What is love?

Recent conversation overheard between two first time cohabitants:

Whew, I'm really gassy. My insides are all hurty because of it.

I'm sorry.

Ow. Oooooow.

Well, do I need to burp you?

Yeah, maybe.

Well, come here.

Climbs on lap facing significant other.

Buuuuurpaaaaargghhh Ah. Ruuurrrp. Bupfffruuup. Gurrrruuup. Recovers. Wow. Thanks.

Uh, yeah, I guess you were gassy.

Told you. Love you.

Love you too.

_____________________________________________________


Speaking of gas, Chuck and I crossed our final relationship frontier. One of us deliberately and purposefully farted in front of the other. Up until now busting the accidental toot was met with red cheeks and awkward giggles.

That was until a couple weeks ago. I was trying to goose Charlie, and he got mad and threatened that he was going to fart on my hand. (which, um yeah, what are we 12, Charlie?) AND THEN HE DID. I’ll repeat for those in the back. The man FARTED. ON. MY. HAND.

So that final barrier just wasn’t crossed. Oh no. It was cluster bombed, folks.

ON.

MY.

HAND.

What about Lil Romeo?

No, no not Master P’s son/rapper/actor. What about my little Romeo?

Well, first things first he’s not so little anymore. Check the progress y'all.

Romeo at 3 Months
Romeo at 5 months

The dog is now the largest dog I have ever owned. He’s coming in at 27.8 lbs. And the vet is putting him at forty to fifty pounds full grown. And seeing as he takes up three-fourths of the bed right now, I’m frightened to think of how it’s going to be in a couple of months.

Also we have begun taking him to the dog park. Or as I like to call it high school with poop bags. (or maybe that’s just high school) And PS the dog park is the clique-iest place I have ever seen. And folks, I was in a sorority.

First you have the cool kids, with their Labs and Golden Retrievers. To find them just follow the tennis balls or other various squeaky object flying through the air. Their dogs are usually the ones running around aimlessly knocking over the small children. Which is fun for a laugh, but also very tacky.

Then there’s the “I’m so cool because my dog is unusual” Great Dane and Weimaraner Club. This is the group of people who wanted to own a dog that no one had ever seen so they went the highly “unusual” Great Dane or Weimaraner. Funny, that there’s like ten of both of these breeds walking around the dog park at any given time.

And of course, don’t forget the “Dog people.” They are the reason that dog parks came into existence, and they aren’t going to let you forget it. They bring their own chairs, and they sit in a large circle to claim the best spot in the park (and only shade) for themselves. It’s very hard to get into their inner circle. They spend most of the time talking organic dog food or doggie spas – because, you know, it’s only the best for Mr. Tuffy McScuttlebottoms – Prince of the Fancy Pants. They are there every day. They let their dogs kiss them on the lips after four plus hours sniffing dog butts. They are quite literally the soccer moms of dog world.

Then you have everybody else, who much like in high school, are just walking around with our heads down trying to not get noticed. Most of them are guilt ridden twentysomethings who are looking for the quick way wear their dogs out. They all kind of walk around with this stunned look on their faces like did you know dogs were this much work? The goal of everyone in this group is to get in and get out as quickly as possible. They’re not really looking to make friends. Clearly, these are my people.

Now if only Romeo understood the rules of the park. You see, Romeo’s favorite thing to do is to find one and only one dog and gnaw at it for the ENTIRE. TIME. This means my time at the dog park is spent finding all about who the owner of the dog that Romeo is trying to fit inside his mouth. Romeo’s nasty habit is always met with the same scornful look, that says to me, listen I brought my dog to jump to play to run, I didn’t come here for my dog to get covered in your dog’s drool.

Oops. Sorry about that.

Finally Romeo's chosen dog will get fed up with Romeo chew chew chewing on its neck, and retaliate by kicking Romeo’s ass. Romeo gets scared and takes off at hundred miles an hour to find refuge in between someone’s legs. And of course those legs are never mine. Which means? Hi, I have to introduce myself to you too because my dog is a quivering mass of drool covered jelly underneath your legs, pleased to meet you.

This happens ad nauseum until people see Romeo coming, and pick up their dogs to head in the other direction.

But do realize the dog park isn’t all good times . The park has its dangers. For example, molestation runs rampant. And Romeo might as well have Barely Legal written in bold right across his forehead. He sends all the pervert dogs into a tissy. I can’t count the number of times that he’s been humped. Poor guy was deflowered and gang banged in the same day. All of it leads to some awkward morning-after glances. Like hey, you’re dog pounded Romeo into the ground for an hour straight, but it's not awkward no, no. Definitely. Not. Awkward. (Not that Romeo minded because at the time he was probably turning an innocent mutt into a rawhide chew.)

Plus you always run the risk of running into Talkie McTalkerson. She lives at our apartment complex, and as her name indicates she’s a talker. And I enjoy talking to her about as much as I enjoy getting a paper cut. On my toe. Charlie says she’s not that bad, but then again he could have a conversation with a wall. She’s supa annoying to me because EVERY time I talk to her she has some sort of stupid advice (better known as assvice) to give me. For example she’ll ask me a simple question like:


Talkie: What are you feeding you dog?

Me: Dry food.

Talkie: What? Just dry food? OMIGOD! OMIGOD! Your dog is going to DIE a long horrible death if you don’t start feeding him some canned food at once. You’re so lucky I told you in time.

You’re right, I am so lucky. Now if you don’t mind I have to go yell my dog’s name over and over while he ignores me, and continues to devour some poor puppy’s hind quarters. That way I can get looks from all the cool people and their cool dogs like, how dare you bring a dog here that isn’t trained.

I hate high school.

Now here are some pics of the growing boy. (I will update with some from the dog park when I get home.) Now then, are you ready for this much cuteness?

Romeo has the longest legs I have ever seen, when he stretches out he becomes like three times his size. I’m afraid all the dogs at the dog park are calling him long legged freaky dog boy behind his back.





I tried to tell you that you were indeed not ready for this much cuteness.




I just took away his new favorite thing. My dirty underwear. That’s right, nothing is more disgusting than to walk into a room and find your dog munching on your dirty panties. And every time I take them away he acts like I just ripped out his little heart. I blame all his deviant behavior on the dog park, he is clearly hanging out with the wrong crowd.

Nipples and Librarians

Y’all. I went to Billy Bob’s Texas this weekend. If you didn’t know (and how could you not) Billy Bob’s is the World’s! Largest! Honky tonk! Oh, and Urban Cowboy was filmed there.

It’s all the way out in Fort Worth. It took 45 minutes, 30 bucks in gas, and a 9 dollar cover to get us there. But ten minutes after we arrived, we were greeted with something so spectacular that it made all that worthwhile.

I give you:



Here I’ll get good and close for you.




Let that soak in folks. Notice the fringe on the tank, as if she needed help drawing your eye to her MASSIVE CLEAVAGE. And that poor tank top is so crying for help, plus it's dug so deep into her shoulders it’s a wonder how she was still getting blood to her fingers. But the boots? Not bad. They tie the whole outfit together, don’t you think?



The night was an amazing insight into how the other half lives. Here’s a hint: it’s in trailer parks.

Let’s see, number of children under the age of eight: 17

Number of pregnant women: 2

Number of women with infant in stroller with beer and cigarette in hand: 1

Number of ill fitting denim ensembles on both men and women: a frillion billion

Then there was this:

It's a bad picture, but those are her NIP. PLES. Showing through her shirt. So classy.

And this was all in the first hour. But you know what took the cake, I know. I KNOW. How could it get any better? Or is it worse? Either way, we came upon the ultimate sight. Now close your eyes, and put a little banjo music on in your head. Now picture your mom, local librarian, that nice lady who hands out church bulletins on Sundays ALL wrapped up in one lady. Her name might be, I don’t know, Betty. Put Betty in her best embroidered vest and high rise pleated khakis. Don’t forget the reading glasses on the chain. And what would be the perfect accessory for her to pick out? Why a “69” sticker of course. Placed directly in the middle of her shirt.

Whuuuuuuuut?


Gawd, I love this country.

It's my ironic cowboy hat and ironic big hair.

We're hot stuff people. Hot. Stuff.

Birthday Extravaganza? Maybe.

So, this weekend was my birthday. (What, you don’t have birthday weekends? Shame.) I turned a whopping 26 years of age.

It’s officially the end of an era. I am closer to thirty than I am twenty. I am officially out of the running for People’s Most Beautiful People Under 25. I can no longer look forward to being on the Real World: St. Louis Park. It’s all downhill from here.

When I was younger my birthday parties were usually? Lame. And this was no fault of my parents, of course. It was mainly due to bad timing. And Jennifer C. (I'm using an initial to protect her innocence, plus she probably knows how to Google herself and I don't need a lawsuit) Jennifer’s birthday was a week ahead of mine. Jennifer had herself a pool. Jennifer threw her annual birthday bash in her said pool. Everyone came. Everyone always had a blast. By the time my lowly birthday rolled around all the nine year olds were all partied out. Jennifer once had a birthday party and thirty people showed. I threw a skating party that next week. Two people showed. Another birthday party I had three people to show up, but one girl ate too much cake and ice cream, and barfed all over the table. She understandably had to go home.

By middle school and high school I just gave up. This was mostly because I couldn’t take the humiliation of sending out those cute invites and no one showing up anymore. That and OH MY GAH birthday parties are so NOT COOL. Gah, Mom.

After that I stopped caring that I never had a birthday during the school year. Who wanted to be sernaded by their friends at lunchtime anyway? I started to realize it didn’t matter that on the last day of school I got lumped together with the other 14 kids with summer birthdays for one big mock birthday celebration, when everyone else got their own day. (And by not matter I mean it’s haunts me EVERY. DAY.)

As for birthdays in college? Two words– SORORITY. RUSH. That’s right. All the friends I paid to be friends with me were under house arrest. No one could leave. The house went dry for the week. DRY. As in no alcohol. (Not that I drank before I was 21. Heh.) My 21st birthday went down as the biggest bust of a birthday ever. I took my shots, but once again two people showed up. (I have to mention here that Cyndi and Elizabeth were kind enough to throw me a make up 21st birthday party in December.)

After college came Miami Ad School. Or as I like to call it, Binge Drinking with a side of Debt. Its classes were in session all year. No summers, meant no summer birthdays. Yay! Plus you invited people to drink and they RSVP'd. Who couldn’t turn down a chance to drink your face off while at MAS? Whatever it was, I couldn’t have been more delighted. In the three birthdays I have had since I first walked the hallowed halls of MAS, my birthdays have been more fun than I can remember. Literally. Three birthdays. Three blackouts. (Parents – You raised me right, don’t worry. Kay?)

So that brings us around to last Friday, A.K.A. Daffornication 2005. I wish I could regale you with funny stories about drunken mishaps, but unfortunately I remember about this much(doing that thumb and finger thing that indicates a very little amount) of the party.

Here are the things that I am rumored to have done while my memory took a vaca to Bermuda.

- I slid head first into second base, and by second base I mean the food table.

- Had long, deeply insightful conversations. With the plants.

- Played cups. And won.

- I imbibed mass quantities of alcohol

- Passed out two hours into my party. Only after taking out an end table. (I have good friends, so the party continued in my honor.)

But here is what I will admit to doing, but only because there is photographic proof:

Happy Birthday to ME. That’s right, MEEEEE. This is when the shots started. I think this is the last part of the night where I was able to put together a coherent sentence. I think.

All the sexy bitches were at my party. Oh yeah.

But who invited Willy Wonka?

Eeek, look how shiny our faces are. We’re like a Clearasil "Before" picture. But big surprise, it's Texas, it's August, and it was eleventy million degrees outside.

Rich had a really good time. Clearly.

Here’s Jordan and I as we compare our fine orthodontia. I won hands down.

And here’s where it all starts to get foggy. Can you really blame me though? That shot glass is huge. YOO-GE! (From here on out I don’t remember a thing, and the rest of these pistures were a surprise to me the next morning.)

Folks, this is why they call it TE-KILL-YA. Oh my head hurts just looking at it.

Show us exactly where The Bad Taber kissed you.

Is this my sexy look? Gah. I really feel sorry for Charlie.


Every girls fantasy!

Again with the sexy look? Huh?

Vixens and…

Vagabonds. PS - note that Charlie has spilled something on his shirt, a hallmark of any good party.

Bye Bye Charlie

Charlie spent the weekend in Minnesota. That meant I spent an entire weekend without my man. How did I celebrate? Why, by being messy of course. As we speak: Dirty dishes in the sink - check. Bed not made - check. Hair stuff, flat irons, makeup, and other girlie stuff I "try" to hide from Charlie frolicking out in the open - check. And there's not a thing anyone can do about it. (I bet you ten dollars when Charlie reads this he will have to restrain himself from flying through internet to clean the house.)

Oh, and then I watched about eleventy million hours of Sex and the City. And tooted on the couch instead of running into the bathroom. In short, it has been awesome.

But still, I miss him. A lot. The night before he left I just buried my face into his chest and tried to soak up every last drop of him. I just hate to say goodbye. To anyone. When Charlie left for three months to go to Prague a year ago, I cried and cried and cried. And then for good measure I cried some more. The guy next to me on the plane had to ask if I was okay - which really? How very For the Love of the Game of me. Even now I still cry and pout whenever I have to say goodbye to him. And since Charlie thinks this is the most ridiculous thing in the entire world, I wait until I make it back to the car before I turn on the waterworks. So Wednesday evening, there Romeo and I sat in the car and boo-hooed all the way home. Mostly I think Romeo wanted to ride in the front seat and hang his head out the window, but I'm pretty sure on some level he was just as sad as I was.

(side note: The Look-Kids-It's-Big-Ben circular construction of DFW airport is doing nothing to help waterworks. I get lost EVERY. FRIGGIN. TIME. North exit?!? South EXIT?!? I just WANT OUT. WHY CAN'T I GET OUT!)

But I ask you, how can I not be sad when Charlie leaves? He takes such great care of me. He treats me like a princess. Never once has he griped at the amount of shit I leave around the house. We're both first time cohabitors, and it's been an adjustment to say the least yet he's never once thrown up his arms and yelled GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! (I would have done this about a frillion times by now if someone had moved into my humble abode and put all their girlie shit EVERYWHERE. Often, I catch him staring whistfully at the bathroom that just used to be a bar of soap and a toothbrush.)

(Oddly though, he does disappear in order to get a couple of beers, and returns seven hours later - for the life of me I can't figure out what that's about.)

But still with everything, he's always there for me when I need him. He has the most amazing pair of arms that just swallow you whole. They wrap around me and it's then that I know that even if the whole world spontaneously combusted and fell apart, that I would be just fine right there in his arms. He's got a big, beautiful and alarmingly reassuring smile that still to this day makes my heart leap when I see it. He patiently listens to me when I explain to him what's hapening on this weeks episode of Laguna Beach. He's disgustingly talented. He's never met a stranger. His heart is about the size of this god forsaken hell hole of a state that were stuck in. He can take me in the midst of a giant oh my gawd the world is going to end better just stick my head in the oven freak out session, and whisper in between my sobs that everything will be alright, and I know that it will. He wipes away big ol' crocidile tears with his freakishly soft man hands and kisses my cheeks for the ultimate boo-boo fix. And if I ever try to push him away (which I have done more than my fair share of) he hangs on for dear life. He can take me at my very worst, and treats me like I am the very best.

Plus he's turned me into a mushy girlie girl. Ew.

Oh and hurry home, babe.

How to Make it Awkward Come Monday Morning

Combine one work party and several (okay lots of) free drink tickets.

Here's the thing: you take one lowly office peon, who has spent the entire week huddled over her computer fretting over whether or not soccer moms will understand the term "golf claps", and then give her the okay to drink on company time, well, she just might kick back and have a few.

Now, don't worry. I wasn't THAT girl.

But I did manage to get the And-Here-I-Thought-You-Were-The-Quiet-One comment more than a couple of times. Which please, I'm not quiet. I just don't like talking to you.

Anyway, like I said here are some things to remember (or not) about company parties.

Make sure your voice is never below shouting level. Even if you are in a quiet suburban establish meant for kids (you know the kind of place with skee ball for the wee ones and shots of tequila for the moms). Otherwise, no one will be able to hear your genius ideas for how the company could improve.

And when broken into groups don't bother to learn anyone's names. For your name is the one that they should be learning. Clearly. And when your boss bowls a gutter ball, make sure to mention how bad he sucks. This will come in handy when he sits down to do your evaluation in a couple of months.

When your boss comes over to see what all the fun/yelling/hysterical hyenia laughing is about - run.

When your boss' boss comes over to see what all the fun/yelling/hysterical hyenia laughing is about - for gawd sake's woman RUN. FASTER.

If they are bearing more drink tickets - take a suicide pill or something, just STOP. TALKING.

And for pete's sake stop telling everyone you love them. Oh, I mean REALLY. LOOOOVE. THEM. Because they are so great and talented and thanks for all the opportunities because I LOOOOVE YOU and YOU and YOU.

Yeah, stop doing that.