my creepy new hobby

I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but somehow I went from being a strict vegetarian (not even fish) to an all-of-the-meat-parts omnivore who ate her own chicken's brain, is obsessed with blood sausage and has skinned a baby rabbit.

That last part? Yes. And if you do not like seeing dead animals or have a weak stomach, you should probably stop reading this. Because I took a taxidermy class last Friday, and small, furry bunnies were involved. (And this is the part where I lose all five readers who actually follow this blog. I also feel bad because I know people who have pet rabbits, and this makes me feel like an asshole. That said, I would probably taxidermy a cat if I found fresh roadkill. Although when I told Alberto Salad Bar that I wanted to start picking up roadkill, he said: "Absolutely not. I don't care if you taxidermy things and put them up all over the house and I would even be OK with you having a taxidermy studio, but you are not bringing roadkill home." Perhaps I should rethink our relationship.)

Why taxidermy? Because lately I've been drawn to animal heads. I'm not really sure why. I think I just like creepy things. (Have I mentioned my doll obsession? And the collection of baby heads I have at home? I'm also partial to skulls, prosthetic limbs and Victorian death photos. Party at my place, anyone?) And since I'm one of those people who believes in taking full responsibility for things (i.e., if I'm going to eat meat, eat the entire animal), I felt like I should know how taxidermy works and if I could stomach the process behind it.

Therefore, taxidermy class. The project: Rabbits. And oddly enough, every single student in the class was a woman. (So not only is Seattle the Land of Hipster Lumberjacks, it's also the Home of Creepy-Ass Ladies. I guess I fit right in.)

Not going to lie -- this made me feel sad. And there were a few times I wanted to cry. The rabbits were so small and so cute. But apparently, they were also destined to be snake food. So if we weren't going to taxidermy them, they would've been eaten alive by a reptile. (Side note: No meat went to waste. The leftover carcass was used for dog food -- I guess there are dog owners who want fresh rabbit meat for their pets and sign up for this sort of thing.)

Also, no formaldehyde was involved in the process. The rabbits were killed (with gas) and then immediately frozen. They were thawed specifically for the class. So in other words, since they were not preserved, they could still rot, which was kind of what happened with my first rabbit (again, these photos are super-graphic and disgusting, so stop reading if you hate this stuff):

The poor little guy kept bleeding, and he smelled pretty bad, and his fur was falling out, so my teacher took him away from me and gave me a different one.

Step one involved cleaning the excess blood off of the rabbit's fur with peroxide. Step two involved skinning the rabbit with a scalpel and then carefully pulling the outer layer off. The trick here was to make a shallow incision -- almost a scratch vs. an actual cut -- or you would puncture the gut and -- boom! -- poo everywhere! Thankfully, that didn't happen to me. (And the next photo is really, really disgusting, even for me.)

(Side note: Yes, looking at an animal carcass is gross and terrible. But if you think about it, this is what we eat all the time, every day. And yet it's really difficult to face what meat really is: An animal, a living thing that was most likely really cute at one point. It's much easier to eat when all you see is the packaged product or the perfect hamburger. I'm the same way -- I still struggle with meat on the bone because it makes me think: If I was cooked, would I look like that? And the answer is most likely yes.)

After you skinned the rabbit (carefully -- the ears, front legs and eyes were all very tricky and required a special technique), you turned it inside out and then rubbed it with a ridiculous amount of Borax to dry it out. During this process, you also pulled off any excess fat from the pelt.

From there, you turned it rightside out and cleaned it again with the peroxide.

And this was when I started to question my taxidermy skills. Case in point: Let's take a look at Naomi's rabbit ...

... vs. mine:

The teacher actually looked at my rabbit and said: "There is always one awkward student in the class."

Great.

Thankfully, with a lot of peroxide and cotton balls, I was able to redeem myself.

(If you're wondering why he has pins sticking out of his nose, it's because it takes about a month for taxidermy to dry, and in order to keep the rabbit's lips from drying in a horrible, horrible way, you have to hold them in place with pins.)

So that is story behind the latest creepy addition to my household. 

And in case you're wondering, yes, the cats immediately went after the rabbit when I brought him home -- I rescued him just in time.

And I smelled like blood for about 24 hours after the class.

kicking my california ass

It is so incredibly cold here. If I'm barefoot in my apartment, my feet go numb. On the days I drive to work (a rare occasion, since I have insane California road rage and start yelling and honking at people prefer public transit), I have to plan ahead so I can factor in the time it will take to scrape the ice off my windshield and possibly drive to the gas station to refill the air in my tires. I've started signing my work e-mails "Take care and stay warm." 

Last night I wore leg warmers on the trainer.

 

And then I went to bed in two layers of pajamas, plus a bathrobe with a hood. And I left the heater on, which I really hate to do because I'm cheap and all extra money needs to be allocated to Ironman (coaching fees! gym membership! aerobars! wheel rental! phallic helmet! travel!). And I had a down comforter. And two really furry cats. And I still froze.

And then woke up to this:   

(Yes, my weather app has cats doing yoga on it. Clearly, it's far superior to your weather app.)

I have officially forgotten what summer is. Instead, this is my reality:

That's right, folks -- the Land of Hipster Lumberjacks. (P.S. That's a guy.)

one grateful bitch

I feel like the Internet has turned into one gigantic forum of lists: Thirteen Most Hipster Things to Have Happen Ever! The Forty-five Hottest Jewish Women in Hollywood (for real)! Five Signs Your Cat is Plotting to Kill You! (I try to avoid dwelling on that last list. Perhaps it's a little too close to home for my taste.)

And because I got up really early this morning to cheer at the Seattle Half (my friend Melissa's first 13.1!) ...

... and then finished the day with a 1,500-yard swim (hey, Ryan Gosling, I look extra-sexy when I get out of the pool and have a big red swim cap line indented in my forehead) and am so tired I can't come up with anything original to post, I give you this:

Ten Things for Which I Am Grateful Because It Is Thanksgiving Weekend, Duh

1. This glowing, glorious, brutally cold, brutally beautiful, vibrant mofo of a city and the crazy decision to move here without knowing a single soul. Anonymity is necessary sometimes. And things that seem scary and intimidating are often also the most rewarding. 

2. My family. And how my mom looks perpetually 40 and also never takes a photo with her eyes open. (She'd kill me if she knew I posted this on the Interwebs. Dear world: This will be our little secret.)

3. My friends. The old ones, who are strangely OK with going along with some silly scheme I've made up (costumes! theme parties! elaborate back stories that really don't need to be that elaborate but it's more fun when they are!) yet always tell the truth, even when it's not entirely what I want to hear because that's how much we love and trust each other:

The new ones, who are game for helping me explore this mofo of an Emerald City, from Middle Eastern food to Flywheel to Homo for the Holidays (yes, that's really a thing and I can't wait until we go).   

And the really old school ones whom I haven't seen in 18 years, yet we still manage to pick up where we left off. (And still kind of look like we did in high school. Dear Asian genes: Thank you.) 

4. Cats. And a dog. And how everyone miraculously gets along, no big deal. (Seriously, the following photo may blow your mind.)

5. My job. Yes, folks, it's really rather sinful that "wine professional" is a thing.

6. Triathlon. Because when you can't do one sport because of a broken cuboid, there are still two other options.

(Side note: The whole trainer setup fascinates the cats. They stare at me like I'm some kind of freak. But then again, I'm wearing padded shorts and riding a road bike indoors and not going anywhere and sweating profusely. The cats are likely onto something. Either that, or they're trying to figure out how to rig the trainer so they can kill me and eat my dead body. I really should stop reading so many lists.)

7. Speaking of triathlon, have I mentioned I'm doing my first Ironman in 2014? IMAZ or bust!

8. My "emergency contact" (by the way, completing IMAZ registration was no joke -- I felt like I was handing over my entire medical history), who wouldn't let me miss tonight's swim (even though all I really wanted to do was lie on the couch and watch terrible movies and eat Doritos) and who made the most incredible, fancy-pants Thanksgiving dinner yet still tolerated my Spam and eggs obsession anyway and who is from Eugene so he once dressed up as "Alberto Salad Bar" for a 5K (pretty much the most genius thing I have ever heard) and who told me that I can taxidermy him as long as I make sure his hair looks pretty and who has serious conversations with my cats on a regular basis.

(Smitten kitten, in so many ways.)

9. Food. Because it's really the reason for being. Recent examples include the potato-themed dinner at The Herbfarm:

Dumplings at Din Tai Fung (so worth the gluten overload):

The aforementioned awesomeness that is Spam:

(Go ahead and judge. This is the ultimate comfort food.)

10. And finally: Maturity, good etiquette and piety.

(Oh come on. You were totally thinking the same thing. No way you knew these were geoducks.)

run-on sentence

I'm starting to think registering for an Ironman is an endurance event in itself.

This is the conclusion I'm arriving at as I sit here in the Tri-Cities Airport, waiting for a much-delayed flight (two hours) to bring me back to Seattle, where I will hopefully make my connection and catch yet another flight to Phoenix and then go to Tempe to volunteer at Ironman Arizona on Sunday, during which I must wear a slutty football player costume because the theme of the aid station at which I am volunteering is "sports," and Adam (who is also volunteering, along with Layla and Arvan) and I have decided this is a boring theme and needs to be spiced up (so he will be dressing as a slutty cheerleader because we must match) and then immediately after the race ends at midnight, we are going to camp out in the registration line because rumor has it there are more volunteers than available spots, so I'm kind of in crazy-stress-fight mode because I want that goddamn spot and have decided IMAZ will be The Race in 2014 because it is flat and fast and on the West Coast, and for good luck, yesterday I went to Northstar and blended my very own IMAZ-themed wine to toast the start of a year of insanity, and most likely this wine will be imbibed at 2 a.m. in the registration line, and I told my coach this, and I think he may think I drink too much to be a really serious triathlete.

Where the hell is this plane?!

winter is coming

Or maybe it's already here? I'm back in Seattle, which is grey and windy and wet. And I totally ate shit this morning when I slipped on one of those metal sidewalk cover-things on my way to the bus. So not only do I have a broken cuboid, I now have a big, fat, bruised right knee.

Is there some kind of award for this? Because if so, please nominate me. I need a trophy for my bookcase.

*

"How do you like Seattle?"

I get this question at least three times a week.

My go-to answer: "So far, I love it. But ask me again in April, after I haven't seen sun for six months."

*

Advice I've received: Start taking Vitamin D. In fact, start taking it yesterday. Plan a trip to Mexico or Hawaii for February or March. Buy a good raincoat; only tourists carry umbrellas.

Don't step on the metal.

*

I've begun making a list of things to keep me occupied when there is no daylight and my pant hems are permanently soggy and all I want to do is ingest entire vats of stew and chili and soup in one sitting.

So far, this includes: Finding a gym that has a normal-sized pool because my current gym's pool is five yards short, which drives me absolutely insane. Setting up my bike trainer without having some sort of freak accident in my living room. Relearning to knit for the express purpose of making ridiculous cat-sized garments. Watching all of Buffy, all over again, perhaps more than once. Reading all of the books I own but have never read (there is a surprisingly large number).

And perhaps -- just perhaps: Writing again.

*

As the plane landed last night, I thought about that first time, when I arrived with a car full of all of my most important things (cats, bike, cooking utensils). It's a weird feeling, when you move to a new city and you don't know what the months ahead will hold and you wonder if the landscape around you will ever feel familiar.

But now, when those wheels touch the ground, it's different. It's relief. It's gratitude. It's home.