A Bad Hair Day

Kevin and I are going to New York City for the weekend. My college roommate and friend Kari (who now lives in San Francisco), will be in town for a conference, so Kevin and I decided to cash in a few of our frequent flier miles and join her. I'm really excited, but also kind of intimidated...Kari is very accomplished and polished, and I am, um, not so much. She was wearing Ann Taylor when I was still in Osh Kosh B'gosh! I am surrounded by animals every day, and since I know that my clothes will get furry and muddy, I don't buy anything too nice or expensive...I am a Gap girl. But, since I actually want to be allowed in to New York City restaurants and night clubs, I did go out and buy a couple of articles of clothing which require dry cleaning...eek!
I also decided to do something with my hair, which may have been a mistake. I have very, very fine hair, so I generally can't get it to do anything. (Unless the humidity is high, when it quadruples in volume...remember that "Friends" episode when Monica was in Jamaica for Ross's dinosaur conference, and her hair kept expanding? Yeah, that wasn't just a sitcom gag, that is my reality!) Anyway, my usual hair routine is to shampoo it and put it in a ponytail. It's not particularly attractive or interesting, but it keeps it out of the way. I have been noticing a lot of gray in the past few months (I blame Norway completely--I left the U.S. with 5 gray hairs. I knew where they were and I plucked them out whenever they started to grow in. I returned from 15 very stressful months in Norway with dozens--if I tried to pluck them out now, I would be bald! Yep, it's gotta be Norway, it couldn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm getting old!) Kari not only dresses well, she also has the prettiest, shiniest hair ever, so I decided that my ratty gray ponytail just would not do. On Tuesday I went to a local salon, hoping to magically erase the gray and maybe get a sleek bob. The stylist was really nice and gave me some suggestions which, under the influence of the hair dye fumes, seemed like good ideas. She said that because my jaw is wider than my forehead, we could create the illusion of a wider forehead with lots of shorter layers on top. This made me nervous, so in a panicked voice, I said, "But I don't want a mullet!!!" She assured me that she wouldn't inflict a mullet upon me, so I relaxed and gave her the green light to work some hairdressing magic. When she was finished, my gray had been covered with some light brown highlights, and my hair had that kind of sexy, tousled, bed-head look. The stylist showed me how to achieve the soft, loose waves with mousse, volumizer, a blow dryer and a round brush. (Sadly, I owned none of these tools, so after my hair appointment, I dashed off to Target to stock up.) Unfortunately, what the stylist didn't realize is that I am a moron when it comes to my hair. (In junior high, while trying to create mile-high mall bangs, I got a round brush so tangled in the front of my head that my mom actually had to hack it out with scissors. I had a massive bald spot where my bangs should have been, hence the super perky side ponytail I sported for several traumatic weeks in seventh grade!) But I figured that I am older and wiser now, so on Wednesday morning, I hopped out of bed, showered, and eagerly grabbed my new hair styling tools. It's funny, I'm capable of writing and drawing and typing and opening jars and all sorts of different activities which require opposable thumbs, but as I held the round brush in one hand and the dryer in the other, the 31 plus years of experience using my hands just vanished. After 20 minutes, all those layers looked like they had been chopped by a weedwacker. No soft, tousled waves, just strange tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles. On the plus side, the gray is definitely gone. Unfortunately, it doesn't matter what color the hair is if it looks like it has been groomed by chimps!
It's okay, though, I have a new plan. I am just going to buy Kari lots of strong cocktails all weekend so that she never notices that a muskrat appears to be hanging out on my head. Or maybe I'll just buy myself lots of strong cocktails all weekend so that I don't care about my stupid, shaggy hair. Yeah, that seems like the best solution!

Shells

Last night, Kevin and I and a couple of friends had reservations to go to a nice French restaurant. Kevin was trying to figure out what he should wear, so he asked me what I was planning on wearing. As I zipped past him into the bathroom to shower and dress, I answered, "Khaki pants, a brown jacket and a shell." When I emerged from the bathroom 15 minutes later, Kevin was standing by the door with an expectant look on his face. He looked me over, and then said, "I thought you said you were going to wear a shell." I pointed to the turquoise sleeveless blouse I was wearing under my jacket and said, "This is a shell." Kevin looked a little disappointed--apparently he thought I was going to wear an actual seashell out to dinner. I don't know whether he thought I was going to wear 2 of them mermaid-style, or if I was going to stand on one a la "Birth of Venus!" I'm really not sure how I feel about this...I can count the number of times that I have felt smarter than Kevin on one hand, and last night as he scanned me for seashells was definitely one of those times. Feeling smart is nice, but at the same time, after all these years together, does he really believe that I'm batshit crazy enough to wear a crustacean creation to a nice restaurant?

An Interesting Souvenir

Kevin is finally home! Yay! 3 1/2 weeks is way too long to be apart, but we got through it. We celebrated his return home with fabulous Korean food and several Tivo'ed episodes of "Lost." What a crazy, addictive show that is! Kevin brought me a funny little present from Norway. When we lived there, I was always cracking up at Norwegians' obsession with being the biggest, longest, strongest, oldest in the world...the road maps are riddled with sites such as "world's longest tunnel," "world's oldest stave church," "world's strongest ocean currents," and "world's largest underground cavern for public use." During his trip, Kevin stumbled across a documentary called "Katie Melua--Concert Under the Sea." This woman performed the world's deepest underwater concert, at 303 meters below the sea off the coast of Norway. I laughed and laughed when I read the cover of the DVD--what wacky new superlative title will they come up with next? I can't imagine, but as long as Kevin continues to travel to Norway regularly, I'm sure I will stay well informed!

Happy Valentine's Day!

I was sad that Kevin had to be in China on Valentine's Day, but I decided to make the best of it and have my mom and a couple of her friends over for an elegant Valentine's lunch. They are all widowed or divorced, so I wanted to make the day kind of special for them. I bought them each a little box of chocolates and set the table with red tulips, wine glasses and even little heart place cards. Unfortunately, although I have Martha Stewart intentions, my end product is usually more the 3 Stooges. As I was preparing a beautiful raddichio and pear salad (radicchio leaves, sliced bosc pears, toasted walnuts, raspberries and shredded Parmigiano Reggiano cheese topped with raspberry-walnut vinaigrette--so easy, so pretty, so yummy!) I sliced a chunk of my finger off while chopping up a pear. It was hard to tell for sure since the salad is full of the red hues of radicchio and raspberries, but I might have bled into the bowl. I wasn't taking any chances, so after stopping the bleeding, I threw away the possibly sullied salad, grabbed a clean bowl and started anew. At this point, I was running a bit behind schedule, and really hoping that the rest of my preparations would go smoothly (and that my guests would be a few minutes late). But, it wouldn't be my slapstick comedy of a life if something else didn't go wrong, and suddenly I heard the telltale hacking sound of a cat coughing up a hairball. I grabbed a wad of paper towels and raced through the house, trying to find the nastiness. I checked all the couch cushions--no hairball. I peeked in all the corners--no hairball. The doorbell rang and I was torn...should I answer the door and risk my guests stumbling upon (or stepping in) cat puke, or should I leave my guests outside in the cold while I continue to hunt for the elusive pile. Thank goodness I decided to continue my search, as the hairball had been deposited under the dining room table--nothing ruins a meal faster than a puddle of vomit! I quickly cleaned it up and sprinted to the door. Did I trip and twist my ankle on the way down the stairs? Of course I did! I was panting, flushed and limping when I finally threw open the door. Not quite the composed and collected impression I wanted to make when ushering my guests into the new house for the first time! It really wasn't a big deal as my mom and her friends are very casual and easy going, but it made me realize that I'm probably not ready to handle anything as complex as hosting a dinner party just yet!
Actually, everything ended up turning out very well. Everyone loved the food, and they were all very touched by the boxes of candy. I think it was good for me to throw myself into a festive little Valentine's Day celebration too--it helped keep my mind off how much I miss Kevin, and how he won't return from China until next week. After my guests left and all the dishes were done, I drove to the animal shelter. (Not the one where I just applied--I still haven't heard from them.) I took some pictures of the new animals, I cuddled with some cats, I played with some dogs. On the drive home I still felt kind of down, wishing Kevin was around so we could celebrate over a romantic dinner...the big bouquet of roses, box of chocolates and thoughtful card which were waiting for me when I arrived back at the house definitely cheered me up!
Thanks, Kev! Happy Valentine's Day! I can't wait for you to come home!

Crazy Cat Lady

The animal shelter where I currently volunteer is a 45 minute drive from our house. Kevin has been encouraging me to start volunteering at another shelter which is much closer to us, so on Thursday I decided to check it out. As soon as I told the receptionist I was interested in volunteering, I was given a 2 page application to fill out. I was kind of surprised at how much personal information was required to volunteer--this application asked about my career experience, what veterinarian I use for my pets, my personal views on euthanasia, what special skills I could bring to the shelter...it even asked for a personal reference! All of these questions seemed a little invasive, but I went ahead and answered them...until I got to the question, "How many animals do you currently have?" Usually when people ask me that question, I say, "I have 2 dogs and mumble, mumble cats." I had to write a real number, though, so I took a deep breath and wrote, "I have 2 dogs and 8 cats," knowing that the shelter staff would probably take one look at my application, dismiss me as a crazy cat lady, or worse, a cruel animal hoarder, and throw my application in the trash. I know that my pets are all well fed and well groomed, that they all receive regular veterinary care, and that I scoop out the 8 litter boxes twice a day and vacuum the house once a day, but I also know that the majority of people who find out about how many cats I have think that my house must smell like a monkey cage at the zoo. (I assure you, it does not!) They also wonder how I could possibly have accumulated so many animals... here is how it happened:

This is Nekko. She is 14 years old, and she was Kevin's cat before we started dating. (Her name used to be Emily, but I insisted that we change her name. Some people suggested that I could learn a new name faster than the poor cat could, but I responded that the cat is very clever and I'm not actually all that bright, so we went ahead and changed her name to Nekko--she learned the new name quickly.)
Unfortunately, I am very allergic to cats, so in order to continue to spend time at Kevin's house, I needed to go to an allergist. I started getting weekly injections which made my alleric reaction to cats subside. Even though I went to all this trouble for Nekko, she really didn't like me at first, and I was swatted and hissed at a lot during the first couple of months. I decided that if I was going to continue with the annoyance of weekly shots, I should at least be able to have a cat that would allow me to pet it. A friend of mine had recently moved to a farm, and her new barn was full of barn cats and kittens. I only meant to adopt one kitten, but I just couldn't choose.

This is Frank. I loved his orange stripes and his spunky personality.

And this is Estelle. I thought she was adorable, no tail and all. How could I have left one of them behind in the barn? Frank and Estelle were named after Frank and Estelle Costanza from "Seinfeld" because they fought and squabbled with each other during the whole ride home. They will both be 8 in April.

Kevin and I moved to a loft in Chicago with our 3 cats, and while we said that we would really like a dog some day when we had a house with a yard, we had no intention of adding any more cats to the family. Then we moved to upstate New York. We bought a house, but it really didn't have a yard big enough for a dog, so we decided to hold off on adopting a dog. I started volunteering at the animal shelter, and the first month I was there, I met Abner. He was about 4 months old and really badly behaved. He would sink his little teeth into anyone who tried to pet him or hold him and his little eyes would squeeze shut with the force he would put into the bite. Even though he was absolutely adorable, it looked like he probably wasn't going to be adopted. I decided that maybe all Abner needed was a big house to run around in, lots of toys to play with, and some love and attention, so I brought him home. I was very wrong, and the first month we had him, poor Kevin had to sleep in leather gardening gloves to protect his hands from Abner's teeth. When friends came over, we would warn them to not make eye contact with Abner and to not make any sudden movements with their hands--most of our friends left our home unscathed, some were not so lucky. Abner did finally grow up (he is 6 years old now)and he actually turned into one of our nicest cats. He purrs like crazy all the time and he only bites a little bit!

My mom decided that she wanted to adopt a shelter cat too, so I suggested she take Toonces home. Toonces has chronic sinusitis due to turbonate damage, so he sneezes a lot. No one wanted to adopt him because of his condition, so he sat in a cage for a year at the shelter. My mom loved him, but unfortunately her dog did not. Her dog was elderly and blind, and Toonces really wanted to play and wrestle with the dog. The final straw was when my mom walked in to the kitchen to find the little dog on her hind legs in the corner, trying desperately to fend off the blows from Toonces, who was trying to engage her in a boxing match. I couldn't bear the thought of Toonces going back to the shelter, so I took him home. He was happy, and Abner was really happy to have a playmate to wrestle and attack. Toonces is now almost 7 years old.

Kevin and I and the 5 cats moved to a bigger house closer to his office in 2003. The first morning we were there, a very handsome black and white cat literally knocked on the back door. I gave him some food, and then asked the neighbors about him. Sylvester had a home once upon a time, but his elderly owner was sent to a nursing home, so he had been surviving by begging for food from the neighbors. For a couple of months, I stayed strong and didn't let him in the house. I took him to the vet to get his shots (luckily he had already been neutered), I made him a cozy bed on our front porch, and I fed him daily. Then it started to get really cold and snowy, and he would sit on our outside window sill, look in at us, and cry. Obviously, Sylvester became cat #6 in no time. We aren't sure how old he is, but the vet has estimated that he is probably 9 or 10.

Although we already had more cats than we ever intended to have, we were finally living in a house with a big back yard suitable for a dog. Kevin and I both had collies when we were little, so when Kermit the Dog came in to the shelter, it seemed like fate. He was probably about 5 years old at the time, so he is about 10 years old now. Kermit made himself at home and made friends with the cats, but it was obvious from his joyful reaction whenever he met another dog that he really would be happiest if he had a canine companion.

We tried to find another collie that was up for adoption, but when we checked the collie rescue website, we fell in love with the soulful eyes of a golden retriever/beagle/collie mix named Honey. She is now 4 years old.

We now had 6 cats and 2 dogs and we were sure that we would not take in any more pets. I still really wanted to help homeless animals, so I decided to foster pregnant cats and their kittens until the kittens were old enough to go back to the shelter and be adopted. One of the mother cats I fostered had 7 adorable black and white babies. It was amazing to watch them grow and develop, and although it was heartbreaking to say goodbye to them, I did bring them back to the shelter when they were 3 months old. 5 of the kittens were adopted quickly, but 2 of them developed ulcers in their mouths. They were sent to the sick room of the shelter for almost 2 months while their ulcers healed. By the time the kittens were well enough to be adopted, they were no longer tiny and cute and no one seemed interested in adopting them. I couldn't bear the thought of them languishing in their cage for one more day, so I brought them home.

This is Figaro.

And this is Elf. They will both be 4 in May.

10 animals is absolutely our limit, and we haven't added any more to our menagerie since 2004. All 10 of the animals moved with us to Norway in 2006, and all 10 of them moved back to New York with us in November, 2007. It makes perfect sense to me why we have the number of animals we do, but I know that to an outsider looking in, it seems weird and crazy. I'm not expecting to get a call back from the animal shelter where I applied to volunteer, I'm sure they think I'm unstable. It's fine, I enjoy volunteering at the other shelter and I really don't mind the drive. And I feel good about what I have done to help homeless animals, and what I will continue to do. I know I'm not an animal hoarder, and as Kevin has said, I'm still one divorce away from being a full-fledged crazy cat lady!

Job Security

As long as the U.S. dollar is weak and the Norwegian kron is strong (and the price of Norwegian goods stays sky-high), Kevin will always have a job at his company. Since moving back to the U.S., he has traveled back to the Gjovik office 3 times, and each time he has brought an extra suitcase full of merchandise from the U.S. to his boss and coworkers. He has delivered a whole suitcase full of Ralph Lauren sweaters to the CEO, a motorcycle helmet to the VP of Operations, and on this trip, a bicycle frame to the VP of Sales & Marketing. It's good to know that because of his special niche at the company, Kevin has a lot of job security. (And even if I'm wrong and someday he finds himself job hunting again, at least he can add "International Smuggler" to his list of experience on his C.V. now!)