Philadelphia

Part of my reasoning behind stranding myself in Virginia for the first year of residency was that I've never lived near the east coast before. I had all these big dreams of exploring my way up and down the Atlantic seaboard seeing some of the great American cities. At some point during the past two weeks, as I wallowed in post break-up mode (pajamas, chocolate, cats, movies with Julia Roberts), I realized I was wasting the golden opportunity. Then serendipitously, my Philadelphia-dwelling friend Alyssa invited me to come visit for the weekend! I should note that prior to this trip, my closest tie to Philadelphia was the fact that when I was 5 years old, I played summer T-Ball on a team called the Phillies. My experience with the Phillies convinced me that my fondest dream was to grow up to be a pro baseball player. My sister, Bonnie, even helped me "train" for the professional league by throwing baseballs at my head in the back yard. Clearly, that dream died young. But fast forward 20-something years and there I was in the city itself.

The famous Love sculpture. Oh, irony.

I didn't have much time in Philly, but it was action packed! We visited a museum collection of Rodin sculptures, including a jolly good time at the Gates of Hell. We visited a fall festival at Reading Station, where I learned that donuts are made with a rolling donut-press weilded by a jaded middle-aged dude (not cut out with tiny scissors weilded by wee little elves, as I had previously assumed). I also learned that the Jolly Green Giant's little buddy, Sprout, is a man-eating monster. I'm sure of this fact, because I could see the face of his last victim peaking out of his mouth when we took a picture together. And I learned about a baked wonder called The Pumpplet. It's a slice of pumpkin pie baked inside a chocolate cake, layered with a slice of apple pie baked inside a vanilla cake, spackled together with a lethal dose of buttercream frosting, then doused with colored candy sprinkles. While naturally intimidated by such a ferocious creature, I still calmed my nerves long enough to take a picture of it in its natural habitat. Furthermore, I learned that from the city center, the Liberty Bell is in the exact opposite direction from the Philadelphia Art Museum, and that we only had time to make it to one of the two sites on Saturday afternoon. Like any conscientious, patriotic, historically-minded American, I chose the art museum. Why?

Because:

As a bonus, the art museum overlooks an awesome green space plaza with this monument in it. Technically, I doubt we were supposed to the ride the moose.

Finally, to avoid receiving the label of Totally History-ignorant Git, it should be duly noted that the Liberty Bell was officially visited before I left the city.

Adventures with a camera self-timer

The Setting: Peaks of Otter, Jefferson National Forest, Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia a.k.a. The place where black-leather-clad spiked-helmet tough Harley riders get in touch with their granola-patchouli-organic-nature-loving side. I bet the other Hell's Angels will be so jealous. The Event: Alone on a mountain on a nice fall day.

The Thought Process:

The Deed: Take a picture with a beautiful background.

a.k.a. Ten poorly thought out seconds and two pre-set timed camera flashes.

The Internal Monologue: Ooh, I made it in time! And Frick...I'm stuck in a tree, my camera's on a cliff, this branch is cracking, and...well... "Frick" just about sums it up. The Happily Ever Aftermath: a.k.a. Did not die. Not even once.

Moo.

You may not have realized this previously, but when you're out and about in the world your #1 concern should be falling cows.

Could this sign possibly get any better?

Yes. Yes it could get better.

Because it also exists as a T-shirt.

A T-shirt that I need to own.

I've had the blues, the reds, and the pinks

If I've learned anything from the cautionary tale that is Jessica Simpson, it's that I should never comment too publicly about my love life in any kind of detail. With that in mind, let just me say vaguely that love stinks. Now if you'll kindly excuse me, I'll be in my room watching vapid rom-coms and dysphorically eating pints of ice cream for the next several months while I recover from recent events. Tangentially, how is Mr. Floppy Baldmullet Man on Pogo Stick Playing Two Trumpets supposed to somehow convey the message of that video? I don't bring it up to detract in any way from my key thesis about love's utter stankness, but merely as an existential question.

Feel free

to ponder it

with me if you like.

What I did this weekend

This!

...with some key differences:

a) That's not me. b) I've never been wherever that gorgeous place is. c) I was on a slackline less than 3 feet off the ground in a city park. d) I have yet to make it more than 10 feet along the line. e) That person does not appear to be squealing, wiping out, grass stained, or bleeding. Otherwise, it was totally identical!

My new ACCL membership

Dear Sarah,

Welcome to the Association for Crazy Cat Ladies.* Enclosed, please find your membership card, a litterbox scooper, a tiny catnip-scented toy ball with a jinglebell inside (retail price: an inexplicable $4.99), and a large unflattering muumuu** which you'll mysteriously yet inevitably feel compelled to wear as you revel in the joys of living alone and owning multiple cats.***

Sincerely,

ACCL Governing Board

Hubble****

and Marzipan*****

*The ACCL Association name was originated by Alyssa, who is awesome, proudly owns infinite cats, and has thoroughly convinced me that having two kitties will be waaaaaaaaaaay better than just one.

**No, Bonnie, I won't actually wear the crazy cat lady muumuu. Nor will I hang up the calendar you gave me. Nor will I end up with 12 cats someday.

***Yes, Bob Barker, my pets have been spayed or neutered. (A further safety measure against the aforementioned 12 cats.)

****Yes, he's named after the coolest space telescope in the universe! I dare you to even try saying "Ultra Deep Field Image" without feeling smart! Nerds, unite!

*****Renamed again, inspired by almond paste artwork and Homestar Runner. Mars for short. (Renamed? Again? What other names did I try out, you ask? Well, there was the name they assigned her at the animal shelter: "Hannah Montana." A travesty, really. We won't speak of that again. And there was "Zosyn," which I shamelessly love as the best combination antibiotic ever invented, and therefore thought would make a great name, but it just didn't fit her no matter how enthusiastically I tried. And there was "Poppy," which stuck for a whole week before it started seeming like she was named after someone's father. And there was "Vee," because for some reason I'm certain that when this cat thinks her internal monologues to herself, she has a thick Russian accent and uses the imperial first person as her pronoun of choice: "Vee are not amused. Vee do not approve of zis kitty litter. Vee demand somesing better; more verthy of our vonderful excellence. You have deesappointed us for ze last time. Meow.") Oh gosh, I'm imagining what the cat would say if it could talk. Sigh. Maybe the muumuu is inevitable after all.