slowly. I got down to cat-level. I stretched out my hand. And then the furry head turned to look at me and I realized that I had made a horrible mistake.

"Uh," I said to Mr. Mystery. "That is NOT a kitty."

And it most certainly was not a kitty. It was a raccoon. A RACC-STINKIN'-COON, a-sleepin' in the little house. I retracted my hand and backed away slowly, because we're all SAFETY FIRST! and raccoons are somewhat bite-y. I'm normally all for a good bite, but the shots for rabies are rather large and I'm not a fan of large needles.

So instead of getting bitten by the raccoon, we got my camera and took pictures of it.

A couple of weeks later we returned to the shelter and asked about the raccoon. I secretly hoped that the raccoon had decided to domesticate itself and was now the official mascot of the shelter, spending its days riding around on people's shoulders and performing tricks for peanuts. Turns out that, not only was the raccoon NOT the shelter's official mascot, but he was also was NOT alive. "Dumb rabies" they called it.

Dumb rabies is right. Those dumb rabies killed that cute little raccoon-in-a-doghouse.

Rest in peace, little raccoon. I hope that Raccoon Heaven is paved with peanuts and riddled with garbage cans so that you may pillage and plunder to your little heart's content.

Spending So Much Time Trying To Pay The Rent

2009-12-21T13:51:00.037-05:00

What's been going on in the Canary's life besides medicinal haze. And sort of in order, too. Sort of.

Doth Leave The Wit Of Man More Free To Turn And Toss

2009-12-21T11:57:00.000-05:00

Man, oh man. Let me tell you fine people something about pharmaceuticals: they can be lifesavers, but MAN, OH MAN, they can also be some serious bitches.

Me being me (meaning me being oblivious), I don't always notice how irritable and annoying I am until someone (like Mr. Mystery) points it out to me. Luckily for him, he says such things in love so it's impossible to get mad at him for it, and also there is a 3-day mandatory waiting period for purchasing firearms.

At my request, the Harvard-Educated Doctor decreased my antidepressant so that I could stop having super-realistic dreams. Now, if these were lifelike dreams in which I were flapping my arms and flying to Hawaii or cooking pot roast with Chef Ramsey, I'd be okay with my nighttimes such as they are. But these aren't those kinds of dreams. Rather, I'm having the sort of dreams in which I am working - at work - and worrying about work and all of the work I have to do at work. And then I wake up all worried about work and I can't remember if the thing that happened in my dream was real or if I dreamed it.

Not so restful, dreams like that.

So the Harvard-Educated Doctor decreased my meds and I am (I think) HAPPY! and (am I?)PERFECT! and (is this?) JOY! So he decreased them some more and I am (kind of but not really) HAPPY! and (sort of but not really) OKAY! and (maybe a little... okay a lot) IRRITABLE! Only I refuse to acknowledge said irritability because meds are for whiners and weak-willies. And then I went through my Gmail account in a manic cleaning frenzy and came face to face with myself. And you know what I saw? SOMETHING NOT GOOD, PEOPLE.

I mentioned the NOT GOOD to Mr. Mystery, who had received said emails and was well aware of the NOT GOOD that was me. In his loving way he confirmed my fears: I was NOT GOOD.

So the meds got increased and then increased again and I am right back to where I started. Not ecstatic about that part but starting to feel better overall, I might have to grudgingly admit that the stupid Effexor is perhaps saving my life as well as the lives of those around me. Without it, I'm a good candidate for committing vehicular homicide.

Besides, no one likes a quitter, right? I have to believe that includes quitting my meds. At least for now.

The point to all of this med-posting is to explain why I haven't been writing for reals on this here 'ol blog o' mine. When your brain is a steaming pile of angry mush, the words one comes up with aren't really suitable for public consumption. But lo! I am back and semi-lucid and sort of less angry and whiney than normal, so you may - just may - get something kind of worth reading.

After this post, of course. This post doesn't count.

If I Don't Fight, I'll Eat This Planet

2009-12-10T15:04:00.000-05:00

Damn but if today's blog title isn't bang on. I WANT TO EAT THE PLANET. I don't have much more to say than that.

One Of The Best Temporary Cures For Pride And Affection

2009-12-07T12:56:00.004-05:00

Continuing my none-too-consistent Cheap Eats reviews (see here, here, here, here, and here), I present to you: 2 Amys Neopolitan Pizzeria.

Mr. Mystery has recommended this place on several occasions, but the logistics of its location as it pertains to various Metro stops presented a problem for me, the lazy canary that doesn't like to exert herself too much. The problem consisted of a hill and distance. Go to the closer Metro stop and you have to walk up a hill, so I veto'ed that. Go to the farther away Metro and you don't have a hill but, hel-lo, it's farther away. So I veto'ed that one, too. But now that it's brrr-chilly outside, we have no qualms about jumping in the car to drive ten blocks. Yay for needless pollution and laziness! Huzzah! We got in the trusty ol' Accord and drove our asses to the restaurant.

Two things about 2 Amys: 1) their food is fan-freakin'-tastic, and 2) our waittress was beyond adorable.

One thing I learned from eating at 2 Amys: half a bottle of wine, when mixed with the entire Roasted Olives appetizer, creates one hell of an acidic middle-of-the-night vomit-fest. Yurgh.

Getting inexplicably (and almost instantaneously) drunk and then throwing up my dinner aside, I have to tell you that 2 Amys was delightful. It's not your standard pizza joint. Tasty gourmet-style pizzas mix with an impressive choice of appetizers and salads, and the wine list? There was plenty on there to keep even the most picky of wine-o's happy.

Mr. Mystery and I dined on the Roasted Olives ($4.95), the Norcia pizza (tomato, salami, grilled peppers, fresh mozzarella, grana - $12.95), the Abruzzese pizza (polpettine, garlic, parsley, pecorino - $12.95), and a bottle of Grotta del Sole, a tart white wine that went straight to my head and caused me to reverse the eating process later that evening.

P.S. Throwing up wine and olives is NOT pleasant. I don't think I can ever eat olive tampenade again. I'm just sayin'.

I give 2 Amys two enthusiastic fist-bumps and I give our cute waittress a loving tweak on her nose. I highly recommend you get your butts over there and eat everything you can get your hands on. And if you do go, give the red-headed waittress with the glasses that loving nose tweak for me.

2 Amys Neopolitan Pizza
3715 Macomb Street NW
Washington, DC 20016

2Amys photograph by Savannah White.

Once Prized For The Function, Now For The View

2009-12-02T14:43:00.004-05:00

Today I spoke with a gentleman from the Defense Security Service about my colleague for her security clearance. Some of his questions got me to thinking about my clearability, and this is what I determined: there is no way I would ever be cleared. Not that I'm untrustworthy. On the contrary, I love my country and countrymen and would never do anything to put either in harm's way.

The problem is a little thing I like to call MONEY. On paper I'm not such a good sell. If one were to look at my bank statements, I wouldn't appear to be so stable. One might say, "Wow, this girl could do with a little bribing." And thus? Unclearable.

It is this line of thought that gave me and a few of my colleagues the BEST DAMN BUSINESS IDEA EVER. We have decided to open our own coffee shop. With strippers. For now we're calling it "Java 'N Jugs."

But we're not going to be like those Seattle bikini-clad coffee-slingers. Our baristas (which will be us to start) will be dressed like Dita Von Teese: classic red lipstick, pin curls, silk stockings, 1930s styling. Put a tip in the tin and we take a little off. Eventually we're in our knickers, a-makin' coffee. We're strip-tistas! But classy ones. And also ones that don't get naked because I'm pretty sure that being naked behind the counter would be a violation of health codes.

A little research has taught me that there are certain rules to burlesque, so we're going to incorporate those rules into our business: innuendo, double entrende, suggestive language, and of course, lots and lots of garters.

Brilliant, right? And it's all for the safety and security of my beloved America. (And also the safety and security of my bank account.) It's called patriotism, people: the willingness to show one's "ample waves of grain" for love of their country. Can I get a "God bless America?" Oh yes I can.

Give Me Something From 1960 Or Something; Let Me Get Up Again

2009-11-30T20:44:00.002-05:00

I have to profess my undying love and devotion to the magazine Psychology Today. Because of this wonderful publication, I can't stop looking at women and they way that they walk so that I can develop theories as to how well they climax during sexual intercourse.

Just this past weekend I indulged in this new hobby of mine as Mr. Mystery and I were sitting on some benches outside the National Archives. "That woman, right there," I pointed to a sashaying middle-aged woman whose hips were swaying like a flag in a breeze. "That woman has lots of orgasms. But that woman over there?" I pointed to a different ambling lady, this one pattering by in short, tense steps. "That lady has likely never had an orgasm in her life."

I can also thank Psychology Today for my recent musings as to whether I am normal or not. This question of normality is not new to me, but it has taken on fresh meaning since PT asked the same thing and wrote such an interesting article on it. The only drawback to the article was that there wasn't a checklist provided, against which I could contrast myself with "normal" people. But since the article was about this very thing - whether there is or should be a standard definition of "normal" against which all people can be considered - it's not surprising there wasn't a checklist.

But I was still surprised. Because that's how I roll.

So I got to thinking about normality and whether or not I and my infinite weirdnesses are normal. Am I the only one who obsesses about their relationships and their role in them? Am I the only one who would put "sleep" on their Top 10 List of Favorite Things to Do? Am I the only one who has to plan for affection because I'm not naturally inclined to be so? Am I the only one who spends 90% of their day thinking about their job and how unfulfilled they are in it, but worries about never finding a new job because they fear they aren't good enough to score an awesome new position in which they won't feel exactly the same way they feel right now? Am I the only one for whom Logic and Reason mean absolutely nothing? Am I? AM I?!!

Oh. I am? Dammit.

Well, PT has a solution for that. They told me to redefine for myself what normal is, not accepting a set list of criteria as the end-all, be-all of normality. So in that spirit I am now going to embrace my oddities and will see my rare moments of calm and peace as being strange and "not quite right."

This may be contrary to everything Mrs. Lady Doctor has been trying to teach me, but at least it will drastically cut down on the number of emails to Mr. Mystery in which I complain about my job.

The Ingenuity of Complete Fools

2009-11-27T12:55:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time I hated teak. Then I came to my senses. The end.

The Feeling of Grinning Inside

2009-11-23T21:21:00.000-05:00

And another 2.2 pounds bites the dust.

I have now lost a total of 17.6 pounds and am truly amped about it. I am super curious as to what would happen if I realio-trulio followed the program - no cheating or creative math - and added some more exercise. What say you, friends? Experiment? Oh, I THINK SO.

So this week I have three goals. They are:

Exercise more.
Do not lose my mind and eat all of the stuffing on Thanksgiving.
Lose 2.6 pounds this week to bring my El Grande Total to 20 pounds DOWN THE DRAIN and OFF MY ASS.

In other news, I am filled with joy for all the world. As my yoga instructor would say, I am "sending positive white light to the universe." For some reason I can not confirm, I am almost euphoric and giddy with all the joyous joy. I think this is in part to some strange upswing in my brain chemicals. Some would call it "mania" but I'm calling it BLISS. Also, I credit all the wonderful people in my life who are cheering me on throughout my weight loss effort. Emails that say, "Fan-freakin'-tastic, Canary! Keep up the good work!" and "HOLY CRAP! 17 pounds is AWESOME! Woo hoooooo!" have brought about a perma-grin; I think my uncharacteristic happiness is starting to scare The Cat. (The Cat's take on the weight loss? "Mow," blink blink, blink. "Now give me some food, you stupid shrinking human.")

Also making me oh-so-very-happy are the good people in the world who love me, though they have never met me. These are my blog buddies, my Internets friends, the people I have met through this blog. I exchange emails with these fine folks. I think of their lives and I wish big wishes for them. I "send positive white light" to them, and they return it. Just today SweetlySingle, aka the Hippie Hudlum, told me that she was sending me some things she thought I would like. THINGS SHE THOUGHT I WOULD LIKE. Me! She thought of me and the things I might like! And she's going to mail them to me! In Maryland! When she herself is in Canada! And in return I'm sending her a wonky scarf I crocheted for her wee neck and shoulders.

And Kate, my would-be-lover-if-I-swung-that-way, talked me off of a ledge last week when I was convinced that I was completely unmarketable on the job market. She took the time to be my pep squad, to sing my praises when I couldn't sing them myself, and then deliver a dose of reality that woke my wallowing ass right up.

People. In the world. All around me. CAN YOU FEEL THE LOVE, MAH PEEPS? Can you feel it?! Because I'm sending you love right this very minute. It's platonic love (though maybe not 100% platonic for you, my little Kate), but it's still love. Ooey, gooey, sick-to-your-stomach good will and joy. Think of it as an emotional purr, rumbling from my inner self and telling you that YOU ROCK, INTERNETS. And also you, REAL LIFE PEOPLE THAT I KNOW. You light me right up, oh yes you do.

See? Total mania. This sort of happiness is SO NOT ME. But I'm ridin' high on the tide of endorphins and loving every minute of it. You better love it, too, while I'm handing it out. Chances are high that tomorrow I'll be sucking the ever-livin' life right out of you. As per usual.

Sat nam, my petit filets. Sat nam.

The Poetry of Logical Ideas

2009-11-19T14:01:00.004-05:00

I'm on Weight Watchers and it works, people. But you know what doesn't work? Me. The one who is DOING the weight watching. I've thought long and hard about why this is so dang difficult and I came up with a simple answer: MATHEMATICS.

Yup, blame math for my inability to stay away from the M'FING KRISPY KREME STORE with its M'FING "HOT DONUTS NOW!" SIGN.

Up to this point, I've done fairly well keeping to my daily POINTS(TM) allowance. I've cheated here and there, sneaking in a cupcake or three, but I always managed to pull it together enough to tip the scale in a downward direction. Until that one week where I lost my mind and ate everything I could get my meaty hands on. That week I gained 2 pounds and went mental with superstition.

The following week I was back on track (sort of) and I lost the 2 pounds I had gained, plus an additional 0.4 pounds. (Losing weight is like having a baby. You measure in the smallest increments possible. "Look! I lost 0.0025 pounds! My baby is 36 weeks old! That cupcake looks delicious!") I was supremely happy to see that the pesky pounds were going down and I have to admit to feeling generally better than normal, but I still can't get my ass in gear enough to be consistent.

This is where the math part comes in.

"So what's the problem?" you ask. "Why can't you get your ass in gear enough to be consistent?" And the answer is simple: Weight Watchers requires me to ADD and SUBTRACT and sometimes MULTIPLY and that is difficult. So difficult in fact, that the difficulty makes me so tired that I'm not strong enough to resist the lure of the Krispy Kreme.

So you see, the problem is math.

Let's break it down. Lunch consisted of 1) piece of Pepperidge Farm Oatnut bread; 2) a serving of my friend's shrimp salad; 3) one glazed Krispy Kreme donut. (Make no comment about the donut, because I actually ate two. One had chocolate on it.) I do the math: 1) 2 points; + 2) 4 points; + 3) a million points = 1,000,006 points. Now, when looking at that number, I can already start to tell that something is amiss. Visually, the POINTS(TM) system works, ie: 1,000,006 is a really big number and I know that really big numbers are not good. I'm not allowed to have a million points a day, so I make the very accurate statement that I have gone over my daily POINTS(TM) allowance and am thus GOING TO BURN IN FAT-PERSON HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY. The second thing I notice is that the donut was SO not worth the POINTS(TM).

Pretty logical and easy, right? So straightforward and simple. On such a system as this, the pounds must FALL off of my body. My stomach must be washboarding itself even as I type this. My butt is contracting and my chin is reappearing. But no. Oh no no no. Because despite the simplicity and logic of the POINTS(TM) system, you have to factor in one very illogical tour-de-force: ME.

Because I'm now doing some complicated math to determine how I can eat MORE donuts, despite the knowledge that the donut just isn't worth it. If I just lick the icing off of the donut, will the donut have less POINTS(TM)? What if I chew it down into very small pieces? Or liquify it? Or what if I eat the donut while standing up? Will that make it less POINTy(TMy)? And then as I start to carry the one, I get all confused and decide that the 1,000,000 POINTS(TM) attached to the donut is SO WORTH IT if it means that I don't have to keep doing math.

So I eat a second donut.

And then regret it.

Because after all of the very difficult adding, I have learned that I am now 22.5 points IN THE HOLE. Negative points, people. And even I, mathily-challenged girl, know that negative points ain't good. So all of this donut-eating-no-math-doing means that I am GOING TO BURN IN FAT-PERSON HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY where my ass will expand and expand and my thighs will join together into one blobby uni-thigh. It also means that I need to do some serious exercising to burn those points off and bring me back to zero.

I hate math. Math makes me hungry.

The Usual Way: A Little Wine, A Little Dinner...

2009-11-18T17:26:00.006-05:00

Be warned my friends, I am about to share too much information. Information of a personal nature. Like about bodily functions and such.

This shouldn't surprise you, my oversharing, seeing as how a recent post used the word "poop" about a gajillion times. Granted, I haven't actually told you ABOUT poop, but it's only a matter of time. In fact, I have a GREAT poop story to relay but Mr. Mystery says I should find an alternative word for "poop" before telling it. So until a suitable stand-in can be found, you shall not hear my poop story.

Instead of poop, this story is about Aunt Flo, aka: That Time of the Month, aka: Riding The Crimson Wave, aka: HELL.

So here's the story about my Aunt Flo: I happen to be a little late this month. As in my auntie ain't visitin' at the moment. As in it is not That Time of the Month for me, I am not Riding the Crimson Wave, and while I AM in Hell, it has nothing to do with my reproductive organs.

That about sums it up. Great story, no?

Now before you all go getting worked up and assume that I done got myself in The Family Way, be assured that I am NOT pregnant. And if I were? Well, let's just say that if I were pregnant you'd see a canary-shaped hole right through this here blog with an accompanying word balloon declaring, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k."

No. The lateness of my little friend is likely due to the insane amount of medication I am on for the Dread Pirate Sickness. Though WebMD has been less than helpful in answering, "Do antibiotics make your period late?" Google has stepped in with a wide variety of ambiguous research and eHow hits. After a quick search through the Internets and a reminder to myself that multiple forms of birth control have been utilized at all times, I determined that I was not pregnant and thus unpacked my bags and settled in for the long-haul.

But that doesn't mean that I didn't have a few hours of wondering.

This morning I sat in traffic on the Beltway and thought to myself, "If I had a kid, how would my life be different?" I figured that if I had a kid - was in possession of said child right that very minute - that I'd be sitting on the Beltway in traffic. Nothing new there. Except that with a kid, my car would be covered in snack-food debris and spilled drinks. Oh wait. That's not new either. Okay, so traffic and car maintenance wouldn't change regardless of whether there was a Little Canary or not.

Work. Would work be different? Work itself would not, but my hours would be interrupted by daycare calls and The Ever-Present Childhood Sick. Though... as things stand now, my hours are all over the place anyway. Appointments with Mrs. Lady Doctor, the Dread Pirate Sickness, the bitterness and resentment that keep me in bed later than I should be, etc. I can accept that birthing a meatloaf would change my career and job, because my priorities and obligations would change. This, in theory, does not bother me because I am currently less-than-pleased with my job, hence the bitterness and resentment.

Traffic and work are aspects of my life, but they are not my entire life. I can readily accept changes to these two things because they exist but are not a part of me. A child, though... A child would be a serious kick to the ass of my life because a child WOULD be a part of me, both emotionally and physically. Money would be tight, dating would be hard, and then there's the sleep to consider. Oh sweet precious sleep, how I would miss thee.

My biggest fear was that being a single mom would cause me to put too much emotional baggage on the wee shoulders of my offspring. I don't want to be the sole reason my child ends up in therapy. I know that I'll be PARTIALLY to blame for my kid's Crazy (I'm certain my brand of Crazy is genetic), but I don't want to be the End All Be All of my kid's WHITE HOT FREAKING INSANITY. If my kid's going to be crazy, I want that crazy to be the result of something simple, like a chemical imbalance, and not ANYTHING THAT HAS TO DO WITH ME. Blame someone else, you little rugrat. For reals. And right now... Well, if I were to reproduce right now, I think I might screw my kid up irreparably.

But despite knowing all the hardships that having an unplanned baby would bring, I didn't so much mind (apart from screwing the kid up and ruining its life, ohmygod). It was more, "I'll deal. I'll figure it out." Because really, isn't that what Life is? A great big puzzle to figure out? We turn the pieces over in our hands, inspect their shape and color, and look for a place to set them down that makes sense. Some people find that place on the first try, but not me. I move and move and move the pieces until sense is made. I am not tactical; I do not plan. Things happen and I react and, at some point, I figure it out.

But this breezy outlook on the matter is likely the result of the fact that I know I'm not pregnant. If there were a real possibility that I could be, well... like I said, canary-shaped hole and fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k word balloon. So it's just as well that I'm not; I don't like running and swearing. (I kid. I love to swear.) Also, I'm certain The Cat would NOT approve of bringing a flesh-covered "kitten" into the fold. According to him, there's only enough love and attention for him.

And there you have it. The situation. I am perfectly content with the way that things are (job not included). But I am a little sad nonetheless, as I'm pretty sure that being With Child would have provided me with some EXCELLENT poop stories. Absolutely excellent.

Touch But A Cobweb In Westminster Hall

2009-11-17T10:47:00.002-05:00

Hear ye, hear ye! The word of the day is VERMIN.

Mr. Mystery's back yard is a veritable dumping ground for all things unwanted. Because his house backs onto a communal alley and because his yard is open (ie: unfenced) and because it's nigh unto impossible to get your household trash (nevermind bulk trash) picked up in D.C., people like to toss whatever they don't want into his yard. It's easier to pass the buck than to take care of your garbage like an adult. A word to all of Mr. Mystery's neighbors: dump anything else in the man's yard and I will go postal on your ass. OhyesIwill. So with all of the clandestine dumping, it came as no surprise when Mr. Mystery received a warning about the bulk trash in his back yard.

Always happy to throw things away and even happier to go my favorite place, I was giddy - GIDDY! - about the prospect of cleaning out the backyard. Friday night found me happily humming while my boyfriend hauled crap-that-did-not-belong-to-him from his backyard out to the trunk of my car. The methodical opening and closing of the back door, his stomp-stomp-stomp through the house, and then the opening of the front door was broken up at one point by the sound of squeals and shrieks. Mr. Mystery came back in the house and announced matter-of-factly, "The girls next door found a rat in their house. They trapped it in a box."

Oh. I was ALL over that.

"I WANT TO SEE IT!" I yelled, and followed after him.

Turns out that the rat had not just been in their house, but had actually been in one of the girls' boots. To her surprise (and dismay), she got a little something extra when she went to put her shoe on. And now the shoe, along with the rat inside of it, was caught in a box.

Fascinated, Mr. Mystery and I went to work.

We flipped the box over. We opened the top carefully. We looked for the rat. We did not see the rat, but we saw the boot. We guessed the rat was still inside of the boot. I reached in and picked up the boot. I shook. And shook. And shook and shook and shook. Mr. Mystery took over and shook the boot. A tail appeared. And then little paws. And then the entire rat, at which point I jumped up and started shrieking with the rest of the girls, doing a wild two-step on the sidewalk.

The rat took off full-tilt-boogie up the street, running for all its worth.

Suddenly silent, we all stared at the retreating tail of the now-free rat.

"Should we go after it?" asked one of the girls. Hell if I knew. What does one do with a single rat in a city full of vermin? Catch it and hang its head on a tiny stake in the front yard as a warning to all other rats? THOU SHALT NOT COME HERE, RATS, lest we go all Lord of the Flies on your furry butts.

The tediousness of running after a rat didn't measure up to the benefit of catching said rat and the fruitlessness of killing one rat in a gajillion, so we all shivered our individual grossed-out shivers and returned to our homes.

Monday morning I was woken up by a shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-SQUEAK! sound coming from the bedroom wall. Alert and thoroughly ooked out, I tapped Mr. Mystery on the back of the head. "Hello?" he asked sleepily. "Shhhhh!" I whispered hysterically. "LISTEN!"

Shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-SQUEAK!

"There's... something... in the... wall!" I stage-whispered dramatically.

He listened for a moment. Shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-SQUEAK! "Uh huh," Mr. Mystery replied. "There is." And then he rolled over, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and began snoring.

I laid there for a while listening to the vermin partying in the wall, imagining all sorts of frightening things like tiny paws walking across my face while I slept, rat tails draped over the cutlery in the kitchen, and smooshy rodents a-livin' in my shoes. I was horrified.

I'm not really sure what to do. When you live in a city you're at the mercy of the outside world. Without protection, you find people dumping trash in your yard and rats living in your walls. Your space and your possessions are no longer yours alone, but instead become communal property. You share your yard with your neighbors' trash and your boots with the rats. If one person fails to keep a tidy house and allows their residence to become a breeding ground for roaches, you get to entertain roaches, too.

I am trying to come to terms with this, but finding it difficult. I don't know what the solution is, so until I figure it out I'm going to keep dumping the trash and nesting like a maniac. I might also, perhaps, put out some glue traps.

Some great. Big. Glue traps.

Gratitude extended to paulbaines.co.uk for the image. Read his interesting post on Blek Le Rat and stenciled street art.

Daily Photos: November 13, 2009

2009-11-13T11:26:00.000-05:00

Oh Diabetik, how I love your marshmallow Peep street art. You make my walks in D.C. such a delight.

A Little Nut Holding Its Ground

2009-11-12T21:19:00.005-05:00

I have noticed a trend in my posting lately, most of it having to do with The Crazy and the way I deal (or not deal) with The Crazy. I don't really like this trend as I'm afraid it makes me look like a ginormous whine-o loser who can't handle her poop like a grown-up. But if the shoe fits...

Also, it fills my heart with fear that you fine people will start to get tired of my whining and will tell me, "Shut the bunk up, Canary, you're boring the whites off of our friggin' eyeballs."

But since I think I'm on the verge of a mini nervous breakdown (the kind that requires an entire gallon of Edy's and some Pillsbury cookie dough but not forced institutionalization) and since I need to spill the words out of my body the same way an enema spills the poop out of your chute, I'm saying, "To hell with it," and am now telling you that I am FREAKING OUT LOSING MY SHIT OMG. I'm also telling you a lot about poop, it seems, though I could tell you a WHOLE LOT MORE. Right Mr. Mystery? Right? I could tell them a whole lot about poop. (He knows. I talk about poop a lot.)

Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. Not the poop part because I really do talk a lot about poop, but rather the part about losing my poop. That part is a wee stretch of the truth. The truth is that while I am LOSING MY SHIT OMG it's not happening all at once. Rather, I feel a small puncture in my inner lining and the shit is oozing out of me in miniscule increments - sort of like diverticulitis - and no one but me, God, a CT scan and a colonoscopy can see it. So if I were to run up to you, waving my arms and shouting, "I AM LOSING MY SHIT OMG!" you would likely look me up and down, see that I haven't lost a limb, and then say, "Oh Canary! How you joke!"

And yet I am not joking. Instead I am yelling, "The shit! It's a-leakin' out!" But the primary response I get to this is, "Canary-girl! But aren't you a funny one!" Mrs. Lady called me "scintillating" today. SCINTILLATING. My, but I love that woman. The only thing? She told me this after I put my head on the arm of her couch and wailed, "But I've got a blister on my heel! ON! MY! HEEEEEEEEL!"

You may be wondering what the heel blister has to do with poop and my LOSING MY MIND and also how can wailing about blisters make one "scintillating." I wondered the same thing.

So here's the whole blister scenario, but be warned because its story is buried underneath a lot of other stuff and my brain isn't functioning well enough to put the story into a logical sequence.

I joined Weight Watchers about seven weeks ago and was doing pretty well. Lost 15 pounds. I kept this mostly to myself because I wanted it to be something I did for me and also? I tend to fail at things like this and I didn't want to see the "yeah, right" look on people's faces when I announced that I wasn't eating that second cupcake because I was trying to loooooooose weeeeeeeeeeeight. So "mum" was my word and I just did my thing. A few close (non-judgmental) friends knew and I leaned on them for support.

But after losing 15 pounds, people start to notice that your ass is smaller and they start to ask you where your ass went and you start to feel pretty good about losing your ass so you tell them about Weight Watchers. And then you go to your meeting and for the first time since starting seven weeks prior YOU GAIN WEIGHT.

And you immediately think that you jinxed yourself by telling people that you were trying to lose weight.

And you get discouraged because your f'ed up brain, the one with The Crazy, starts in on its pre-recorded soundtrack of "Failure, Failure" set to the tune of "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler.

So you wallow for a day or two and then try to get some perspective. You reframe your thoughts. You tell yourself, "Self! Stop wallowing and get some perspective! Reframe! REFRAME!" So you go walking during lunchtime to 1) burn calories and 2) get some fresh air and 3) hopefully also get some perspective.

And you get a big-ass blister on your heel.

And then you tell your therapist that you believe the blister to be the physical manifestation of your belief that you ultimately will fail, that all of your efforts will be in vain and will also hurt like mothafucker and that the blister is just trying to help that failure along. Speed it up a little. You tell your therapist that you believe the blister to be sentient, and that it is transmitting little failure messages to your brain. You mention Fiddler. You may even mention to her how Caroline Ingalls almost cut off her leg and you think that perhaps lancing the blister might silence the failure lambs.

And that's when your therapist would lean forward in her chair, fix you with an uncomfortably intense stare, and tell you that you're "scintillating."

And you start to wonder if she was really listening to the story, because the story was far from scintillating. In fact, it was sort of the opposite of scintillating. It was gnitallitnics (which is "scintillating" spelled backwards and also super fun to say.)

The story was, to be blunt, MANIC.

And you realize that perhaps the decrease in your head meds has had a bigger effect on you than you think. But you say, "SCREW THAT!" because you SO WANT TO NOT BE ON MEDS even though you know the meds keep you from ingesting an entire bottle of Tylenol PM and/or a gallon of Edy's and a roll of cookie dough. So you choose instead to be SCINTILLATING instead of MANIC. Because really, can't they really be one and the same? Those crazy people on the bus that mutter to themselves, they're not INSANE, they're just really good conversationalists.

And that, my good people, is what they call REFRAMING.

Wait... what was I talking about? Poop?

Damn it. I lost my train of thought. Oh wells. The end.

Daily Photo: Saturday, November 7, 2009

2009-11-10T10:51:00.002-05:00

"Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?!" Friendly faces in the strangest of places.

Chili Update: And The Winner Is...

2009-11-06T13:46:00.003-05:00

WOOO! My chili was well-received by my colleagues! Though I did not win a ribbon, I did have the 4th highest number of votes.

That was some tough competition, let me tell you. The winner duped us all by LYING and telling us that his chili contained spicy pork sausage and ground beef. We all ooh'ed and aah'ed over the lively flavor of his chili, wondering aloud what ingredients he used to give it its sweetness and tangy zip. Once the winner was announced and Mr. Chili Liar was bedecked in his ribbon, he revealed the truth: that WASN'T sausage and ground beef in the chili.

It was wild boar and venison.

I pantomimed hurling into the nearest trash bin.

"I knew if I told you that it was venison, you wouldn't try it," he explained.

And he was right. We all feared Mr. Chili Liar, aka: Mr. Hunting Man, would try to slip some deer into our food and he knew it. Had we known that deer was in there, none of us would have eaten it. (I'm not all that bothered by the wild boar, as I consider that to be fancy bacon. With tusks.) So lie he did and win he did because venison and wild boar aside, that was some damn good chili.

And Now You're Telling Me You're All Out?

2009-11-06T11:12:00.009-05:00

Today is my office's first-ever chili cook-off. The event is our effort to boost morale and give everyone a chance to show off their culinary skills. With everyone working their asses off like they have been, chili and cornbread are deserved.

My role in this, in addition to being a chili-cooker, was to create the awards and decor. Seeing as how we're chillin' in one of our conference rooms, there isn't much one can do about decor. There are only so many solutions one can provide in a room with flourescent lighting and furnished with a marbled formica conference table. But I did my best, ladies and gents, and in an hour my coworkers and I will sit down to 967,421 gallons of chili, 13 batches of cornbread, 6 tubs of sour cream, 37 bags of Tostitos, and 26 bags of cheddar cheese.

Mr. Mystery has already been informed that we are having chili for dinner tonight.

And for breakfast tomorrow.

And for the rest of our lives.

Some photos for you, my lovelies. I have to admit that I am particularly in love with my first, second, and third place ribbons (crafted with love and an ass-load of hot glue), and hope that I win one so that I get to hang it on my office wall and use it to mock the inferior chili-making skills of my colleagues.And here is my chili, contestant #2, all 4 gallons of it. My secret ingredients? Cumin and curry. Oh! And also sage-flavored sausage. No recipe is complete without sausage. Delicioso, mis amigos. Delicioso.

Shows Us What We Are

2009-11-05T15:05:00.003-05:00

Greetings, my fine feathered friends. As you may have noticed, things have been rather dull over here in GreenCanary Land. I could give you some great excuses, like the End of the World or Bubonic Plague, but the truth is that I've been lacking creativity. Even now as I type this, I find the words to be coming out a bit mucky and thick, like tar or molasses. Tarlasses, if you will. But once again I started to worry about losing you, my lovelies, and also my lover-ly Kate of South Dakota sent me an email that was the virtual equivalent of a bitch slap delivered by kid gloves. In other words, a loving bitch slap, which I enjoyed more than I should have. Gave me a thrill *wink wink* So here I am, posting a butt-load of crap for your reading non-pleasure.

Hee hee... I said "butt-load of crap." *snort*

So anyhoo, I got all sick and shit and was out of work almost two weeks. Through a thick layer of phlegm and snot, I informed all and sundry that I had Swine Flu. I was pretty certain for I felt downright swine-ish. But the doctor informed me that I did not have Swine Flu. Hell, I didn't even have the REGULAR flu. What ailed me? Sickness. Yep, that was the diagnosis. Sick-to-the-ness. Let me tell you, when you're about to expel your lungs through your mouth by sheer force of will, the last person you want diagnosing you is a doctor with a proclivity for being vague.

So there I was, perched precariously on the papered exam table, working hard to keep my lungs from coughing, my nose from running, my chills from shaking, and my body from fevering, when the perky doctor sing-songed, "Good news! No flu! But you ARE sick."

*crickets chirping*

I waited for her to say something more but nothing else was forthcoming, so I caved and asked, "Whad?" (That's the stuffy nose equivalent of, "What?")

"You're sick," she repeated. "I don't know for certain what it is... maybe it's bacterial, maybe it's viral. You want some antibiotics?"

I politely declined the antibiotics unless, you know, she - THE DOCTOR - thought I needed them.

"Hard to say, hard to say..." she said. "They might work. They might not. You never know until you try, right?"

I had many answers to this question but lacking the will to live, I remained silent.

I took my Sick and went home where I hibernated in my bed for 6 days. On the 7th day I emerged from my bedroom and pretended to be a normal, functioning adult.

The next day I was right back in bed. Damn undiagnosable sickness.

The good news is that I'm now sorta better, though my general tolerance for people's crap is ultra low and my teary-eyed finger is trigger happy. (<-- That's my fancy way of telling you that I keep crying over stupid things, like commercials, The Biggest Loser, clipping Bixby's wings, and bad meetings with my boss. That last one was sort of legitimate in that it wasn't a happy-go-lucky discussion but rather a painful pick-apart of my department's shortcomings, though what she said didn't warrant the waterworks. Those I threw in for free. Because of the Sick. I blame the Sick.)

So there you have it, friends! Me, sick and crazy! Like always! Aren't you glad that you're protected by that there monitor? Goodness knows what sort of germs I could spread should we ever conversate face-to-face. Woo.

Beat Some Crap Out Of It And Demand Some Florida Oranges As Well

2009-10-26T14:51:00.003-04:00

Oh lovely people, my lovely lovely people. Mah brain? It is on meltdown. Meltdown, with a capital M. It is convinced that my body is sick and thus is giving me a low-grade fever and an earache when the only thing *actually* wrong with me is that my head-med dosage has been reduced.* The reduction in head-meds has kicked my brain into a crap slump of epic proportions, the solution to which is just to muddle through. If I can make it through the Effexor withdrawals, I can do anything. I'm pretty sure. This will be my litmus test.

*Okay, I wrote that first paragraph days ago. Turns out that the Effexor withdrawal was just a wee part of my sickness. The earache turned into a full-blown ear infection and one of my glands became so swollen that you could actually see it protruding from my neck. I kid you not. It was gross. I regret not taking pictures for your viewing pleasure.

Sadly I must confess that I tried to drag Mr. Mystery into my epicly proportioned meltdown. Many months have gone by since I brought up the B word with him. Really, it's been a long while since I've even THOUGHT about the B word. But then my head went berserk and ran off naked into the fray. Suddenly I was all BABIES and EX-GIRLFRIENDS and DO YOU LOOOOOOOOOVE ME? and man! Can we just say, "C-c-c-crazy?!" because seriously, I went absolutely bonkers.

When my ass finally made its way to Mrs. Lady Doctor, it was tired from all of the self-kicking it had undergone. Because no meltdown is complete without the instaneous REGRET and DAMAGE CONTROL. You lose your mind and are then instantly, "I'M SORRY! I DIDN'T MEAN IT! PLEASE DON'T LEEEEEEEEEEEEEAVE MEEEEEEEEE!" One's ass gets tired from the self-flagellation.

Mrs. Lady Doctor took one look at my baggy, deadpan eyes and asked about my mental state. "Oh, um..." I hedged. "I'm good! Great, even. I'm all PERFECT and HAPPY!" She stared. I repeated, "PERFECT! And HAPPY!" She continued to stare and me until I crumbled under the weight of her gaze. I collapsed into a weepy sopping mess and told her about my naked fraying insanity. I tried to explain the craziness by saying that I was physically sick, that the ear infection was making me nuts, that the penicillan was the cause of my lunacy. I hem'ed and haw'ed until I had talked myself full circle and was forced to admit that my mental state was not the cause of therapeutic mold, but rather the lack of an anti-depressant. "God dammit," I muttered.

I God dammit'ed because here's the thing: I don't want to take anti-depressants to function normally. In the same way, I don't want to need an allergy medication to pet my cat. Or iron supplements because I'm iron deficient. I want to function optimally in an unaltered, unmedicated state. P.S. For me? This is impossible.

Upon receiving Mrs. Lady Doctor's call, the Harvard-Educated Psychiatrist put my medication dosage back to normal and things seem to be righting themselves. I haven't cried today, which I take to be a positive sign. I don't know if I'm completely back to normal because Mr. Mystery has been in Kansas so I haven't had the opportunity to go hog-wild crazy on his cute lil' tush. If upon his return I throw myself into his arms in glorious, rapturous adoration, we'll know I'm okay. If instead I slap him and demand that he procreate, we'll know that there's still some work to be done.

Only time will tell. Stay tuned.

My Heart is a Gypsy

2009-10-14T23:58:00.002-04:00

So I started sleuthing around, all Nancy Drew-like. And what was I investigating, you, my lovely lovelies, ask? Why, my newest blog follower, of course. I couldn't help but be tickled by the names of his blogs. I am neither hot nor gay, so I rather enjoy having some hot gayness infused into my blog. Since I can't do that hot gay infusing myself, I gladly accept the hot gayness infusing from others. That being said, I got to sleuthing.

I clicked on the hot gayness and what did I discover? Girls. In compromising (and drafty) positions, performing various acts that are, by and large, hetero. Sure, there's an occasional lesbian kiss or canoodle, but not so much as to account for the DAILY in the name of Follower 15's blog.

Confused, I IM'ed Mr. Mystery: "One of my blog followers is a porn site. What does that say about me?" He answered kindly, "That you've got great bosoms?" (Only he didn't use the word bosoms.)

"But how would they know that?" I asked, wordlessly accepting Mr. Mystery's praise of my bosoms. He loquaciously replied, "Dunno."

"But is it weird that a porn site is my blog friend?" I continued, totally caught up in the fact that words like "twat" and "cum" are now forever tied to my virginally pure blog.

"Maybe they (meaning Hot Gayness) followed you home for the same reason I did: you're cute."

Aw. How sweet is that? My boyfriend told me that my cuteness (and great bosoms) caused a rathy extensive catalog of amateur porn to follow and befriend me. If that's not a compliment, then I don't know what is.

But questions remain. First, where is all of the daily hot gayness? There was barely enough gay to last a week, nevermind daily. Your blog is a misnomer, my newest blog follower. Second, are you even a real person? The suggestion has been made that you are, perhaps, a spam bot, sent here from the depths of outer space to glean page views from my readers. If this is true, oh evil spam bot, I hereby banish you from my blog. Begone! And you, my lovely readers, steer clear of Follower 15 and his blogs. Thou shalt not give fuel to the spam bot's fire and move him up Google's hit list.

But if you are a real person, Follower 15, then tell me this: how did you come about finding me, lil' ol' GreenCanary, in the great expanse of the Internets? Was it my love of the movie Striptease that enticed you? Or perhaps my lust for Cate Blanchett? Or maybe you were wrangled by my obsession with Willy Wonka, as performed by Gene Wilder. Because I know it isn't my off-key singing voice or poorly formed poetry that captured your fancy.

Porn follows my blog. I am followed by porn. I really don't know what to think about that. So for the time being, until answers are offered, I choose to believe it's because I'm sporting an impressive rack.

Fin.

The Cockroaches of the Ocean

2009-10-14T16:08:00.003-04:00

A-goggling the shrimp at the Marian Koshland Science Museum of the National Academies. In addition to the a-goggling, you can also hypothetically kill hundreds of thousands of hypothetical patients who have hypothetically been infected with the hypothetical flu. Hypothetically, I enjoyed that part immensely.

Hopeful Analogies and Handsome, Dubious Eggs

2009-10-08T12:21:00.002-04:00

My Evil Twin has been at it again, out and about wreaking havoc in her doppelgangerly world. I know this because her antics have spilled over into my Actual Life in the form of a super hot man that has asked to be my friend on Facebook.

It's not abnormal to get the random Friend Requests on Facebook. There are some people who troll around, looking for strangers that share some weak thread of commonality, and then ask them to be Friends. I've gotten these before and I've always responded to their request with this question, "Do I know you?"

Often they'll respond by saying, no, they don't actually know me, but they were looking for people in the D.C. metro that work in marketing and - lo and behold! - I came up in their list and did I know that they work in marketing too? Because we both work in the same industry we should be Friends and hold hands and braid eachother's hair!

No thank you, weird stalkery stranger-who-works-in-marketing. I have a hard enough time keeping tabs on my flesh-and-blood friends, the ones that have held back my hair from my vomiting mouth when I drank too much, and who held my hand when my heart got broken, or who have loaned me money when I overdrew my checking account. I have a PAST with these people and I still can't keep on top of the relationship. So Mr. Unknown Person on Facebook? I'll have to decline your Request because I DON'T KNOW YOU.

Also, your Request smacks of desperation and I don't do desperate.

But then the other day I got a Friend Request from some man with a strong Italian name and whose profile picture showed a chiseled body that belonged on a professional soccer field. Me-ow. After a moment of drooling and silent contemplation, I sent my standard response, "Do I know you?"

And instead of getting back a, "No, we don't actually *know* eachother but both of our last names end in an 'r' so we should be Friends," I got back this: "Yes, we met in the supermarket. Do you not remember?"

Uh... no. I do not remember.

Now people, let's be honest here, I may not have the best memory in the world but HOT DAMN! I WOULD have remembered Mr. Italian Soccer Player had we met in a supermarket. Most certainly. Which makes me think that he has me confused with someone else. Perhaps my Evil Twin. And if this is the case?...

...GOOD JOB, EVIL TWIN. You have my blessing. Please let me know how that works out for you. In detail.

How Truly Great Thoughts Are Created - Friday

2009-10-06T16:49:00.015-04:00

PEOPLE, I wrote this entire post about my obsession with the Crownsville Hospital Center and then accidentally deleted it. I DELETED IT. How annoyed at myself am I? Super annoyed, that's how annoyed I am.

So here's the deal without any fanfare: I trespassed onto the grounds of the abandoned Crownsville Hospital Center so that I could get a better look at the dilapidated barn on their grounds. Here are pictures of that barn.

I said it much better before. I really did. It was a Pulitzer-worthy post. Deleted.

How Truly Great Thoughts Are Created - Sunday

2009-10-06T11:42:00.014-04:00

It may come as a surprise that I do not like the National Zoo. And when I say "do not like," I really mean "hate with a passion that burns like a urinary tract infection." This hatred stems from two things. First, the National Zoo is built on the world's biggest hill - bigger even than Everest - which seems to run uphill in both directions. No matter where you're going, uphill or down, you're walking up a hellish hill, your calves are burning, your lungs are burning, your ire is burning and you find yourself willing to trade your urinary tract for some relief from the wretched National Zoo hill.

Second reason I hate the zoo: fences.

An animal lover like I am, one would think that the animal proximity the zoo affords would have me all a-dither. But this is just not the case. The animal proximity at the zoo is not enough for me. If I'm going to stand at a railing placed high on a hill, overlooking a trench filled with water and separated by electric fencing, across from which is another hill upon which is a cheetah, then I might as well be on that "another hill" a-pettin' the cheetah. As the crow flies, that cheetah is a mere 15' from me. I mean, seriously, when we're talking about a measly 15' of separation, who wants to look at a cheetah when petting said cheetah would be ever so much better?

My intense dislike of the zoo has kept Mr. Mystery and I from going there. He has suggested it several times throughout our one-year relationship, each time eliciting the following response from me, "What?! NO! Gah! The zoo sucks. I freakin' hate the zoo."

So how is it that we wound up there this Sunday? Walking uphill both ways? We ended up there because Mr. Mystery is a clever one and suggested we go to the children's petting zoo, after which we would go grab some lunch. Petting? I can PET the animals? And lunch? I can eat? SOLD. And away we went.

Turns out that there wasn't so much petting as there was standing behind fences and looking, but one tubby goat made it all worthwhile by coming close to the fence and allowing me to rub his goaty head with my excited fingers. That one goat was the catalyst for my willingness to troop throughout the rest of the zoo, hills be damned.

I'm proud to report that I only complained a little bit, and only got rude once or twice, and only once threatened to murder a stranger's hyperactive child. Fine fine, you got me. That last one was a lie. I threatened that woman's child twice, but in my defense it was the end of the day and I was super hungry and tired and the kid really was annoying the shit out of me AND being mean to the animals so he deserved it.

And then Mr. Mystery took me out to dinner and I ate my bodyweight in bread. The end.

How Truly Great Thoughts Are Created - Saturday

2009-10-05T16:06:00.015-04:00

This weekend, Mr. Mystery and I rambled about D.C., taking in the sights and sounds of a city poised on the precipice of Fall.