The Cat vs. The Fish

I am dining casually this evening, balancing a bowl of Weight Watchers soup and 2 point crackers on my lap while I watch my DVR'd movie, "As the Earth Turns". No, this is not some early caveman version of "As the World Turns". It's actually a really good 1934 film.

So I look up and notice THIS going on in front of me:

As you can see, I reached for the camera instead of some easily tossable object. Although I am sure the fish objected, I let my curiosity get the better of me. The fishbowl had only been on the coffee table a few days now, and this is the first sign the cat was even interested in it. So I sip my soup, camera balanced and ready, and watch. A mere 30 seconds later, this happens:
The cat is NOT leaning in for the kill. No, the cat only laps at the water generously, taking her time, and watching the fish as she drinks. But that's all. No vicious "claw fishing" attempts. No cat trying to overturn the bowl to disable it's catch. It's almost disappointing. I am sure the fish feels otherwise. This is a far cry from the cat I photographed last year: This is her outside, in some crazy ass mode, maybe just yawning, but a little more scary looking than above! Normally, she is quite the huntress, as the following photos will attest:

Well, sometimes she is "just not that into" the prey:

She even protects her property from other upstart cats that think they have some kind of "right" to hang around her house:

But not tonight! She is clearly willing to share with the fish. Maybe she just isn't Vegan?

A day of Antique Stores and Exercise

Today being a holiday and all, I decided to celebrate by first sleeping in, then doing whatever else I felt like for the remainder of daylight (about 6 hours worth by the time I got up!). This January day brought some nice balmy 70 degree weather, so I opted for a little antiquing and hiking.

First thing I see in the antique store is my consignment case. Yes, I’ve had this crap here for THREE YEARS and little by little, a piece will sell. Last month I got a check for....79 cents. Yes, you read that right, 79 cents. Commission tends to take a bite, but really! So here is the case that I faced:

After inquiring what kind of money I would get if it all mysteriously "burned up in some unforeseen fire", I decided to look around the shop. I love these shops, as you can find the best and worst of all eras in one place. For example:
There is nothing really that can describe the hideousness of this book. What is most shocking is that the cover photo is showing THE BEST designs it has to offer. We really need to bury the 1970's. Around the corner, I find an example of the era when ladies found it completely appropriate to wear a dead animal around their neck...head, tail, feet and all:
Poor guy, he still looks shocked to have ended up that way! Next to this area however, I locate this great doll carriage and baby dresses area. Sometimes the setup of the items is better than the items themselves:
Now, in every antique or consignment shop, I am bound to run into things that I don’t consider "antique"....like these items:
I mean really, this is pushing the envelope as far as "collectible" is concerned. I meander on pass these hideous things to find the following:
Hmm..., there is no description on the item, and it’s already in the 70% off area. Is it considered OK to consign your old bondage toys? Really? Moving on...I peruse through some old books and turn to see THIS staring at me:
Dear god, bury it already! As I run screaming from this doll, I find a vintage Argus camera sitting amongst boxes of old shoes and baseball cards:
I consider purchasing it, pondering how full my bookshelves already are regarding vintage camera purchases. I thought about how I would have to make room for yet another camera. So then I grabbed it and headed off to pay for all the things I found.

After this, it's off to the beach for a hike again:
I stayed on the "lower hiking area" this weekend as I was already pretty exhausted from all that antiquing and didn’t want to injure myself. This creek leads to the ocean, and doesn’t it look inviting?
Well, forget it:

So after a quick 2 miles around in the BLAZING January sun...I take a few shots of the beach and a sailboat and then head home.
Aren't these nice? The first one looks like a painting!

Here is a shot of what I actually purchased at the antique shop. NO, the hideous 1970's stitch book did not come home with me!

An old lithograph ($3), mini salt and pepper shakers ($1), a flocked bird ($1), the Argus camera ($10), and a ceramic egg holder shaped like a hen ($2). Not bad!

A Daily Dose of Ingratitude

Every morning, before I leave for work, I make sure that Ingrate Bastard, the bird from hell, has a clean cage. See evidence below:
You’ll note the following highlights of the cage:
- Clean Water
- Fresh seed
- White paper towels lining the bottom
- Feed dishes connected
In short, I kiss the bird’s ass every morning.

Every evening, I come home to this:

You’ll note the following LOWlights of the cage:
- Greenish water with seed and toys in it.
- The purple perch portion of the mirror has been ripped from the top of the cage and not only tossed to the bottom, but liberally crapped on!
- There are piles of barfed up seed everywhere, including in and on his rather generously provided toys.
- The paper towel lining is chewed up and pushed around
- The once pristine perches are covered in some kind of explosive diarrhetic art.

This is why the bird is most aptly named Ingrate Bastard.

Here is Ingrate with the only thing he loves in this world, his plastic bird toy.

I rest my case.

January Trail Hiking

On Friday night, I was freezing in 38 degree weather, hunkered under two blankets, watching my favorite night time stories...Forensic Files. Peter Thomas, the narrator of this series, is the guy who talks me to sleep at night. Sick, I know. Then Sunday rolls around...a beautiful 60 degree clear and sunny day. Having already evicted the Christmas tree, cleaned up for the weekend, and checked the Forensic Files schedule for the day, I head out to a popular hiking trail along the coast.

Here is the start, nice and flat along the beach. No stinky whale carcasses today.

Some kind soul had even arranged some driftwood into a bench for a nice touch. There are a lot of people taking advantage of the nice weather. This cuts my chances of being taken by some serial killer in half.

The crows along this area are huge! They actually wobble when they walk around. You could fricassee one for gods sake! I take a photo of one and you can clearly see how big he is, as apparently a UFO is passing by in the background...compare the bird against it!!

Onward and upward, to the top of the mountain range. Since the city installed stairs and actual trails, I don’t get to see as many rescue efforts, which is kinda disappointing. On the other hand, there are a lot more people hiking to the top, which cuts my chances of being killed by a serial killer significantly. Did I mention that already? Below is a shot of the top of the mountain. See all the people sitting there? They are catching their breath after a steep climb of about 200 steps!

Here is a shot of what I refer to as "Certain Death" or "Three Rocks". Take your pick:

I think I saw this area on an episode of Forensic Files once. Something about a guy and a gal, a trail walk and "the wind pushed him over the edge, officer". Hmm.

So, later on along the trail I spot this sock:

First off, how does someone lose a sock on a trail? Secondly, this looks like a hospital sock. Was some sickly person brought up here and tossed over the side by a serial killer or uncaring family member? There are plenty of "dump areas" around here, as you can see below:
It looks pretty steep, and a lot of bodies could conceivably be down there. These are my thoughts when I see things like a lone sock on a trail.

Moving on... here is a shot of the famous "Harold and Maude" beach:

Yes, this is the hilltop and beach where Harold ran his car over the edge and onto the rocks below. I only discovered this 1970's film fact about three years ago. I was watching that film and recognized the hill and background and looked it up to see if I was right. Another good dumping site, I suppose. Not that I would know. But I watch Forensic Files.

The trails here are unmarked, so I’ll call this next photo "Two paths on yellowed trail stood...pondering one, I took the other...hoping a serial killer wasn’t on that one":

Once at the very top of the trail, I stop and look around...first thing I see is some dumb ass guy OFF TRAIL, trying to get on the "Rescue 911" show:

Then I notice that one of our trails - it’s about half mile away from me in this shot - looks suspiciously like the Lombard Street switchbacks:

On the way down the other side of the trail, I spot what can only be called..."How Thirsty am I?":

Then I take the obligatory "artsy" shot of some old ass rusty fence serving no purpose other than to give photographers something to photograph:

A last photo of the view from the top, as some creepy looking guy just passed me on the trail and he was carrying a beer, not a water bottle. Yeah, that’s a sure sign of serial killerism.

I clocked in at 2.5 miles by the time I returned to the more populated beach level. This helps tremendously with my Weight Watchers work. I am down 37 pounds now! Wouldn’t it suck if I did this trail again and after losing all the weight and everything, I get taken by a serial killer? That would piss me off.

Tree Smell = Eviction

You know Christmas is over when your house begins to smell like dying tree. I held out as long as I could, ignoring the obvious signs of the tree's distress. The falling needles, the ornaments suddenly hitting the ground when a branch would give way, the slightly hung over and depressed appearance of the tree. None of these signs was quite enough to get me to put the tree out of it's misery.

No, it was the smell of imminent death that did the tree in. The stagnant remains of water in the stand were too hard to ignore any longer. So tonight, I evicted the tree. This is an emotional moment for any Christmas tree fan. I put on the Christmas music one final time, and as Burl Ives sang of his Holly Jollys, I turned on the tree lights one final time, and began the sad process.

First, the ornaments must be carefully and sensitively removed from the dying branches. There is no need to cause additional pain to these branches, as they are in sad shape already:

Once the ornaments are safely ensconced in a bucket for repacking, it's time for me to remove the lights from the sagging branches:
Look! The floor makes it's reappearance after a long winter of being suffocated by a plastic bag...just in case the tree is incontinent:
Then, the moment arrives where I serve the tree it's eviction notice. The tree argues, even scratching at me as I gently guide it across the floor and help it over the threshold to the waiting street: Look how sad the tree is...I must admit, it is cold tonight. While ignoring the tree's pitiful stare, the tree's body parts must be swept out of the house and into the street. I notice that even my doormat knows it's time for the tree to leave:
And then, the big "breakup" scene takes place. The placement by the garbage and recycling isn't meant to mean, and yet I feel like crap after dragging the unwilling tree to it's "final destination":
I return to my house to see that SOME PEOPLE have no respect for Christmas at all:

And of course, after packing everything up, and thinking that I am finally free of the last signs of the holiday, I go to my kitchen and find this staring at me from the wall:

DAMN.