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JFK --> MAD --> CPH

CPH --> MAD --> JFK

You Are Olga

At least that's who this quiz identifies me as.

Which Grand Duchess Would YOU Be?

"You are Olga, the serious, compassionate poet; eldest of the four Grand Duchesses. You can be moody, but you have a heart of gold. You always try your best to help others. You are highly intelligent, and are something of a book worm. You are honest to a fault."

Clicky the linky above to find out which of Nicholas and Alexandra's daughters you would be.

Interesting royal anecdote (I have to throw them in anywhere I can folks!) - Every daughter born into the Romanov dynasty given the name Alexandra died before the age of 20. For this reason, the name fell out of family use in the late 1800's.

Stranger in a Familiar Body

I am utterly devastated, and it involves this little guy.

There was much anticipation to visit CT this past weekend. Lots to do and lots of people to see. A party at my cousin's new home, seeing as much family as possible, and going on little excursions. What I didn't expect was the frightful sight of one of my beloved kitties, Morgan. See, I'm not allowed to keep pets in my apartment building, and to be honest, I'm not sure I would. I say this because I am probably one step away from becoming one of those crazy cat ladies you see all the time on the news. I'm still too young and I haven't gone through menopause yet to allow myself to become like that. Instead, I view the three cats my mother has as my own. I expressly took Friday off in order to fully enjoy the weekend. Upon arrival late Thursday night, saw Morgan in such a state that tears began to well in my eyes.

About two weeks ago, I received a phone call from my mother, Morgie wasn't doing too well and the veterinarian confirmed he had a fever of 106F. The vet surmised it was a virus, prescribed him pills, and sent him on his way. Gradually, kitty got his appetite back and resumed normal bathroom activities. But still. According to my mother, he wasn't the same. Now, weeks later, he hasn't come back around - mentally and physically. There is a familiar ritual I have become accustomed to when I arrive at my mother's home. The cats enter the living room and do that little dance around me. It is a combination of reminding me that they are somewhat acknowledging my presence, and an opportunity to rub up against my suitcase, thus firmly placing my belongings in their territory. The rubs are also a reminder that I should be ever so grateful they awoke from their 20-some hour slumber to grace my presence.

I arrived, gave pets and lovings to two felines and watched as the third sat at this food dish staring at me with vague familiarity. I approached and got the terror of my life. He was unresponsive except for a faint purr and a weak acknowledgment of my presence. There was none of his normal behavior. No heavy purr factory emanating from him. No rubs. No circle dances. Nothing. The luster in his eyes, the luster of his soft fur - gone. Flea bitten for a cat who never seems to get fleas. Instead, the silkiness of his coat due to result of the OCD like devotion to grooming, was dirty, scruffy, and blanketed with scabs from heavy scratching. Oh, and the scratching. Morgan's right foot was out of whack. Probably a symptom of his illness or soreness from all that scratching.

The next morning, I woke to two cats hanging around me meowing and rubbing up against me for the glorious thing I am known to them - wet food. This is usually followed by the excitement of three male cats vying for my attention, circling my legs and batting away at each other in dominance as I dish out the smelly nastiness that is canned food. Usually, Morgan is the first to lie next to me, waking me with his loud meows. He is the ringleader and the greediest eater of them all. This weekend? Nothing. He was not even aware I was even opening the cans. I had to scoot him in front of the dish for him to acknowledge the grub.

Of course, I managed to carry on with all the weekend plans and have a pleasant time with my family; but not without constantly thinking about this poor sick soul. Attending my cousin's party, the numerous dogs frolicking about only reminded me of the one back home who wasn't doing any activity. Come Sunday, my goodbyes to Morgie were laced with extra kisses and hugs, hoping I'd see him again and praying that it would never come to something drastic...

Angry Feast

Tonight was a night out at the Scandinavia House for a screening of the 1988 film, Babette's Feast. Excellent movie. If you have the opportunity to watch, I most definitely recommend. The story is centered geographically in the Jutland region of Denmark. Yes, there are subtitles, but you won't get lost in the sauce of the storyline. I promise! The synopsis is a bit similar to the film Chocolat in that the main character, with a mysterious background, arrives in a remote and insular village only to magically transform it later on. Complete with morality challenges. In Babette's Feast however, it is in the form of an exquisite meal for the community paid for by lottery winnings.

Another plus of movie night at SH is that if you order a coffee and a dessert together, showing your movie ticket, it comes out to just $2.00 total. That's surprisingly cheap by Manhattan standards. I lovingly selected a huge ginger cookie on offer from Eli's, and was immediately disappointed at how stale it tasted. However, the coffee was pure Scandinavia - dark and strong.

Now here is where it gets angry. I am one who silently (and sometimes verbally) flips out when a person's cell phone begins ringing at the most inappropriate times, especially when the culprit doesn't answer or seem to realize how much of a nuisance they are causing. So, you can imagine how much I nearly died of embarrassment when my own mobile started ringing during the film.

Normally, I keep it on vibrate and am rarely one to catch a call on time. Of course, that night was, it seemed, the one and only time I mistakenly turned the phone on and it began ringing well into the movie. Keep in mind that I was in the second row, right smack dab in the middle, and wasn't even aware at first that it was my phone. Since it sounded oddly close by, it wasn't until like, the tenth ring that I fully realized the evildoer was me. Trying to sneak into my purse to turn it off, thus hoping to conceal the evidence, all was apparent to several audience members directly in front who the guilty party was. You would have thought I had just eaten a baby dipped in BBQ sauce!

Sigh

The Way We Were

Back From Boston

A splendid time was had by all, and the weather was way agreeable. Not too hot, not too cold. Just right. Baby bear conditions. Stops were made via automobile in Hingham, Revere, and Roxbury for family genealogy enquiries, and all of Boston proper was spent on foot. Exhausting.

In Hingham, I all about climbed the walls due to impatience through an obligatory 1 1/2 hour tour of the town's historical society. Things turned immediately to joy upon being shown several samplers made by our direct ancestors when they were young girls. These samplers were close to two hundred years old. Seriously, I simply cannot believe my greats left behind such an enduring legacy!

Our side trip to Revere was spent looking for a street sign of our family name. Since our ancestors founded the town of Charlestown, and settled all throughout the area; the name, the graves, and the remaining houses can be found all over Boston. Our maddening excursion, courtesy of the rotaries, was topped off by a visit to Kelly's for a delicious meal, which we ate on the beach.

The trip to Roxbury was less than forgettable. Driving around looking for the Eustis Street Burying Ground proved to be a huge pain in the ass. Unfortunately, we arrived several minutes after the 3 o'clock closing time. Still, it was one of those beautiful Gothic looking graveyards that is situated on a busy cross street, making it stand out all the more beautiful.

As I mentioned above, our day in Boston was lovely. Since Bunker Hill wasn't open during our visit last year, we decided to stop off for a tour. I climbed all 294 steps to the top only to be met by smelly, sweaty others who probably weren't used to so many stairs. Although my calves were killing me the next day. I discovered later that most of the photos I took up there were marred by all the scratches and smudge marks embedded on the plexi-glass windows. One of the highlights was a militia man dressed in period clothing giving a shooting demonstration on the grounds.

We settled on the Union Oyster House near Faneuil Hall for our last night's dinner. Both of us chose the stuffed fillet of sole. It was delicious, but the seafood stuffing was something less than desired. Nothing bad, it was the kind of stuffing that is all seafood with scant amounts of cracker. I prefer it to be the other way, more crumbly cracker, less seafood. But that's just me. Prior to our meal, we watched a cool street performance by two drummers.

Now for the NPS Passport book. I mentioned in another post how I introduced this program to my mother when we were at the Grand Canyon last month, and that she was now an stamp addict. Boston is loaded with stamping stations and I think we got most of them. This included bagging some bonus stamps which weren't part of the NPS program, but from a now defunct citywide Freedom Trail scavenger hunt. Score!

Photos can be found here. Drummers here --