And the Cat Came Back the Very Next Day

I was quite the scardy cat this morning when I discovered that two huge, ugly strays had taken to shacking up on my porch. Since I hate cats, especially ones with potential diseases and anger managment issues, I dialed in for reinforcements. Much like a Domino's Mom and Minnie were at my place in under 30 minutes.

Before all of you animal lovers freak out, Minnie would never intentionally harm another animal. She can, however, display a remarkable show of force when having encounters with the random dog, cat, or wild turkey. With Minnie by my side, I was now confident enough to show those cats who's boss. Barreling out of the house, Minnie sniffed the cats, saw the cats, and without growing or even making her presence known decided she wanted to go back into the house.

Mom and I then took Minnie for a walk, where she barked at just about everything around her that moved. About 10 seconds Minnie and Mom decide to head home to Stoughton, I am greeted by the cats who are now staring at me from about 2 yards away. I am more determined than ever not to let the cat terrorists win.

I'm not sure who these cats are or what their purpose for tormenting me is, but I really want my porch back. If I dare to aid them by leaving out food (they look pretty hungry) I know that I'll never get rid of them. If I call the animal control officer then there's a chance they could be euthanized. Adopting them is obviously out of the question. I'm hoping that they decide to leave on their own, or else I may have to suck it up and call animal control.

Because everything tastes better with peanut sauce

While I'll never turn down the opportunity to hang at Fugakyu, I'm kind of over the whole sushi thing. Seeking a new food discovery, I recently ventured over to Viet Grill in Canton Center and fell head over heels in love with their chicken skewers with peanut sauce combo. Peanut sauce and I are on very intimate terms, and like crushed red pepper, I'd gladly add it to my chicken, shrimp, or morning cereal.

Trader Joe's practically has a whole aisle dedicated to peanut sauce, none of which are very good. Because it's shameful to pay $10 at Viet Grill when I have 5 lbs of chicken in my freezer I searched the Internet high and low before coming across the best recipe for peanut sauce ever.

For this recipe you will need:

1/4 cup of peanut butter
2 teaspoon soy sauce
1 Tablespoon brown sugar
1 Tablespoon fresh lemon
1/2 cup of water
red chili flake to taste
1 clove crushed garlic
1 teaspoon of rice vinegar (optional)
1 teaspoon of sesame oil (optional)

Whisk all of the above ingredients together until smooth and then transfer to a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until sauce begins to boil and thicken (this takes about 10 minutes).

This just in

At a weekend bachlorette party, my friend Shelbs informed me that she would like to start drinking scotch. After practically wetting myself with excitment over having a friend under the age of 50 to drink scotch with, I gave her a few lessons on the nuances of single malt versus blended whiskey. I also mentioned that when I first starting drinking scotch that I was pleasantly surprised at the immediate street cred I received from good looking men with fancy jobs.

This afternoon I received this e-mail:

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To: Pahkcah02
From: Shelbs
Re: 'Cue

....Also, let me tell you something. I have finally found the perfect pick-up line. "I'll have a Glenlivet on the rocks, please. No, no. The 12 is fine." As soon as the words came out of my mouth last night, the guy next to me was like "That sounds good." Then, when he switched, he and his friend bought us a round. And we were making out by the end of the night.

Thanks Pahkcah02!

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There you go, folks. I can't say this scenario has ever happened to me, but apparently scotch is more effective than JDate, Match, or e-Harmony. To quote Anchorman: "scotch, scotch, scotch, in my belly. Down it goes"....

You've Got the Right $tuff, Baby

Ok, I'll admit it: sometime during that dark period in the late 1980's, before punk became mainstream and all rap was completely old school, I would pillage the newest editions of Bop and Tiger Beat for pictures of Donnie Wahlberg wearing his wicked hot fedora. I owned the NKOTB t-shirts. And the lunchbox. And pretty much every other product emblazed with their logo that graced the Strawberries shelves at the Westgate Mall. While I'm pouring my heart out I'll also fill you in on the fact that on more than occassion I may have screamed my 9 year old head off when the Kids crooned Hangin' Tough in Foxboro Stadium.

Donnie was the bad-ass of the group, so naturally he was my favorite. The Troll looooved Jordan while Melissa M was definitely Joey's "Cover Girl". That was the greatest part of being a pre-pubescent boy band groupie: you could maintain your identity while flaunting your obsession all at the same time. As the human race continued to evolve into the 1990's, we all realized how cheesy the NKOTB pop songs actually were and focused our attention on folks we considered to be "real" artists, such as Marky Mark and Vanilla Ice.

Shoving their pride completely by the way-side, the Kids (who are about two decades from collecting social security) are back like gangbusters trying to promote their new album and tour. 20 years ago I swooned as the boys from Dot convinced me that I had the "Right Stuff". However, now I'm convinced that the "Right Stuff" is money, as in money to download their new hit "Summertime" with and money to cough up for their reunion tour tickets. Unfortunately, boy bands (like milk) have a shelf life. Watching 40 year old men sing lyrics about meeting a girl on the beach and asking for her number is actually kind of creepy.

Admitting that you were a die hard NKOTB fan is like picking your nose: everybody does it but it's rarely discussed openly. Once one of the biggest acts on the planet, you'd be hard-pressed to hear any of their former hits on the radio dial outside of an open-request hour. Their upcoming concert will be a (expensive) reunion back to childhood, and one this blogger is content to miss.

Happy Birthday, Israel!

The State of Israel turns 60 this week and nobody knows how to "make a party" quite like the People of the Book. A-listers Tony Blair and President Bush are heading to the Middle East early next week in anticipation of May 14, the day Israel was officially recognized by the United Nations by majority vote in 1948. My work colleague in Tel Aviv is currently partying and I am forced to blog about it from afar (and daydream about July 4 on the beach).

As the crossroads of the world's three major religions, Israel is a country of contradictions (to quote MSN). 6 million Israelis packed into a land the size of New Jersey is an island of democracy flanked on all sides by hostility. People of all religions get blown up in buses and in markets yet they continue to stay tuned for their regularly scheduled life. IDF soldiers patrol the streets with guns not because it makes a good tourist photo op (my mom wasn't happy when she saw a photo of me smiling while doing a present-arms pose with an M-16) but because the next war could happen outside of the bar that you're sucking down cocktails in.

On the flip side, Israel is beautiful country that is hands down the perfect environment for a Jew with a short attention span. Don't like the weather? A two hour drive north or south will take you either to a mountain ski resort or to the Negev desert. Life here is fast, whether it's watching scary drivers drive 100mph in their mini-cars or as an employee in one of Israel's world-leading tech firms. Created during an era of post-colonialism, Israel was and still is a model of how a nation can rise from nothing and achieve greatness in such a short amount of time.

Jews from all over the world have made aliyah (became citizens of) to Israel and while it's a wonderful place to visit, I certainly wouldn't want to live there. Sure after you've heard your umpteenth anti-Semitic comment Israel definitely looks attractive but America has corrupted me and I couldn't possible move to a place where central a/c is limited and walk-in closets are unheard of. While my heart may yearn for Israel but my ass belongs in America, and I'll gladly raise a glass of Maccabee to that this Israeli Independence Day.

There's No Joy in Jeans-ville

Last fall I went to the Gap outlet in Wrentham in search of a pair of moderately-priced-hanging-around-in-the-house jeans. From junior high to post-college I was practially naked if a Gap label was not proudly displayed across my chest, rear pocket, or inside tag. Grabbing my usual size, I was a bit shocked when I could barely pull them over my thighs. Thinking it was just a fluke, I grabbed the next biggest size, reasoning that size is just a number, right? When the size up from that (we're now 4 sizes bigger from my usual size) would barely zipper, I was pretty irritated. At least irritated enough to march down to Nordstrom and pay retail for another brand.

When the Queen Dee reported a similar incident, I did an informal straw poll (ok, I casually asked Nay and LK) and concluded that the apparel industry is simply out to get us. First the stores changed standard American sizing models on us to make us all a size smaller (eg: Abercrombie and Fitch). Then along came Britney Spears and the era of low slung jeans, which 99.9% of us had absolutely no right to wear, and made most of a size bigger. Now the industry is moving towards waist measurements (eg: a size 28 is a size 8) but don't be fooled: a size 27 at Lucky does not equal a size 27 at Citizens. Since they're using standard inches to create these sizes, I'm not sure how that's even possible.

Thanks to the wild popularity of low slung jeans in the early millenium (cringe...), jeans designers have almost universally shorted the inseam on all styles. Although most of us don't want to wear jeans with waists that start at our boobs (unless you're my granny - she's down with it), I'm getting a little tired of wearing jeans with a waist that's just low enough to qualify as plumber's garb. While I could simply wear a belt, I choose not to and therefore have to be pretty careful when leaning over to pick something up. It's kind of annoying since jeans are supposed to be a worry-free, casual choice of trousers.

To add insult to injury I can't even order a pair of jeans online because I have no idea what the sizes mean anymore. Even if I find a particular brand I like, the chances are that the size I order, even if it's the same size I'm currently wearing, probably won't fit. I long for the days of khakis, as there is currently no joy in jeans-ville.

My Official Song of Summer

Ok, it's not quite Gnarls Barkley but it's a fun (and pretty political) song for summer. Check it out - the Flobots: