wickedqueen.net

Last month I was sitting around in the TA office and someone commented, scornfully, that “tilapia” was just a fancy name to make the stupid bourgeois eat catfish. Having been raised relatively bourgeois, I blinked and did not mention that I had never heard that tilapia was catfish. It did actually make a fair amount of sense. Who among us had heard about tilapia, say, six years ago? Not bad evidence of some kind of clever marketing ploy, I thought.

I was so convinced that I even attempted to pass it on to a carful of people on our way to the Victoria’s Secret semi-annual sale over at West Towne Mall,* although I did admit that I didn’t have independent confirmation.

Keely was a little skeptical, although she allowed that she hadn’t heard of tilapia before she moved to Madison, but argued that since she didn’t eat fish before then, why would she have noticed? Other passengers, however, confirmed that they, too, had only become aware of tilapia in the past few years.

So when I got home, I looked it up online and discovered: tilapia and catfish are about as distantly related as it is possible to be and both be FISH. Wikipedia informed me that tilapia are of the family “Cichlidae” while catfish are classified into about 50 freaking different families,** NONE of which are “Cichlidae.” According to the Wikipedia catfish entry–which, sure, take with a grain of salt–5% of vertebrate species are catfish. AND YET. Tilapia? Not catfish.

Being motivated to correct the misconception I had inadvertently been spreading, I brought it up when I called home in the evening, which set Dad off, and led to his confirmation–he, too, turned immediately to Wikipedia–that catfish and tilapia are, as noted, as totally dissimilar as two fish can be. I don’t know if “not tasting like much of anything” would be considered a phenotypical similarity or not; as my friend Crystal says, people fry catfish because they like the taste of fry and the catfish are handy.

By “set Dad off,” I mean that we are both compulsive reference checkers. I may or may not have previously related the story of an argument I got into with some of the girls in my 8th grade gym class, the subject of which I have long forgotten although some corner of my mind is convinced it had something to do with gypsies–I could totally be making that up–and so I went home and looked it up that night and came back in, the next day, vindicated, and told them loftily that I was, in fact, totally right and backed up by encyclopedic sources.

For some reason no one was at all impressed, and I was probably lucky to escape the interaction without being stuffed into a locker. It turns out that citations are not pertinent to junior high debate. So now you know why I’m in graduate school.***

Dad, anyway, had apparently known about tilapia since the early 80s, when they were the hot new thing at the University of Arizona’s School of Agriculture. They can be raised in very densely populated tanks, or, for that matter, in irrigation canals. The internet also tells me that they only require 1.2 pounds of feed to put on one pound of flesh, which compared to 6-8 pounds of feed for one pound of cattle flesh is pretty damn good. Plus, you know, they taste like whatever sauce you put on them.

And goddamn are they cheap. I picked up a bunch of frozen fish at Trader Joe’s this week as part of my effort to get back into shape, and you can get over a pound of tilapia for $4. That’s at least three meals right there. If I had a drainage ditch I could cut out the middleman… but I think I’m willing to pay for Trader Joe’s to handle it. Now the real question: what do I put on it when I bake it for dinner tonight?

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*The sale started three days ago so it’s probably hopelessly picked over by now, plus any time you enter the VS store you’ll be surrounded by 12-year-olds, but the sale seems to bring out the especially inappropriate, e.g. the woman who was dragging her approx. 8-year-old daughter from bin to bin screaming, “Let’s look for some EXTRA SMALLS for you!” I mostly try not to judge other people’s parenting and god knows I am no arbiter of What Is Appropriate, but sweet fancy Moses, someone is going to be telling a therapist about this someday.

***Also, of course, a number of my family members went to graduate school. I don’t know if my father’s father was a compulsive reference checker or not, but it wouldn’t be a huge surprise.

Some background in case you don’t know that Legba is now living with my parents: So last month, my parents hired the son of family friends to drive up to Wisconsin with a bunch of my stuff that had been in storage at their house, including my cats. I got a phone call at about 7:30 the day that this was supposed to happen, informing me that Legba would not be arriving that afternoon because my father was unable to get him into a carrier. I was a little snippy in response to this news, but I’d like to note that a) the phone call woke me up, and b) I didn’t know at the time that Dad’s valiant ATTEMPT to get Legba into the carrier ended up costing him a course of antibiotics and a tetanus shot.

So Bart and Dora arrived safe and sound at the end of August,* and Legba stayed at my parents’ house. Since he was the only remaining cat in the basement, my parents decided to let him come upstairs and mingle with the rest of the household. Now, Legba has always gotten along fine with Bart and mostly been tormented by Pandora, although occasionally he would refuse to cower when she swatted him and then she would go into paroxysms of feline rage. But apparently, he gets on with my parents’ two female cats, Finch and Darwin, like a house on fire. He loves them. He loves my mother;** apparently, when she goes to the bathroom, he and Finch and Darwin all hang around outside the door waiting for her to come back. He pays no mind to the dog. He also kind of terrorizes their older male cat, but Gurgi only spent like 30 minutes a day inside before, anyway.

My mother was lobbying for custody almost immediately. I was heartbroken, but when even my generally anti-extra cat father allowed as how he thought Legba was really fitting into the household and would probably be psychically scarred by yet another upheaval, I realized that I was going to have to leave him there. It’s not that life with me before was untenable, but making him come live with Pandora again after spending months with two sweet young things who worship him seemed borderline abusive.

And now we come to the upshot: I am not accustomed to a mere two cats in my home. I specifically sought out an apartment where I would be allowed to have three, so it’s on my lease. I love Bart and Dora, but I just felt bereft. I thought about it for awhile. As Travis pointed out, I didn’t want to go adopting a Rebound Kitten.

But I thought about it for a month and I still wanted a third cat, so I went out looking for one. The problem was that it’s not really kitten season anymore; the rescue groups have some strays and former ferals between 4 and 6 months old, but there’s really nothing much younger available in early fall. In general, the younger a cat is, the easier it is to introduce it into a household with adult cats, but I wasn’t sure how much of an advantage I’d have with a juvenile, and the only one that really struck me already had an application ahead of me.

So on Monday night, Keely and I went to the Humane Society, thinking they might have a bigger selection. As it turned out, they had no kittens at all, and so I thought some more about how MUCH of an advantage a kitten would really have, over an older cat, with winning the approval of a cat as inherently bitchy as Pandora. Then I thought about how, actually, I didn’t even WANT a kitten, because they are babies and they cry all the time and jump on your back with all their claws out and need special food that you have to prevent your already overweight bitchy cat from eating.

Then I asked the Humane Society people to bring out one male adult who seemed pretty cute and had all his original claws–this is a big issue at the Humane Society, where most of the animals are surrendered and I would estimate more than half of the adults are front declawed***–and was only two years old, and they told me that he’d only been surrendered three days ago, so they had his intake paperwork for me to look at first. The first thing the forms said was that he had been quarantined for biting a child, to which both Keely and I reacted immediately and identically: What the hell did the child DO to him?

So the former owners reported that he was a “chronic biter” and “gives no warning signal” and that they feared for the safety of their seven-month-old infant. Probably you shouldn’t leave your seven-month-old alone with the family pet regardless, but whatever–they also lamented that “he likes to go outside but he can’t in this neighborhood,” to which one might reply that a cat is not, say, a human adolescent, and can be contained pretty effectively in most cases, but you know, again, whatever.

Then I noticed that although the cat’s attitude toward other cats was unknown, the paperwork also said that he “got along well with former owner’s dog.”

At this point, I’m going, “Jesus Christ, how many owners has this two-year-old cat HAD?”
“Oh,” says the shelter person, “The people who surrendered him only had him for three weeks.”

Of course! I’d been figuring that these people had a cat, then they had a baby and the cat got kind of territorial, as they do, but no! There you are, with a six-month-old infant, and you think to yourself, What is this household missing? I know! A strange adult animal! An exciting unknown quantity! Some people are idiots.

But wait! It gets better.

“They got him,” says the shelter person, “at an estate sale.”
“WHAT.” is basically my and Keely’s simultaneous reaction.

That’s right. An ESTATE SALE. Apparently you can get cats at estate sales. Maybe he was inside an armoire or something. I’ll note at this point that this is a cute but unremarkable domestic shorthair. He is not a Persian or a Manx or a freaking Bengal or something. Just a brown tabby with extensive white splotches (see photos below).

So they bring in the cat, and we play with him for awhile, and okay, I’ll admit it: he bites. He’s not an AGGRESSIVE biter. It’s playful biting, but if you are an idiot–say, the kind of idiot who picks up a cat at an estate sale to watch their infant–and don’t, as it were, nip it in the bud, it can escalate into pretty intense biting. Still playful, from the cat’s perspective, but not so much fun for us tender little humans.

Also, it is extremely easy to tell when he might be about to bite you: if he has just been chasing toys around and is all hopped up, exercise caution. And if he DOES bite you, squirt him with a water bottle and watch him run like hell. (Unfortunately, Keely didn’t have one of those in the little room assigned for making his acquaintance at the Humane Society, but I don’t think she concluded that he was incorrigible, either.)

So yeah, as you might imagine, I adopted the two-year-old child-biting two-time loser estate sale refugee. I’ve named him Robert of Loxley, Loxley for short.**** Right now he is staying in the bathroom, with a blanket shoved up against the crack under the door since Pandora hissed at his paw when he was able to stick it out. I put another litterbox under the kitchen table,***** and when I’m home but not getting in bed, I put the other two in the bedroom and let him run around the apartment. For the time being I’m just trying to get everyone’s smells everywhere; I may try to introduce him to Bart in a week or so.

He’s two years old, but I think he probably didn’t get enough attention as a kitten–one assumes that his original owner was elderly, since he was SOLD OFF THE BLOCK AT AN ESTATE SALE.

Anyway, he’s two years old and has the adult cat physique, but he is CRAZY energetic. He basically acts like a kitten, but with less crying, and I actually think he’ll be pretty open to meeting other cats just based on his behavior so far. I have to take Bart to the vet on Saturday for further consideration of the demodex problem, so I made Loxley an appointment for the basic check-up–he’s got his vaccinations and is negative for feline leukemia and FIV, but he should have check-up. Microchipping was included in the adoption fee, which for an adult was a measly $40. (This represents quite the savings over a kitten, which would be $125.)

So. Yes. I got another cat, prompting a “What the hell?” email from my father when he saw the clues scattered around Facebook, but he is a sweetie and dear god, he needed me with his record. Poor Loxley. Ransomed from the Saracens and all that.******

It almost looks like he’s wearing a brown tabby hood, doesn’t it? Ha.

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*Well, mostly sound. We’re back at the vet for another round of ivermectin for Bart, who seems to be having another demodex flair-up.

******Humorous literary/folkloric reference. Not meant to malign actual Saracens or members of related cultural groups (see Gwen’s blog).

Dad does not have a heart defect, or any other clots. He is out of the hospital with pain killers and anticoagulants and an appointment to see another specialist later, but they don’t think he’s at further risk although of course they still don’t really know exactly what happened.* He gets to give himself shots of Lovenox for a couple of weeks just like I did, though. For more information, you can see his account.**

Sophie was not on the I-35 bridge when it collapsed.

My health insurance is being reinstated by the UW, with a summer’s worth of premiums to be taken out of my first fall check. Also, since Dad’s heart is fine (and we’re still waiting to hear if he’s the source of my Factor V Leiden after all), there is no pressing need for me to get checked for Super Sekrit heart defects after all.

As previously reported here, my friend Laura’s daughter Abby is out of the hospital and back home.

I finally caved to my bizarre obsession and bought a Hannah Montana CD. It’s better not to lie about who we are, right?

Thanks to everyone for their kind words this week. Also, happy birthday to my mother.

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*Possibly the whole thing stems from him mocking Oscar the Death Angel Kitty.

**Apparently my mother threw down with an ER nurse. This is not surprising.

…but my father is in the hospital in Missouri with what, at last pass by various specialists, looks like it might be a heart defect. They’re supposed to be running tests today.

He feels a lot better than when he went into the ER on Saturday night, but they want to keep him for at least several more days, probably, to run tests. The hematologist who was brought in yesterday does not think his problem is Factor V Leiden (my clotting disorder), although there is evidence of (long) past clot-related damage. They did an EKG that came back clean, but apparently the possible defect is of the sort that wouldn’t show up on an EKG anyway.

This is interesting, because I actually complained about chest pains to my GP last year and got an EKG of my own. She was basically humoring me; she kept telling me that I probably just couldn’t tell the difference between chest pains and muscle aches from weight-lifting, which I found insulting, but the EKG came back clean, so despite the fact that I’ve had these pains intermittently at least since college I figured it couldn’t be that bad.* I guess if Dad has a Super Sekrit heart defect I’ll need to get rechecked.

My mother was not too happy when I mentioned this.

“You had CHEST PAINS and you never MENTIONED them to me?”
“Gee, I wonder why… The EKG was fine! They said I was fine! I feel fine!”

Mom called to update me just as I was leaving the grocery store; I arrived home to discover a letter from the UW Benefits Office, forwarded from Boston, informing me that they were canceling my health insurance effective TODAY because the premiums had not been paid. This should definitely not have happened, since the standard practice is to take the entire summer’s premiums out of the May check for grad students who have a fall appointment, which I do, but apparently–the benefits office returned my frantic voicemail at 6:35 this morning–nobody authorized this for me. No one really knows why.** They’re supposed to call me back either this afternoon or tomorrow morning.

I strongly hope that there are no further difficulties in resolving this, since I may need to get a freaking cardiologist when I get back to Madison. Not to mention a new GP–even if I don’t have a heart defect, this is also the woman who told me that I should never, under any circumstances, consume more than one alcoholic beverage in a 24-hour period and then strongly implied that I was an alcoholic. It was like she’d never seen a graduate student before.

The good news: my honorary nieceling Abby, who is almost 5 and who fell down a flight of stairs this weekend and suffered a fractured skull and subdural bleeding, has just been discharged from the children’s medical center in St. Louis. They have a follow-up appointment next month and a list of symptoms for which to keep an eye out, but this morning’s CAT scan showed that the injury has started healing (it was a long slow bleed, which is why they kept them for three days). Abby is very relieved that they will not be shaving her head for surgery and apparently is enjoying telling people that she broke her first bone: her skull.

Despite having been confined to a hospital bed, Abby never really showed many symptoms (it’s a good thing my friend Laura, her mother, took her to the ER, obviously), and she was definitely getting pretty bored. Laura said that last night she pressed the call button to summon a nurse and then demanded that her Care Bear’s blood pressure be checked. In case you were wondering, a Care Bear’s systolic BP should be under 50. Bedtime Bear is a healthy 35.

I hope they actually figure out what’s wrong with Dad today.

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*You’d think I’d have known better by then. Constant vigilance, that’s how you have to deal with the medical profession.

**Although let’s just say that this is not the first benefits SNAFU that I have experienced through my department in the past couple of years.

I haven’t been posting because I was in LA visiting my cousin, which was fun, especially when I a) got to go to the BEACH and swim in the OCEAN for the first time since I was like 8,* and b) wore my nerd shirt to an art opening and thus attracted the attention of probably the only other gamer-type in the crowd, who was lots of fun to talk to. Jade’s boyfriend Ian was amazed that nerds can home in on each other like that; I told him that wearing identifiable clothing helps.

I also got to hang out with Cyn, my doppelblogger. Originally we just referred to each other as doppelgangers, based on being grad students with (usually) the same color hair (Special Effects Atomic Pink), and sharing a host of other small traits (like being attracted to Ugly Sweater People**). Anyway, I’ve decided that we need a special word for internet doppelgangers, and although I realize not everyone online is a blogger, I feel like the term “doppelblogger” nicely captures the connotation while retaining the general sense of the source word.

To sum up, you can refer to anyone who eerily resembles you who you meet or learn about online as a “doppelblogger.” Pass it on.

It’s funny how similar our hair looks even now, when mine is actually a mix of Cherry Bomb, Blood Red, and Napalm, with nary a drop of Atomic Pink in the mix.*** Cyn was nice enough to bring me a bottle of it from her local Hot Topic, because I’ve been wanting to dye it back but there has been a SHORTAGE. Every online retailer that carries Special Effects has been out of that particular color for a MONTH–the guy at the Garment District in Cambridge told me last year that it’s like a two-person operation, so I suppose demand often outstrips supply. Anyway, I will probably be redoing mine in Atomic Pink this coming weekend, after I do that 30-mile bike ride I wanted to try. No point sweating pink all over myself IMMEDIATELY.

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*It is now somewhat more embarrassing when a strong wave knocks me out of my bikini top.

***On reflection, I think even our ROOTS are kind of the same color.

You know, all those years of secondary school gym class, I thought I hated physical activity, but it turns out I just hated fascism.*

I remember all those thousands of hours
that I spent in grade school watching the clock,
waiting for recess or lunch or to go home.
Waiting: for anything but school.
My teachers could easily have ridden with Jesse James
for all the time they stole from me.

–Richard Brautigan, The Memoirs of Jesse James

(My other reflection on biking lately is that the older I get, the more like my father I seem to become. Biking, cooking,** and I’ve started contemplating camping, which was definitely not my thing as a child, at least not after age 8 or so.)

My hair is also getting really faded. I’m loathe to cover the highlights, which still look good (if faded), but probably I’ll dye it all back to Atomic Pink after I get back from visiting my cousin in LA. This does mean that Cyn and I will not be total twinsies if we get together for lunch, but that may well save the universe from implosion,*** so perhaps I should consider it a necessary sacrifice.

And speaking of the universe imploding, today’s Thursday PARC Forum is about dark matter. Maybe I should go.

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*I’ve remarked this to several people now, which is why I can’t remember who thought it should be on a t-shirt. I think it might be a little long.

***I’ve always been a big fan of parallel universes, such as Star Trek Dark Mirror and the Futurama Cowboy Universe. Maybe there’s one where everyone’s got pink hair EXCEPT Cyn and me. I’ll tell you one thing: I bet Evil Bizarro Cabell has really conservative hair. Lime green would be the photo-negative, but I’ve done that, too.

When I first moved in, I bought a frame for nine 5″x7″ photos–I’m a big fan of montage frames. I figured I’d pick out some photos from the prints I’d ordered from Flickr around then, but I didn’t have enough with the same orientation, portrait or landscape, which the frame requires. I finally decided to order some prints for it today, and as a not-very-patient person, I went for the “pick up at Target” option (even though you can only get glossy prints from them, which I don’t really prefer). It turns out, however, that you can’t pick up your photos at just ANY Target. Only certain Targets may be specified.

Unfortunately, the Mountain View Target, which is pretty convenient to my house, is not on the list. The closest was the Sunnyvale Target; I mapped it out with Gmaps Pedometer and it was only an extra eight miles or so, with bike lanes all the way, so I went ahead and ordered them for pick-up. I mentioned this to another intern who had stopped by my office to say hello at the end of the day; he was appalled.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” he asked me.
“I’ll be fine; it’s not that far.”
“To SUNNYVALE? That’s hardcore.”
“I dunno,” I said. I was flashing back to the conversation I’d had with my father yesterday, when he informed me that he’d ridden 78 miles that afternoon:

“I–what?”
“I rode 78 miles.”
“…Did you just say you rode ’seven to eight miles’?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought.”

As Dad pointed out, he is training for his trip to New Orleans, but I only did 21.7 today and I think my legs may be a little sore tomorrow. Of course, that is on a mountain bike that was never meant for road commuting; I like to think of it as my little exercise weight.

If only I’d yet made time to attach my bike lights and didn’t have to worry about sundown, I would have stayed at the Sunnyvale Target longer to marvel–it was two stories high. I have never seen such a Target. I guess I’ll have to ride back there some time.

My friend Crystal is fond of citing birth order research. Most of it has been discredited, as I always point out, particularly that bit about the authoritarian mindset of the firstborn,* but it’s hard to deny that children tend to get treated differently within the family depending on it. When my sister Sophie came to visit Hannah and me in Boston, she and Hannah both came over to my apartment one night for macaroni & blue cheese** and drinks. As I was grating cheese, the two of them freely admitted that as the eldest child, I was required to do absolutely EVERYTHING, and they never had to do anything, especially Hannah, who was barely even ever HOME for the last two years of high school.

Apparently this bias is not just limited to the home environment, but universal, because for some reason Hannah is able to get contacts from 1800contacts.com on an expired prescription that, in fact, she has UPGRADED ON HER OWN AUTHORITY in some kind of attempt to become the Bionic Woman, and every damn time I try to order contacts from them, my order gets flagged and I get a bitchy phone call*** about me needing an eye exam–which, of course, I have to pay for myself since I’m in California and my Wisconsin HMO won’t cover it. And naturally there is no cheap-ass department store Vision Center (WalMart, Target, Sears–anything!) within 10 miles of my place, so I’m stuck with the place with which 1-800-Contacts has an agreement.**** If $69 is not a good deal on an eye exam, I do not want to know.

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*For some reason, people always remark that I myself provide strong anecdotal evidence in support of this theory.

****”Site for Sore Eyes.” There’s a confidence booster.

Or maybe I’ve just been busy/lazy/immersed in my love affair with my new desktop.* My mother was visiting last week, so I was pretty occupied with her. We went to the aquarium, as you can see:

It was hanging from the ceiling. As it happened, there were a lot of blacklights in this area; consequently, I think my hair drew as much attention as the whale skeleton while I was standing there.

These crabs were incredibly freaky. You can’t tell from this angle, but we saw one flip over and it looked exactly like one of the aliens from The Puppetmasters. I can’t believe my mother touched one.

Cuttlefish are also freaky, but with less implied threat of mind control.

Mom liked the giant model jellyfish. This was not the one that had “vagina” in its scientific name.

Isn’t this a great photo? It could totally be a postcard or a screensaver or something.

It was pretty much impossible to get non-artsy photos at the top of the aquarium.

Mom bought me a stuffed jellyfish from the gift shop, which is pretty awesome. I hung it on the wall in the living room–it really adds a touch of that certain something. I guess it really belongs in the bedroom with all the mermaids,** but there are no convenient wall hooks in there.

My sister is coming from Minnesota tomorrow; I’ve arranged a karaoke outing in her honor. I need to make a run to the grocery store this afternoon for supplies. I think I will bake scones. Everyone likes scones, right?

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*I’m just wiping the last stuff off the old one, which I will be shipping to my good friend Jenn from high school so that at last we can play City of Heroes together.+

++I’m not kidding. Right now, I favor this one, but something’s not QUITE right.

So it turns out that my sister Hannah is obsessed with the lost colony of Roanoke.

I discovered this yesterday when we were browsing at Barnes & Noble after having tea at the Starbucks there.* We were in the history section, which Hannah declared to be a section that she liked, because maybe there would be books about ROANOKE.

“Really?” I said. “I didn’t realize you were into Roanoke.”
“WHY DOESN’T ANYONE KNOW THIS ABOUT ME?”
“Uh… I’ll be sure to remember it now.”
“No, you won’t! Every year, I tell Mom and Dad that it’d be really GREAT if SOMEONE gave me a book about ROANOKE for CHRISTMAS or something, and every year I think I’m FINALLY going to get one, and then NOTHING. NO ONE EVER REMEMBERS.”
“Uh.”
“And THEN, FINALLY this year Nate** got me a book about Roanoke for Valentine’s Day! And I told Mom and Dad and they were like ‘Uh…’ and I was like, ‘THIS IS THE GREATEST VALENTINE EVER. FINALLY SOMEONE REMEMBERED.’”
“Yeah, I guess you guys are meant for each other.”

Of course, if Hannah ever read my blog, she’d have commented on my Roanoke-shouting-out entry about the Grow Cube game, and then I’d have had this fixation in writing.

When I talked to Sophie, she claimed to remember quite clearly that Hannah was obsessed with Roanoke, but you’ll notice she never got Hannah any books about it. I wonder if you can get posters of the CROATOAN carving or anything.

Hannah apparently also likes crosswords, but freely admits to having no skill at them whatsoever. She bought a little pad of “easy crosswords” from the games section. I held off on purchasing anything until I hit Staples on the way home for a “null modem” serial connection cable for transferring files from my old machine to the new one–I took it home and discovered that it doesn’t work. In fact, it doesn’t work even more than the USB cable, which was extremely slow and the software for which kept crashing, didn’t work; the computers won’t even recognize that the damn thing is PLUGGED IN, so I am taking it back to Staples shortly and demanding a refund.

And, in the meantime, painstakingly copying all my necessary files to my mp3 player so that I can then transfer them over to the new machine. It’s taking about a million years, which is just totally awesome, let me tell you. I haven’t yet tried the $5 Hello Kitty games CD-ROM that I picked up along with the cable, but I have to imagine it will be infinitely more satisfying.

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*It turns out that you can barely taste the difference if you substitute sugar-free vanilla syrup for the melon syrup they normally put in the green tea latte (my advisor’s recommendation), and you save about 60 calories.

**Her boyfriend. I originally found out that they were dating via Facebook.