Ms. WAS sits through a long afternoon meeting while Mr. MMB takes Maya to the vet for a set of routine vaccines. He has been instructed to pick up two cat carriers, and to convince the vet to give him sedatives to calm Natasha, Ms. WAS's angry and spiteful pet. Mr. MMB fulfills his duty admirably—explaining to the vet that simple children's Benadryl to "take the edge off" was not going to cut it—and the vet hands over some cat prozac.

Day 3: Saturday

Ms. WAS and Mr. MMB arrive at her place, with cat prozac and carriers in tow. The chubby cat Madchen walks right up to them, amicably hopping into the carrier. Natasha, suspecting something, hides under the bed—hissing and spitting as Ms. WAS pushes a plate of delectable prozac-laced strawberry yogurt as near as she dares. The yogurt, daintily licked, immediately produces foaming at the mouth and more growling. Prozac-embedded cream cheese receives an angry paw swat and dramatic flailing. So does prozac-embedded cheddar cheese. Ms. WAS and Mr. MMB cut their losses, grab Madchen, and hit the road.

Day 5: Monday

Having her food removed two days before, Natasha is more amenable to prozac-tainted food. Ms. WAS is delighted to see the cat imbibe her treats, but unfortunately the prozac isn't strong enough. In fact, the drugs seem to only enrage her more. There is no coaxing her out from under the bed. Thirty minutes of sweaty pushing and prodding (by Ms. WAS) results only in tiger-like growling, frantic spitting, and labored breathing (from the cat).

Day 6: Tuesday

Ms. WAS repeats the process of the day before, but this time with a sweatshirt to protect her arms and two heavy winter mittens to protect her hands—including the finger that has not quite recovered from the last moving attempt. Natasha is more amenable to the prozac-laced chicken in gravy, but once again, Ms. WAS makes no progress. In the attempt, however, bladder and bowel control is lost (by the cat) and tears ensue (by Ms. WAS).

Day 8: Thursday

Ms. WAS takes her case back to the vet, where she explains at length about the cat-moving-process. Stories are exchanged about hysterical cats, and eventually Ms. WAS leaves armed with enough sedative to kill Natasha three times over. She arrives at her condo again, determined that today is the day it will happen. And lo and behold, the sedatives are eaten (tucked in some pill treats), 90 minutes pass, and Ms. WAS cautiously pops her head into the bedroom. She has pulled up the mattress, removed all the portable furniture, and thinks all she will need to do is pick up the sleeping cat and pop her into the carrier. Unfortunately, the sedatives have only made it difficult for Natasha to walk—her rage is still in full effect. Biting her tongue, Ms. WAS girds her loins (literally) with a sweatsuit, re-dons the winter mittens, and uses a combination of two bath towels, a gigantic fleece bathrobe, and a strategically placed tennis shoe to manhandle the cat out from under the bedside table and into the carrier. More excretions are produced (by the cat), more tears are shed (by Ms. WAS)—but in the end, girl and cat wend their way down the 11 stories and into the car, ready for their trip to their new home.

Day 9: Friday

It's just after midnight. Mr. MMB and Ms. WAS have crawled into bed, exhausted from the day's activities. The puppy is sleeping in her crate, Madchen is somewhere eating her eighth meal of the day, and Natasha has groggily crept under their covers. Ms. WAS gets up for a glass of water, and when she returns, Natasha flips out—biting and lashing out—and refusing to cede an inch of the mattress back to her. Mr. MMB foolishly reaches out a tentative hand and is rewarded with a snarling attack. A tense twenty minute passes, and eventually everyone settles down. And then the puppy barks.

With this blog entry, I am now switching from categorizing Mr. MMB under "boys" and moving him to "family". One small step for Movable Type, one great leap for Ms. Write Again Soon. Click on the picture to see the latest photos of Maya and her first swimming lesson in our backyard pond.

So a couple of weeks ago we had The Talk. The one about our respective living environments. The one about raising a child ("devil puppy") in a single home with an everyday routine. The one about sharing our lives together in a long-term, shared bathroom kind of way. And while we won't make any permanent moves until the end of the summer (when my Big Idea internships finish up), we are making major steps towards cohabitation.

We've gotten a melange of herb plants, which are happily thriving on the living room deck, and a solar umbrella (that lights up at night) to go on the bedroom deck, where we lay in the hammock and look over the community pond. I've gotten half of the walk-in closet, and there is a new dresser and bedside table arriving for me later this week. Upstairs in the loft, our project next weekend is to set up a home office for me, so that the Big Idea doesn't have to be run from the living room couch.

I brought a couple of gigantic wheels of cheese from my trip to Wisconsin, and so we felt obligated to buy a fondue set--otherwise we were going to be looking at 9 months of cheese-with-every-meal. And there is a new recycling bin in the kitchen, as Mr. MMB's concession to my eco-habits.

In perhaps the biggest transition, we will be moving the cats over to Mr. MMB's house later this week. Since I've only spent 12 hours there in the last 3 weeks, we figured it was time to reunite the family pets. Madchen is still pretty friendly, but Natasha has practically gone wild, so at Maya's vet appointment tomorrow I'll be begging for a knock-out drug (or possible a taser) to subdue her long enough to transition to her new home.

Of course, there are some hitches, including my mom's near daily phone calls espousing the horrors and the risks of cohabitation-without-marriage. And it means that when I suddenly need to go back to my place for a couple of days (like tomorrow, with Mr. MMB on a last-minute training course and me needing to be close to the Big Idea office) I am completely witless. I anticipate a lot of confused looks--from Maya wondering why we're back in the urban jungle, from the cats being horrified at this jumpy puppy, and from me pondering why my place suddenly feels like a hotel.

Still, I suppose the "off times" makes the nights when we experience peaceful, domestic bliss all the more rewarding. Especially when it's Mr. MMB's turn to take Maya our for her midnight potty break.

The nature center is founded on the principles of spirituality and a respect for the environment, and there are several nuns living full-time at the center. Work exchanges are available where, in exchange for 30 hours of work (cooking, cleaning, landscaping, etc.) you can have free room and board. It’s a great model, and there are people here to spend a couple of months writing a book, a couple of weeks on a spiritual retreat, or even one person who has been here for 4 years after just needing to “get away and reflect for a bit”. There are even two onsite “bodyworkers” (massage, reiki, etc.).

The food is amazing, bought from local Amish farmers, and the scenery is breathtaking. The tall green grasses and wildflowers ripple in the wind, and there are deer and fawns everywhere. It’s pitch black at night, which makes the stars seem to pop out of the midnight sky.

The people here absolutely love their community, with its 2-street “downtown” area (“six specialty shops!”) and its quiet pleasures. The locally famous B&B “mansion” (a 4-bedroom residence) hosts live jazz (the owner on bass and his colleague on the keyboard, singing slightly off-key) on summer weekends and the gun club positively bursts with skeet fans. People here talk about Minneapolis being an urban metropolis, and the small towns surrounding the twin cities being “too fast-paced”. Things here are slow, and intentionally so.

It reminds me a lot of my dad’s hometown in Kansas, where things move at a glacial pace. If you can get in the mindset of appreciating the community’s ability to really listen and take their time in doing things right, then it’s a charming place to live. If, on the other hand, you really like your Starbucks—this place is not for you.

Since I had an extremely short turnaround, arriving home from Cape Town at 8 p.m. last night and leaving for a conference in Wisconsin at 10 a.m. this morning, I haven’t had a chance to replace the phone—or to cancel the service. So if you want to call it now, chances are it will be picked up by a recent visitor to the Doha airport…but rest assured that the bill will be coming straight to me.

Through my own negligence (I went to the wrong gate, and didn’t notice my mistake until it was too late), I missed my connecting flight to Wisconsin. Fortunately, I was able to get booked on the next flight out—which was a mere 5 hours later. Theoretically. It turns out that weather delays and even local tornadoes have created a maelstrom of cancellations. So it’s now 7+ hours in and I’m still sitting here. Fortunately, I had plenty of work to do and the internet connection at the airport is decent. On the down side, not having a phone (and being unable to work the pay phones, horrid creatures) meant that there was a slight kerfluffle at the Wisconsin airport when my chauffeur (the event center is an hour away) couldn’t find me on the original flight. Extremely non-funny hilarity ensued and we finally got it all worked out, although I’m sad to report that said chauffeur is enduring the same waiting game at his end, albeit without a computer to keep him company.

But I’ve digressed. My main point is that despite having a horrific couple of days (minus the VERY nice 12 hours spent at Mr. MMB’s house cuddling Maya and marveling at the heat index at 10 p.m.), right now the thing that is really irritating me is that I don’t have the camera attached to my Blackberry. Because there is a woman—60 if she is a day—sitting across from me wearing obscenely skimpy shorts, a black blazer, gold bejeweled sandals, Jackie O sunglasses, and a jaunty sailor cap. Her nautical theme is completed with a mouth so foul I would wager she’s spent some time on the high seas. Apparently, she (and her male compatriot, a laid-back “grandpa type”) have not had any luck in getting on a particular flight. The term “fucking bitch” has been uttered SEVERAL times, and she has repeatedly stormed off complaining that “there are always seats available in first class”. And if ever there was a woman that screamed “first class”, she is definitely it.

So I’m sorry to report, dear readers, that there will be no picture of this woman to accompany my posting. And let me tell you, you are really missing out since she has now angled her legs up so that the back of her thighs (all the way up to her not inconsiderate buttock) are on display for everyone to see. I sincerely hope she’s on my flight to Wisconsin.

Speaking of the plane trip, getting here was no mean feat. I went from Washington, DC to Doha, Qatar (pronounced, I am reliably informed by the people of that country as "Cuttar") to Johannesburg, South Africa and then finally to Cape Town. Total time in the air + layovers: 32 hours.

On the other hand, I have to hand it to Qatar Airlines--they have the BEST in-flight entertainment system EVER. I got all caught up with my movie watching (PS - I Love You, The World Is Not Enough, Barefoot in the Park, There Will Be Blood, Dan in Real Life) and even watched four episodes of The Office--all of which I had seen before, but the combination of sleep deprivation and office humor made me laugh hysterically throughout each of them...I think the guy sitting next to me was slightly worried.

Other observations: Qatar is hot and dusty (reign in your surprise!), the security line at Dulles on a Saturday night is ridiculous (and in my overly-sensitive liberal way, I suspect the decision to screw over everyone traveling overnight to the Middle East is somehow racially motivated), Cape Town doesn't really count as Africa (as I've been repeatedly told at every opportunity by the people here), and M&Ms taste best at 2:30 a.m. when jet lag is at its worst.

So far, I've spent most of my time working on Big Idea assignments related to the WEF, but I'm having dinner tonight with a colleague from my alumni network who went to school in Sweden a year after I did. We're meeting at an "authentic Cape Town" location, which in her words means "awesome atmosphere, but don't bring a handbag because it will be stolen". And if all goes well tomorrow, on Friday and Saturday I'll have some time to myself to explore the city properly.

Click on the picture to see the entire album. Also note how absurdly large Madchen has become (the last picture of the bunch)--especially when compared to a puppy that weighs less than half of what she does. I didn't really understand what people were saying when they walked in and gasped "that is the biggest cat I've ever seen!". Now it makes more sense.

Maya is quickly becoming a pest--chewing printer cables in the blink of an eye, barking when I put her in the crate at night (although just at my house, apparently the crate at Mr. MMB's suits her perfectly), and stopping dead in the middle of the crosswalk despite my pleading to at least make it to the other side before scratching her ear.

But at times like right now, when she's sacked out on the towel at my feet, paws quivering in a bird-chasing dream, she is absolutely perfect. Even her puppy breath is sweet. And now that I've turned 30 (my birthday was Sunday), a puppy is just the thing I need to hit the snooze on my biological clock.

It turns out that Maya doesn't just have a little head cold. Nope, she has a “severe case of kennel cough”. After 30 hours of no food and water, our poor little girl could barely stand up and her hacking cough made me cringe. Another trip to the vet ensued, with a bunch of tests, two shots of sub-cutaneous fluid, and crying (from me) and howling (from her). Mr. MMB managed to avoid the whole incident by being “out of cell phone range” at a training session across the country. Lucky man.

Back when Jessica was in college she had a guinea pig that managed to break a leg. She made an emergency trip to the pet hospital, shelled out our mom's credit card, and brought to bear all of the guinea-pig-saving-technology available to man. Unfortunately, the guinea pig didn't make it, but the bill arrived nonetheless.

At the time, the rest of the family marveled at the string of logic that would lead Jessica to spend such extravagant amounts on a pet. I felt the same way until today. As I sat in the vet office with Maya curled up on my lap, whimpering and leaking fluid from an injection site in her back, I would have sold my soul to make her feel better.

Incidentally, have you ever force-fed a dog? It's not pretty, let me tell you. But it seems to be working since she is still pretty sacked out, but I did notice a little tail wagging during our last potty break. With any luck she'll be back on her feet in a couple of days and I can get back to my normal non-hysterical self.

This year my birthday (celebrated a week early) made up for 29 years of ho-hum celebrations. Actually, that's not true. I had a kick-ass roller skating party when I was eight, and received a fabulous surprise party when I was fifteen. On the other hand, I spent last year's birthday crying over s'mores at Cosi while Janie explained to me that it was wrong to be sad on your birthday.

But this year might be the best of all. As I lay in bed with Mr. MMB last night, and he asked me if I had a good birthday, I honestly replied that it exceeded my wildest expectations. Not only did we successfully throw a BBQ at his house with my entire family in attendance, but we also got a new bike rack for my car. Jess and Mr. Eagle Six made plans to take us to Wine in the Woods next weekend, and my mom and dad gave me a framed copy of the Washington Post article of the Big Idea. There is even an additional present coming next week on my REAL birthday.

But the thing that made this birthday extra special, the one that made me giddy with excitement, and the one that gave me butterflied and indigestion, was the small black bundle of fur sleeping at the crate at the foot of our bed.

Yup. We got a puppy. Maya is an 11-week old lab mix (she looks like a purebred to me, but who knows when some St. Bernard or Chihuahua tendency might appear?) that we got from the animal rescue on Saturday. Aside from a little head cold (a trip to the vet within 24 hours of adoption was a nice way to emphasize the extravagant costs of puppy ownership), she is perfect in every way. Being a bit sick, she's been extra quiet and snuggly—which suits me just fine since I have no puppy skills and am a bit terrified at the prospect of single motherhood this week while Mr. MMB is on a business trip to Seattle. But armed with lots of treats, an every-two-hours potty routine, and Puppies for Dummies, I am feeling as confident as a new mom can be.

Right now Maya is sleeping on a towel in the kitchen while I wash her bed (it got a little snotty). We dropped Mr. MMB off at the airport yesterday morning at 7:30 a.m., so by my calculations I've successfully kept her alive on my own for 26 hours. And since we're staying at Mr. MMB's place for the foreseeable future (except for a few quick trips home to feed the cats and pick up more clothing), the likelihood that Natasha (also known as “the cat who will kill and eat your puppy”) will instigate violence before Mr. MMB's return on Thursday is minimal.

And now, a few amusing excerpts from the past week:

Friday Night: discussing my turning 30 and the trauma associated with my pending old age

Mr. MMB: Don't worry, I like more mature women.
Ms. WAS: More mature? What does that mean? It's not like I'm 45!
(amicable disagreement ensues)

Saturday Night: revisiting the topic

Ms. WAS: Are you sorry that you called me old last night?
Mr. MMB: I never said you were old. But I am sorry that I called you mature.
(amicable disagreement ensues again)

Yesterday was the first time that I'd driven my car since the weather turned warm. My meeting was an hour away, and I was anticipating a nice drive, full of singing along to the radio, enjoying the sunny weather, and taking some quality time away from my computer. I didn't realize that I would actually be wilting under a rolling wave of steam that seductively wound around my feet, then my ankles, then my torso, before finally turning my perfectly coiffed hair into a white-girl Afro.

I had forgotten, you see, that my car's air conditioning was defunct. I had driven it last summer with Sisyphean patience - believing that at some point the weather would cool down and I wouldn't be subjected to the oppressive sauna-like conditions. Then we broke the heat record in September, and again in October, and by the time November came around I was actually looking forward to taking the subway as a means of avoiding that tiny block coffin.

But oh, dear reader, how soon one forgets misery like that when winter rolls around! It wasn't until I popped into the Miata yesterday and began to feel that familiar tingle of sweat behind my knees that I remembered a vow I took many months ago: "I will get a new car when the weather warms up".

So I did. Here's the chronology:

-- 4:00 p.m. - drive home, realize I want a new car

-- 4:30 p.m. - arrive home, call my mom, tell her I have decided to get a new car

-- 5:00 p.m. - realize I have no budget in mind, nor make or model of preference

-- 5:30 p.m. - look at bevy of reviews on affordable small cars, play crossword online

-- 6:00 p.m. - decide that the Scion XD is the car for me

-- 6:10 p.m. - locate a Scion Dealership in the next town

-- 6:15 p.m. - arrange to meet my dad at the dealership at 7:45 p.m.

-- 6:20 p.m. - take a nap

-- 7:45 p.m. - arrive at dealership

-- 7:55 p.m. - take a test drive

-- 8:20 p.m. - look at all of the different color options

-- 8:30 p.m. - decide that the dark blue one is my favorite

-- 8:45 p.m. - start the paperwork, get Miata appraised (end up selling it for a roll of cash to the dealer's cousin)

-- 10:10 p.m. - get keys to car and begin the arduous task of transferring all of my junk from the Miata over to the new Scion, hilarity ensues as my dad nearly has an apoplectic fit at the mess I've been driving around in

-- 10:45 p.m. - drive my new car home

Not bad for an afternoon, I thought. And now, because it has been too long since we've enjoyed the amusement that is life with a small child...here is a family email exchange that happened today:

Jessica: Janie put an unopened bottle of water in my purse today, and my cell phone is now useless. I believe this is the second time Janie has destroyed my cell phone with water. Yay.

Dad: Don’t you be blaming my PERFECT granddaughter. It clearly must have been someone else’s fault.

This coming from the man who flipped out for DAYS because we once left a box of crayons in the back seat of the car. In Guam. In 90 degree heat. If you could get past the fact that there were melted crayons covering the seat, it was actually quite pretty.

We'll have dinner with his parents before checking into a hotel, where I will exercise restraint and keep my hands to myself since at the crack of dawn on Saturday Mr. MMB will be running in the city marathon. My plan is to sleep in and arrive at the finish line in the nick of time to throw a flower blanket around his shoulders, just like they do for the Kentucky Derby winner.

Assuming that Mr. MMB can still walk after 26.2 miles, our plan is to drive to a friend's farm in Rappohanok for a good old fashioned pig roast. We'll camp at the farm overnight (getting to break out my camping equipment is perhaps the most exciting thing to happen to me in months, although how we are going to cram all of our stuff into one of our tiny cars is still a mystery) and hopefully avoid the thunderstorms on Sunday on our way back into town.

With all of this excitement ahead, one wonders why I am still sitting in front of my computer, sipping iced tea and watching an episode of Magnum PI. (And why in God's name does Magnum wear such ridiculously skimpy shorts?) I still need to find the tent and sleeping bag, need to pack my bag, need to send about a million emails, need to clean the kitchen from last night's stir fry (cooked to perfection by Mr. MMB while I watched and drank wine), need to print out directions for the pig roast, need to put out cat food and water--in essence, I need to get my proverbial shit together.

The reason, dear reader? I suspect it might have to do with Magnum's skimpy shorts.

After five days apart (my Big Idea trip to Chicago), he picked me up at the airport on Friday and whisked me away to a B&B in Berkeley Springs for the weekend, complete with dual massages at one of the local spas, a bottle of wine every night in our room, and a ridiculous amount of conjugal entertainment.

(Intrigued by Ms. Secret Blog's claim to be worth $1,086 an hour in bed, I thought I should do my own calculation. I was pleased to discover that I am apparently worth $1,224 an hour. I expect the difference in our fees is largely due to my...copious bosoms, I suppose is the right way to put it.)

Anyway, I just walked in the door to my house after a week away to find it spotless (the maid came on Friday), the cats happy and purring, a new Netflix movie (Junebug) waiting on the counter, a new nightgown hanging in the closet, and a week of adventure to look forward to. First up, Indian cooking class tomorrow night.

Despite screwing up vacation plans for this Christmas, everyone is delighted to be welcoming a new baby into the family. This bundle of joy will be making an appearance sometime in November, if Jessica's math skills are working.

Other things that have made happy lately: a new boy who takes me on hikes and to wineries in the Shenandoah Valley, Big Idea projects that will involve trips to Mexico in May, and tickets to Eddie Izzard.

Self Storage: A Novel
by Gayle Brandeis
This book was the result of National Novel Writing Month, which I have tried to participate in (but never gotten past the second week of a horrid chick-lit autobiography). The author, in a nutshell "manages to weave Walt Whitman, 9/11, and secondhand goods into a provocative story about the nature of one's self and the intrinsically human need to find meaning in life." Although there were parts of me that totally identified with the ambivalent "going through the motions" main character, I thought that the book overall was just okay. Good for a beach read (assuming you like burqa'ed Afgani refugee stories), but not something that took me out of myself--which was what I was looking for.

The Testament of Gideon Mack
by James Robertson
I finished this "cleverly framed autobiography of a Scottish minister who confronts the devil" at 2 a.m. last night. Now here was a book that took me out of myself...and I loved every page of courtship, adultery, faith and faithlessness, near death experiences, and talks with Satan. It's a shame that more people didn't read this book, since I am dying to find out what other readers thought.

If I whisper very softly, I sound like a phone sex operator with a pack-a-day problem. Anything slightly louder than a murmur resembles a pubescent-boy with creaks and squeaks. Volumes approaching normal speaking tones result in total silence.

It begins to occur to me that this laryngitis is not happening at random intervals. Instead, I seem to be getting sick exactly on the weeks when I'm not traveling with the Big Idea. Leisure sickness, anyone?

Anyway, I'm back on the road on Tuesday—this time to New York for a client meeting and a conference and a concert. Between now and then, though, I'm spending an inordinate amount of time watching the first season of Magnum PI. Living in Guam as a kid, I had missed this show this first time around and now see it as my duty to the Gen X community to catch up.

Even though the high-waisted short-shorts do nothing for him, I see why Tom Selleck made girls drool...even if tonight I have to admire him in quiet desperation.