Turbulence

Always eager to cross something masochistic off my bucket list, I took Katherine by plane on my own to visit family in North Carolina last week.  It was sort of like knowing you have to get a root canal at your next dental appointment: the anticipation is probably worse than the event itself, but unfortunately there were no pain meds involved in this case.

Getting to the airport, checking in, and going through security with an infant was surprisingly pain-free.  Curiously, staff at LaGuardia were much more helpful and friendly than at the Charlotte airport, where Southern hospitality failed me.  Don't be fooled: New Yorkers are actually a very friendly people.  Just don't cross them.

The painful parts of infant airline travel are really centralized on the plane itself.  Katherine, for those of you who don't know her, abhors being held by someone who is sitting still.  And really, besides hijacking, what is there to do on a plane other than be required to sit still for the duration?  She wanted to stand on my bladder, lean this way, lean that way, turn upside down, look over there, smile at that stranger, and eventually, get angry that she was sitting still.  

She eventually fell asleep in my arms, and I wanted to keep her sleeping there until we landed, but the urge to pee became more overwhelming with every passing minute, thanks to Katherine's earlier bladder stomping.  "Are we descending?  I can wait.  Maybe I can't.  If I move she will wake up.  Did I just feel us start to descend?  No, maybe not.  Why didn't I look into getting those astronaut diapers for myself, like that crazy lady who drove non-stop for hours to stalk that one guy... no, I can hold it.  No I can't.  But I can't move... Okay, I'm doing it."

Naturally, as soon as I stood up, the plane started shaking and I swayed around like the drunk sorority girl I once was.  I figured it would pass quickly so I didn't sit back down.  The plane shook violently the whole time I was in the bathroom, changing Katherine carefully, praying she didn't hit her head on the wall.  I also can't tell you how many times during a regular day I tell myself, "Thank God I'm wearing yoga pants right now," but this was definitely one of those times, because I managed to successfully pee while holding an infant in a violently shaking airplane bathroom and hike up my yoga pants without the hassle of zippers and buttons.  

When we finally emerged, both of us dry and injury-free, I expected a vigilant flight attendant to rush over with a drink, a smile, a warm towelette, a pat on the back and a hand to carry something.  What I actually really wanted was a Cool Runnings-level slow clap from the other passengers, but unfortunately, I could only cheer for myself in my head, and head to the finish line.

Family Trip To The Olive Garden

My family is in the process of finalizing our summer vacation plans, and thank God I convinced Sandy to go in August instead of May so I can have something to look forward to all summer. 

We are renting a villa property in Italy for a week called Gli Ulivi on the Amalfi Coast.  My dad seems unable to pronounce Gli Ulivi, so he has just been calling it the Olive Garden.  This is disappointing to me because normally he takes his best shot at pronouncing something in a different language and then just adds a bunch of foreign-person-type swirling hand gesticulations to make it seem authentic.  I hope he hasn't given up!

This is an email from Sandy I received today:

Hi, Everyone, I think we're firmed up on The Olive Garden for the week in August, so it's safe to make reservations.  Send me your passport numbers sometime.  They're going to ask me for them eventually. We are definitely taking out travel insurance.  The world is so uncertain now. My travel guides suggest you get an international driver's license if you're planning to rent a car.  And the rental cars all seem to have manual transmissions!  I'm glad Bill can drive those.  I'm not learning at this point in my life, and previous lessons have not gone well. I remember my father screaming - "Stop! No! Never do that!"  Well, I think he was yelling about my driving.  Maybe it was something else.

Keep in touch.  Love, Me

I'm not sure what risky thing my mom thinks might happen in Italy.  Too much cheese?  That's not uncertain though, that's just a given.  Or perhaps, more politically speaking, Prime Minister Berlusconi declares war on STDs thanks to all his run-ins with underage hookers?



This was drawn from my home computer.



We Put Birds On Things

Derrick has introduced me to Fred Armisen's completely insane new show on IFC, Portlandia.  The show strives on the idea that "the dream of the '90s is alive in Portland," where young people move to retire.  Derrick and I have always dreamed of living in the Pacific northwest for a brief period of time: riding bikes everywhere, asking our waitress for the life story of Daniel, the chicken we are about to consume, wearing an outfit of Birkenstocks and reclaimed bottle caps, and spending our days rescuing tri-limbed cats and dogs.  Luckily, this show allows us to live vicariously through its endless array of emo hipsters!

A few months ago, we walked into three stores in downtown Brooklyn, one right after the other, and each one had more birds in it than the last.  We had to give up shopping that day because I developed a serious Tippi Hedren complex.  You can imagine our excitement upon viewing our new favorite sketch: "Put A Bird On It." 

Happy 2011!

Happy New Year, CiB readers!  It has taken a few days for us to recover from the holidays and get back into the swing of things.  In fact, we have been about as relaxed about getting back to Cats in Baths as this cat in a bath seems to be about being in a bath. 



We have been delinquent bloggers because Derrick is off in Australia and New Zealand for two weeks so we have the whole apartment to ourselves, so obviously we have been dancing around in our skivvies as much as we want, like Risky Business meets Swan Lake, but with more falling, more wine-drinking and fewer blinds on the windows (you're welcome, world!).  We have also discovered some incredible new TV - My Strange Addiction or Freaky Eaters, anyone?

We will have new regular posts starting again on Monday! 

And thanks to Lynn B. for the video tip!

Since The Dawn of Paintbrush

Jeff and I first met in London in the winter of 2002.  It was a simpler time; post-9-11 paranoia was in its infancy and Britney Spears was in her prime.  The British pound was nearly two American dollars, and I had $500 a month to spend on food and booze basic necessities.

When Jeff and I were feeling exceptionally poor, we discovered the joys of Paintbrush on our computers as free entertainment.  Nearly all of my drawings from back then succumbed to the viruses brought on by illegally downloading Britney songs critically-acclaimed, thought-provoking music.

But wait!  Jeff has uncovered a treasure trove of his amazing work from this period and I am thrilled to be able to share it with you.  It all started with a visit to the Natural History Museum...

This is a primitive piece depicting us being chased by a T-Rex.  I am wearing a cute corduroy skirt and look extra sassy!

Jeff's work refined itself quickly with a visit from his friend Linda, who is featured in these two pieces of the three of us in space.

Before long, we were hanging out with the Scoobies, chasing ghosts and solving mysteries!

And riding on pigs!

We entered a psychedelic period and discovered how much more fun life would be on roller skates.

One day I walked in on Jeff alone in his room, naked as a jay bird, sitting in front of his computer, doing God knows what.  It inspired me to draw this.

Finally, Jeff's piece de resistance can be seen below: all eight members of our flat at the discotheque.  This took him 42 hours.

Jeff is our very special friend.

Here's a (real) picture of him grooming himself.  

The Italian Restaurant

This past weekend, we had a lovely dinner at the home of my brother's godmother, Lin.  Lin grew up in Dallas but has lived in Brooklyn for several years.  She told us a wonderful story about the time her sister Sally came to visit her in the big ole city, and CiB would like to recount it for you with a paintbrush interpretation.

Sally arrived in New York with a simple agenda.  She had heard so much about the Italian food up north where Yankees live but had never experienced it.  Unfortunately for all Southerners, not many Italian folks made their way from Ellis Island to beyond the Mason-Dixon line in the 19th century or anytime after, so authentic Italian food is difficult to come by.  Sally was determined to get her pasta on before she left the big ole city.

She told Lin about her need to eat at a real Brooklyn Italian restaurant.  She was unable to accompany Sally at that particular hour, and unbeknownst to Lin, Sally had forgotten her glasses at home, and the dry airplane air had irritated her eyes, so she was unable to wear her contacts.  So Lin gave Sally a few simple directions to the nearest authentic Italian restaurant in her neighborhood, and off Sally went.

She saw a (blurry) sign written in Italian, with people dressed in their Sunday best standing outside.

So she went in.

Being a Southerner, Sally was not discomfited by the fact that there was a buffet in this authentic Italian restaurant, so she followed the crowd to the large table at the end of the room, excited that she would get to sample so many items.

And there was the corpse.

And that's how my brother's godmother's sister Sally thought she was at an Italian restaurant but had actually ended up in a funeral parlor.

And this is a very similar story to our previous paintbrush post, but you still liked it and you know it.

The Stick Candy

My brother-in-law has an unparalleled sweet tooth, unlike anyone I've ever known, including myself.  He could eat dessert for dinner and then still need dessert after that.  In spite of this trait, he manages to stay trim, and his heart hasn't yet exploded. 

When Chris visits us in Philadelphia, he waits at Capogiro for them to open in the mornings, and becomes cross with the staff members because they don't have more than two flavors of gelato on display before 10 AM.  His mood changes from pleased to ornery in 0.2 seconds, like he's in withdrawal from heroin instead of sugar.  Later, he'll have gelato for lunch and again after dinner.  And thank goodness he does this, because I love any excuse to visit Capogiro more than once a day.

In high school, he lived in Japan as an exchange student for a few months.  If he had known that in Japan his main diet would consist of white rice and a piece of raw, bloody fish, with no sweets anywhere in sight ...

... he might have considered spending his semester in Switzerland or Germany instead.

For months on end, he tried to make it through each day without any sugar, trying to control his shakes without thinking about milkshakes, trying to change his mood from sour to sweet without thinking about Sour Patch Kids, trying to play along and snicker at Japanese humor without thinking about Snickers!

Finally one day, he stumbled upon what appeared to be a Japanese sweets shop.  It glimmered in the distance like a sunrise on the horizon.  Sweet nectar!  At last he could bathe in its glory!

Being Catholic, he atoned for the sinful abuse his sweet tooth had endured for the past semester.

Hail Sugar, Full of Calories,
Butterscotch is with Thee.
Blessed Art Thou among Fatties,
And Blessed is the Fruit of thy Womb Marzipan.
Holy Sugar, Mother of Cookies,
Pray for our Cavities,
Now and at the Hour of our Insulin Shot.
Amen.

He asked his host dad to purchase the smallest item in the store.  This sounds contrary to what you might expect after having read the rest of this post, but he was ensconced in guilt, wondering if his host dad would see him as ungrateful and unappreciative of the white rice and raw, bloody fish.

He tore into the tiny candy, blindly, after so many months of deprivation, this Sugar Daddy-type item was exactly what he needed. 

And then he realized what he was eating, exactly.

Squid paste on a stick.

And thanks to his guilt over not wanting his host dad to find him ungrateful and unappreciative of the squid paste on a stick he had purchased for him, Chris ate the whole thing.

Chris has this to say about the incident:

"It was truly and honestly one of the worst moments of my life.  Just imagine any of the occasions when you've been longing for some food or drink - birthday cake, the first drink of the evening on a Friday night, hot chocolate after spending the day in the bitter cold - and then imagine it was handed to you, and looked delectable, and then you tasted it and it was SQUID!  And you had to be polite about it!  And you'd been waiting for literally months!  Imagine if your perfect-seeming wedding cake turned out to have been mistakenly made of ground squid with squid ink frosting!!!

I have to stop thinking about it now - it was 19 years ago, but I feel it just as if it were happening to me all over again now.  I think I have post-traumatic squid disorder."

**Thanks to Hyperbole and a Half for inspiring the first of what we hope will be many posts featuring Paintbrush.  Hey, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?

Hating Duke Without Borders

Sandy H. reports from dinner time in Morocco:

"Tonight we sat next to a guy who went to Duke. He was an a*#hole."

Not that we needed any more of an explanation, because our most recent run-in with a Duke grad involved him calling us "slow-minded" within two minutes of meeting him for having gone to UNC, i.e. the Southern Part of Heaven.  But Derrick wanted to know more, so we had to ask why, specifically, this guy was an a*#hole.

"I - I - I - Me - Me - Me - My - My - My.  He SAYS he was head of a 300-person law firm (your dad doubts it).  Thinks Chapel Hill is not a 'real town.'  I said, 'Have you been there lately?'  'Many times!'"

We have to interject here and ponder the existence of Durham as a "real town."  We would call it a "real ghetto town," a "real ugly town," a "Voldemort is real and he lives in this town..."  We could go on.

Sandy H. continues: "Is thrilled UNC was bad in basketball last year, hopes it happens again, does not like Roy.  Coach K is the world's greatest coach.  Has traveled everywhere, done everything, knows everything.  I could go on but this re-cap is ruining my morning."

Ours, too.

"It was a challenging evening, but I've been proud of me.  I have conversed with everyone, even a*#holes, and said nice things about everything, even Duke.  Nearly killed me."

Our friends over in London, like us, hate Duke with an infernal passion undying, and encountering obnoxious Duke people outside the U.S. border only adds fuel to that lava-spewing cauldron of hatred.  You can read all about their trans-continental hating here and here. 

Lord Voldemort, Hannibal Lector, Hitler's ghost,
and the douchey kid who wrote I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell all live here.

Martha's Calendar

I remember the first time I made my mom buy me picked up a copy of Martha Stewart Living.  It was the summer of 1998 and Sandy H. and I were driving through New England after my summer at Choate (I wasn't quite fall-winter-spring semester Choate material).  We were in Maine and I was snuggled in the back seat of the rental station wagon with the July MSL, adorned with a cover picture of a beautiful homemade yogurt-currant-blueberry parfait: a perfect 4th of July cover that drew me in to a lifetime of domestic low self-esteem.

As we drove past the Bush complex in Kennebunkport, I finished digesting my MSL, and I confirmed exactly what I always knew I wanted to be when I grew up: rich.  And a collector of fine antique pie birds, an owner of magnificent Friesians, a grower of prize gourds, an entertainer of white people, and an all-around domestic goddess, even though I despise the title "domestic goddess."

I had this new idea for a blog last night and then I got really sleepy and dozed off for a little while and woke up being pissed off that I had totally forgotten about my new blog idea.  Then I picked up my November issue of MSL and turned to one of the first features that I have always found wildly entertaining: Martha's Calendar.  And then I remembered my new blog idea.

Martha's Calendar is totally and utterly absurd and worth the subscription price just to get a small glimpse into her schedule.  I've read that it's cut down by at least 90% for each day, and it's still beyond what any human is capable of doing if you work at a full-time job and need to fit in at least four hours of craptastic TV a day.

I'm not entirely sure, but in 2011, I might be living Martha's Calendar for a year and blogging about it.  It's kind of an aggressive goal, because when I told Derrick about it, he said, "Did you see what you would need to do on November 5th?  She's traveling to Manitoba to watch the polar bear migration, then she's touring the arctic tundra and viewing the northern lights."

Yeah, that would be hard to do.  So would all the gardening and composting and taking care of the chicken coops, what with the fact that I live in a one-bedroom apartment in the middle of a major urban center.  It's also not entirely original, in more ways than one.  It could be great for me though; I've been dying for an excuse to start horseback riding again!  And I know Derrick is tired of eating lemon-rosemary grilled chicken with steamed carrots.  Wouldn't he just love it if I whipped up some farro salad with oven-roasted grapes and autumn greens with parsnip-apple mash?  What the f**k is farro?

I may just have to settle for going to the zoo and watching the polar bears migrate from their feed bin to their lap pool, and viewing the light-polluted sky of north Philadelphia.  Which would be technically, if not Martha-perfectly, correct.

As if I needed another reason to love her.  
Would you please look at those ridunk Frenchies.

It Doesn't Take Long For The H. Family Reputation To Make Itself Known

Sandy H. has just arrived in Portugal and writes:

"Greetings from Portugal!  This is the lovely view from our hotel room:

...And so begins the tour of eating and drinking. They already know us and wave when we walk by the hotel bar.  Fewer than 12 hours in town."