So I actually did record a very literal version of the title of this post, as planned with Sabrina, complete with yowling and feline obfuscation/revelation, but the problem with Grendel is that when he's unhappy he's more zombie than ninja, so it ended up being less spastic and funny and more eh and aww. Not to mention that the only bag I could successfully encapsulate him in was a mesh laundry bag, so you can actually see him before he jumps out, which sort of ruins the "what's in the box bag?!" aspect of it. And then finally, when he's escaping, he's kind of, um, not great at finding the exit. What can I say, maybe all those times my roommates baked him out in college did actually have an affect.
Short story sufficiently embiggened, next Friday (August 7th) will be my last day at Sugar. I'm quitting because Steve and I are leaving the Bay Area, and we are doing that because we like the idea of moving around and living different places. The downside of this plan is that sometimes we don't see eye to eye on WHEN to move, and then somebody goes to Iowa and somebody stays in California and everybody is a little cranky, including the cat that is currently underneath the deck right now thinking, "WTF was THAT."
Even though I'm sad to give up nice co-workers and interesting work and mad scrilla, I'm also excited about our plan, which is more or less as follows:

1. Pack up the hippie car and drive it one last time through the mean streets of Berkeley at the end of August.
2. I take a road trip across the US on I-40 with a hopped-up-on-kitty-Valium cat in the passenger seat; Steve, having flown back to Iowa after helping me pack up the house, takes a road trip on I-80 and I-65.
3. Meet up and hang out with my parents in upper east Tennessee. Eat pie. Listen to Steve and Dad discuss how there is totally still going to be an economic apocalypse.
4. Find jobs. Preferably in the same city as each other. And somewhere to live. Hopefully in the South.

That's it. We're talking about Athens, Georgia; Steve's brother will be going to school there. We're considering Savannah and Charleston. We like the idea of living somewhere warm and cheap, where "traffic" is when it takes you more than one red light to get through a stop, but we also realize that there may not be jobs in our chosen fancy media/design career paths in any of these places and that we might have to look in Atlanta or D.C. or even New York. It is both a fun and ridiculously stressful way to go about things, to be sure, but it works for us.
Finally, and most importantly, I'll be accepting applications for a new resident Arthur heckler all next week. Ideally, the candidate will have a background in baseless contrarian debate and underhanded personal insults, although I'll consider anyone with experience in class warfare/political subterfuge. Also, you need to have a camera and some expertise in balancing items on domed surfaces. Tryouts will be on Friday, so start warming up your populist rage!

Sure, one of my eight bosses was all, "Yeah, I've heard the skiing's great this time of year," but the beauty of Tahoe in the summer is that you get all of the benefits of the place - the gorgeous views, the warm weather - and none of the cons (snow, being cold, the assumption that one will take part in snow-based sports, people driving in snow, etc.).

We randomly chose the greatest trail ever (Shirley Canyon trail starting from Squaw Valley for those interested), which involves half-hiking, half-bouldering your way up 1,300 feet of granite to swim in an alpine lake surrounded by snow-capped peaks.

It was so rewarding and fun that it almost made me feel better about turning my age that I turned, which I'm not going to disclose because it's the same age my mom has remained at for over three decades and hence holds an overwhelming stigma for me. Let's just say that Steve has been warned to call ahead to next year's birthday restaurant and ensure that I'm carded.

Because it is an island, because there is a ferry involved, and because human beings less than five years can ride for less than a latte, Angel Island State Park is teeming with children. The only way to avoid them is to get onto the trail, but before and after that you're waiting in line with them, embarking with them, and riding a boat with them.
Harried moms snipe. Oblivious fathers wield thousand dollar cameras like mechanical dicks jousting from their torsos, stopping after each shot to judiciously examine the result as if we were at the Olympics, or in Fallujah, and not on a sun-dappled California island with a grand total of two native mammals. Most of the people who seem like they're having a good time haven't reached their teenage years yet, and even then it's a frantic sort of fun, a let-out-of-one's cage frenzy. There are two distinct camps of children being herded off the ferry by their parents: the ones for whom there will be a Safeway-sponsored picnic on the goose-excrement covered lawn, and maybe a stroll towards the eucalyptus groves if nobody screams too much, and the ones with bought-new bicycles and miniature internal frame packs that they'll outgrow within a year. These latter families will be purchasing $8 kid's entrees at the Cove Cafe.

"YAWWRPRP" says a toddler sitting across from me on the ride back, loosening my stirrup from my anvil. His father bypasses any proactive attempt to parent and instead threatens that the only real authority figure present, the captain, will throw him overboard if he doesn't be quiet.

How to get back into the trail after snakeophobia rears its ugly head:

Step 1. Pick a short one so that you can make it back to the trailhead in decent time if you lose your shit.

Step 2. Pick a well-traveled area so that someone else scares the snake away and/or encounters it before you do.

Step 3. Make sure there's tasty huckleberries on the way.

Other bonuses: a couple of high school friends perched on a tree branch self-consciously bantering their way towards LUV; electric dryness and tannins in the air that reminded me of fall in Tennessee; and a middle-aged hippie biking up Skyline Boulevard with his middle-aged collie trotting alongside an open trailer-buggy that she'd no doubt jump into when she got too tired.

So, obviously, the kitten on the left has experienced a little less human socialization than the ones on the right, who have grown up on Uncle Kevin's front porch.

Cuteness in the grass.

The holy grail of farm kittens - I'm not sure how a black shorthair had a siamese, but I knew I had to extract it from its hidey-hole and snorgle it, so I used my Odyssey of the Mind training and constructed a sling from surveying twine and and old t-shirt and hauled it out (and eventually, sadly, put it back).

(And sweet baby Jesus if there's anything that approximates the awesomeness of farm kittens it's summer clothes; I'm so conditioned to living in infiite chilly sunless weather that I wore a scarf out of habit the first few days I was in Iowa, despite 90 degree temperatures.)