Moments

Just little moments that run through my head.

1. I am on the back of your motorcycle. I don’t have a helmet on, and all I can think is my mom will kill me if she finds out. I don’t remember what kind of motorcycle it was, but knowing you it was probably the top of the line. The bike is loud. I can feel the rumble between us. I’m holding on for dear life. Exhilarated. Scared. It’s a warm spring night. As we ride, the wind blows my hair into my face. It stings my eyes, but I don’t want to let go of you to fix it. We pull up to a stoplight and you grab my hand and kiss it very gently. I bury my face in your back so you can’t see the goofy smile you’ve spread across my face. It feels like a movie. Later when I go to hop off your bike the exhaust pipe bumps against my leg. It leaves a nasty burn. You do nothing to help ease the pain. Roll credits.


2. There's something strange about waking up with another person in your bed. Hogging what should be your side. Soft morning snores punctuating the silence. There's something protective in the way a strong arm flops over, and pulls you towards them. So close that you can feel the warmth of their breath on your neck. Two bodies sharing an embrace, faced away from the world outside. Each wanting different things. Each willing to give up a piece of themselves to get it. It’s palpable. It surrounds me. I have no choice but to surrender to it.

3. Whiskey makes me think of you. I love the smell, the taste, the way it sits warmly in my belly. It always reminds me of home. The home you and I made. When I hear ice cubes clinking on the side of a glass, I am reminded of our laughter. Those were the fun times. I have switched brands of whiskey.

Just like like Ah-nold said, I'll be back.

Dear Anonymous,

Often when someone signs a comment “anonymous” there’s a reason. Usually, they want to tell you something bad like “hey, your feet stink and you’ve had spinach in your teeth for the last hour.” Rarely, is it good. You’ve proven the exception.

Words are powerful. Words can heal. I thank you for yours because you have inspired me to start writing again.

So Anonymous, keep checking in. And keep inspiring those around you. Those that need it truly thank you.

Sincerely,
Tweets

Spitting in the Wind

The other day I was busied and hurried trying to catch a train to the Loop in order to run an errand over lunch. (The Loop is only .5 miles [or less!] from my work but I take the train because? Am lazy!) I was just past the turnstile, when a lady turned to ask me if this was the train that was headed towards the Loop.

Normally, I hate strangers, but this day I was feeling helpful and generally not filled with disdain for my fellow man. (I’ve gone soft!) So I looked up and was about to tell her that yes she was headed in the right direction, but before I could get out that yes a giant ball of spit flew from my mouth.

This spittle took such an exaggerated arch on its way to her forearm that there was plenty of time for our eyes to go from each other to the flying spitwad back to each other.

I was mortified. How do you recover from that?

I didn’t even bother to finish my answer. I didn’t even apologize! Instead, I just ran.

And honestly, I really hope she finally found her way to the Loop, but I will never know. And that’s because I turned on my heels, and headed for the train going the opposite direction and rode it for two stops just to make sure I could put ENOUGH space between me and the embarrassment.

Sunsets

The other day I was leaving work and walking towards to the bus stop when I happened to look up at the sky peaking out between the skyscrapers. It was slightly after six, the weather was perfect and the sky was starting to take on that wonderfully delicious color of dusk. Shades of crimsons, pinks and oranges were being spread across the sky by the setting sun.

I wished I had a camera because I have a thing for sunsets. A life lesson my mother taught me was to always enjoy sunsets because you never know which one will be your last. One thing Oklahoma beats Chicago hands down in is sunsets. In Oklahoma, without buildings blocking your view of the horizon, sunsets set the entire sky on fire. (Too bad for Oklahoma, it’s also home to Republicans.)

I smiled. I had one of those moments that almost make your heart explode with a flood of emotions. Mix of joy, sadness, regret, love but mostly a sense of true happiness for the first time in a long time.

Then I suddenly remembered I had my sunglasses on. I took them off, and the sky returned to a muted gray with the only slightest hints of pink. I thought to myself, hmm I must have on some rose-tinted glasses.

I put them back on and enjoyed the view.

Life can be so poetic sometimes.

Hey look! It's an Adult!

I like to say that I am running at about 48% Responsible Adult, meaning I almost there, but not quite. The number comes from the fact that although I am 28 years old I still don’t act like an adult.

For example:

• I don’t have a regular laundry schedule

• I still don’t like broccoli.

• I put way too much on my credit cards each month.

• I eat too much candy.

• Owning a house might be a possibility for me sometime in the year 2042.

• I’m over involved in the lives of people on reality TV shows.

• I don’t remember other people’s birthdays, but expect everyone to remember mine.

• I don’t have a 401k, nor do I have any clue what a Roth IRA is.

• According to the amount of money in my savings account, I’m saving for the future purchases of 4 Snickers bars and an Us Weekly.

• There’s no toilet paper on the roll.

And the list could go on and on. I’m not very happy about being only a 48% Responsible Adult. And trust me, I have all these big plans to eventually become a 100% Responsible Adult, but the current 48% means that I am clearly in no rush, or that I even know what a Responsible Adult is—and oh, look America’s Next Top Model is on.

So now each day I have decided to try to do something new that will boost my Responsible Adult-ness. In fact today, while at the Coke machine I had this brilliant internal dialogue:

“Oh no, I can’t get my third Coke for the day, people will think I am weird. Well, weirder than they already think I am. Oooh, I know I’ll get a V8. Because that’s what an adult would do.”

So I got my V8, and gloated all the way back to my desk thinking to myself:

“Look at me, I am so healthy and SUCH an adult. Next thing you know I will be drinking sparkling water.”

And you know what? V8 tastes awful.

Reunited, and it feels so good.

Inspired (okay, damn near ripped off) by this entry over at Bacon Grease

Dearest Chicago,

I know it’s not cool to be the first to say this, but I think I love you. Really! I want to have your little Chicagoland babies.

Chicago? Will you be my Lovah.

Love you always,

Tweets

Guess what? I love this city. I'm pretty sure Chicago feels the same way. And I can't stop gushing about it to everyone.

We’re in that amazing phase where you’re falling in love, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself because you are afraid you’ll jinx it. The phase where you spend hours just looking at public transportation maps and just marvel: I can get anywhere I want to and never hop in a car.

I’m not one to brag but my Lovah put a CVS across the street from me. And a little dive bar at the end of the block. And I can frequent both establishments in my pajamas if I so choose. If I want a Chicago-style hot dog I can get an AUTHENTIC one—at almost any hour of the night. There are the 4 a.m. Thai take-out places. The Cuban bistro. The quaint Ethiopian restaurant which serves its beer in glasses slightly larger than Dixie cups. And since 6 long months of miserable cold weather is beginning to transition over to lazy warm afternoons, the whole of Chicago has decided to leave their cramped apartments to just be outside. There are people everywhere. It’s like Chicago has up and thrown a party for me.

But what I love most about Chicago and our renewed love, I haven’t felt this pressure to live up to an unattainable perfection—ahem, I’m looking at you, Dallas. You drift in an anonymous sea of strangers who are all at the same time exactly like you and nothing like you. Every day on the bus a cacophony of languages ring out. (Although some are just a tad too loud on the cell phones behind me, but don’t get me started.)

And don’t get me wrong, Chicago is not without its flaws. Alley noise at 3 a.m. Silent farters on the bus. Overzealous horn honkers. Parallel parking. Meanie cashiers. And that distinctive smell of urine, day old feces, Old Spice and vomit that graces the deep bowels below the city in the subway. (Which to be honest this is the first relationship where I have plunged headfirst into the bowels of anything, so who’s to say this isn’t typical of all my loves.)

I’m also not implying that I'm without my faults. Some days I am just not in the mood to deal with you, Ranting Homeless Man. And some days I long for some man to hold open the door for me again. (STILL a feminist! Don’t get any ideas!) But we put up with each because it’s TA-WU WUV.

Chicago offers me a few million things to do every day. Even if all I do is watch a marathon of America’s Next Top Model, I really just can’t get enough of this city. The sights, the sounds, the people and the pace of it all. I love just getting caught up in it. And yes, the cashier at CVS may never remember my name, but that's its charm. The kind of anonymity that makes me feel like I can be somebody.

Oh Chicago, let’s run off to somewhere exotic, and get married. (But come right back of course.)

Holy Sheet!

Oh y'all what have I done?

To Whom It May Concern:

I am giving my two week’s notice for the resignation of my employment with Your Agency. My last day will be February 28, 2007.

Sincerely,
Tweets

I move to Chicago in two weeks. I don't have a job. I am bat-shit insane.

And I'm so excited I may have just peed a little.

More to come... including the thrilling adventures of being unemployed, desperate and beggin complete strangers to hire you. Sounds fun, no?

And I can't promise you that this won't be me in two months:

It's an 8!

Recently – I use recently in the loosest terms possible here, boy time flies when you’re not blogging – I called one set of my parents, only to be informed that my mom couldn’t come to the phone. The reason she couldn’t talk to her one and only beautiful, radiant daughter? She was testing her Brain Age on her Nintendo DS.

Huh? And what?

Apparently it’s some game that allows you to see at what age your brain functions. I guess the younger your brain’s age the smarter you are, and this machine is supposed to tell you? I was skeptic to say the least.

But as luck would have it I was headed home that very weekend, so I could test it out myself. I was still pretty skeptical when I got to Tulsa, and my Mom and Marvin were telling me that their brain ages were both in the twenties, the lowest you can get. Which lead me to believe that this was a lot easier than they were leading on to believe, after all these are the people who are overcome with wonderment at the sight of frozen ice cream in gas stations.

So I grabbed the white contraption and sought out to prove them wrong. And it went a little something like this:

NINTENDO DS: Instructions, instructions, blah, blah, blah… colors… blah, blah, blah… words… speak answers… instructions, instructions… time limit of two and half mintues.

TWEETS: Yeah, get on with it, got it, hmm okay. So young my brain is!

NINTENDO DS:












TWEETS: Blue.

NINTENDO DS: nothing.

TWEETS: BLUE.

NINTENDO DS: Nothing

TWEETS: BLUE. BLUE. BA. LOU. BLUUUUUUUUUUE. BLUE. BLUE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IT’S BLUE! (and so on for two and half minutes)

NINTENDO DS: Your brain age is 87. Also you kinda suck at instructions.

MOM AND MARV: Snicker. Giggle.

My mom pipes up that I was supposed to say the color of the text and not the actual word. Oooooh, it’s a challenge. I get it.

Unfortunately, your brain age is a lot like your credit score and once it goes bad, you’re screwed. My brain was going to be 87 for years.

Marv told me to play some of the other games to help lower my brain age, plus I secretly suspect he enjoys mocking me. He offered up “Calculations,” which involved solving 20 simple addition and multiplication problems as fast as you could – preferably in 20 seconds.

This first time I completed the game it took me 3 minutes and I missed 5. Yep, still 87 years old.

But some of the problems were not entirely my fault. First, the game involves you using a stylus to write out the correct answers and frankly the NINTENDO DS does not like the way I write my eights.

For example, I write:



And NINTENDO DS says: You write a zero. And also get better at PhotoShop.

Apparently I need to make my eights like this:


I say: Screw you and your 8s.

So now not only our my parents cooler than me, they’re now a lot smarter than me and their penmanship is in better shape as well.

What’s happening here?

"Should I leave a note?"

I have mentioned it here before, but I take the bus to work. And I love it. It gives me a chance to read, even if it’s just for 15 minutes a trip. I can sit back and relax before I get to the daily grind. I save money on gas. I get to learn Spanish ("Stop requested. Parada solicitada.") Oh, and everyone who drives in Texas is a retard. Seriously, every one of them, and that makes it essential that I stay off the road.

So there I was. Minding my own business, sitting in my favorite seat (across from the back door right by the buzzer so I don't have to reach to request a stop– I hate reaching over people), with my nose deeply buried in a book. And then?

THWACK. BUMP. SCRAPE.

I jolt up from my book. And the bus driver – who until this day was my favorite driver – turns around and says, “I guess I hit something?” In the very same tone that Cher uses in Clueless when she sideswipes three parked cars.

Oops. My bad.

You think you hit something? YOU THINK YOU? HIT. SOMETHING! You just ripped off your entire side view mirror. No shit, you hit something. Maybe you should stop and check it out?

But nay, she does not stop. She continued on to a transfer point, which is where they switch drivers on shift change. The new driver notices the carnage of mangled side view mirror now hanging from the side of the bus, and asks her what happened. And once again she just says, “I guess I hit something.”

She got off the bus, calmly walked to her car and drove off like nothing happened. Which got me to wondering if she’s even supposed to drive the bus? Or did she just see it waiting unattended at a bus stop, hopped in and then took it for a joyride hellbent on side-mirror destruction?

(And if this was her plan then I say well played!)

So the poor new driver had to call it in, and clean up the whole mess. And us fortunate passnegers, all sat stranded on the bus waiting for a new one to come. I ended up late for my meeting, and no one believed my crazy story about the bus.

Frankly, I don’t care because truly public transportation never ceases to amaze me. And I’ll never understand why people don’t use it more often.

Treasure Hunting

I've returned. Back from hiding, with a vengeance. What brings me back? Oh let me tell you.

First, let me say that there are few things you expect to find under your refrigerator – dust bunnies, bits of what was for dinner three weeks ago now permanently a part a your floor. And there's a few things no one wants to find – cockroaches, dead body or worse a drunk and horny Kevin Federline.

But what about a used hypodermic syringe?

Uh huh, you heard me. Is your skin crawling right now because that's pretty much the standard reaction. That or aak, eeesh and munwwaaah.

So what are we looking at here? Best case scenario – diabetic? One who would need a syringe to supply his body with insulin in order to survive, thrive and become a gainful member of society.

Worst case – DRUGS. (said in the same hushed tones as your mom would say) Smack. Black tar. China white. Ack ack. Judas. Mr. Brownstone. I'm living in an old opium den. (And the apartment people certainly didn't put that in the brochure.)

My first reaction upon seeing the syringe – thanks to Nancy Regan and our friends at D.A.R.E. – was to flee the situation whilst saying NO! with a great force. And then I thought, this might be why there are bunch of indentions on my front door, you know the kind that's left by folks who knock while they're forcefully saying POLICE! and OPEN UP!

So, now then what do I do with it? Leave it? But what if someone after me finds and assumes I'm the intravenous drug user. I can't have my pristine reputation tampered with in that manner. Or remove it? And be forced to – gulp – touch it. With eleventy hundred layers of protective gear, mind you. But I know if I try to remove the damn thing, it will be the time Dallas S.W.A.T. decides to bust on in, and there I'll be standing with my needle in my plastic kitchen gloved hands.

So, yeah I'm just gonna go with that it belonged to a diabetic.

Pee Pee Kid

So let’s see. Emotional breakdown. Works sucks. Cut off all my hair. Am still crazy.

Oh, right I have a dog too.

Poor Lily. I have been so busy lately that we hardly get to spend anytime playing and frolicking outside. I have substituted red wine its place. Fun for me, but not for Lily. Now she just lays her head on the window sill, and sighs for all the fun she used to have. Outside. When we got out to potty she'll run around with poo half out of her butt, yet she refuses to poop because that means she has to go inside – and that my friends is supremely frustrating because seriously POOP ALREADY.

And because my heart cannot hold one more ounce of guilt, I take Lily to doggie daycare once a week. That's right doggie daycare, or as I like to call it "OH! Thank You Jesus". Best part? They have a webcam! I get watch Lily all day. Sometimes, I call people over to my cube so they too can share in the joy of watching my dog play. They are usually not as amused by this as I, but whatever.

Unfortunately, this webcam has turned into my obsession. I'm constantly watching it, and worrying whether or not Lily is well-liked and plays well with others. SEE! Am crazy!

It all started because every time I would pick her up from daycare she smelled of pee. And I started to freak out that she was the kid that always smells like pee. My kid (okay dog) is the Pee Pee Kid.

Great.

So it started out that I would just watch the webcam to make sure she was not indeed the Pee Pee Kid, or stuck in the corner somewhere getting her lunch money snatched from her.

And then I saw this!


That's her in the middle of that Daycare Orgy. She's popular alright, and apparently a swinger.

Now with 100% more crazy!

This is what happens when you give Crazy access to a hair salon.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

I had to beg and plead the lady to cut it. She was all like - are you sure? I was all like - is the Pope Catholic?

CUT IT.

Who invited Debbie Downer?

So this is what a quarter life crisis looks like. I'm going through some real tough emotional times right now - stuff I'm not quite ready to discuss here.

I'm not sure I will ever be ready.

The good news is that work is finally easing up enough that I might be able to start writing about the truly mundane stuff that is not a part of said emotional breakdown.

I'm sure you're all waiting with baited breath.

Ordinary

I've settled into a nice little routine these days. I go to work. I come home. If it's early enough I treat Lily with a trip to the dog park, make dinner, have a glass of wine (or two depending on the perceived annoyances of the day), read a little and head off to bed.

Rinse. Repeat.

Not terribly exciting. And that's why I've been in a bit of a slump when it comes to entries here. I just can't seem to find anything to write about. I figure if I'm not interested by my life, surely y'all won't be either.

Recently – and I'm talking the bus ride to work – I finished a book called, An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, and I realized that although I think it's mundane at times there is a certain happiness that can be found in being Ordinary. The book is essentially an encyclopedia of the author's ordinary life chronicled from A to Z – it reads much like a blog does. I'm drawn to books and authors like this, ones that can find humor and levity in things that happen all around us everyday, and who have the ability to put it into words that make you say, uh huh yep totally know what you're talking about. This is probably why I love reading Dooce, David Sedaris, Amalah.com and others.

When I started reading An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, I was in the middle of another book called Atonement. I had been limping through Atonement for about two weeks, (I finished An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life in about a day in a half) and it was really starting to make me feel dumb (it's 2004's book of the year, I'm supposed to flying through it, right?). Don't get me wrong the book is wonderfully written, I just couldn't sink my teeth into it. The book is filled flowery, triple-letter-score words that fly totally over my head (have you ever used the word febrile in your life? EVER?) and long drawn out character descriptions that left me going who in the hell is he talking about NOW, oh the same person, hmmm I thought he was talking about a dude, oh well.

So I came to the realization that I like to read (and write) about the ordinary. It's relatable. I can picture myself stubbing my toe, missing the bus and having lipstick on my teeth, no flowery language needed. I'm there. But early twentieth century Americana? Yeah, not so much. And running to the dictionary every ten minutes to figure out what your flowery language actually means isn't helping. (I know, God forbid I actually learn something – boo.)

Maybe I just don't like fiction. Maybe someday I'll grow up and enjoy sitting down with my glass of merlot soaking up every word of high and mighty encrusted prose. Who knows.

But as for now, I'll stick to the Ordinary.

The Ordinary is always there, waiting to be written about.

With a febrile pestilence, fuckers.

If you've ever wondered what writer's block looks like...

(crickets chirpping)

Look no further.

My brain is all sorts of mush, and is incapable of writing actual thoughts down.

Boo.

Life's A Beach

I'm having one of those days where I just want to be really whiny, and stomp off from meetings saying I don't want to be here wah wah wah. I knew it was going to be a bad day when I went to fill my coffee cup and there was no coffee in the pot! CURSES! It's because the break room's coffee pot is incredibly dirty, and the gauge that tells you when you're running low on coffee is stained the color of coffee which it makes it impossible to know when you're about to short change the person behind you. Unfortunately, this morning I was the one who got short changed. And double unfortunately, our sweet, dear receptionist walked into the break room right about the time my rage was boiling over because oh my GOD I would have to wait an additional three minutes to get my coffee. I turned to her and barked ISN'T THERE ANY WAY WE CAN CLEAN THIS POT, SO IDIOTS WILL NOW WHEN THEY TAKE ALL THE DAMN COFFEE. My teeth were gnashed and my eye, it was a twitching. She mumbled something with head down and quickly scurried out of the room.

Eventually I got the coffee. And it was burnt. Wah wah wah.

You could say I need a vacation. The thing is? I just got back from one.

Perhaps that's why everything is so annoying right now. Everything. It's because I know there's a beach with white sand and dolphins frolicking off shore just waiting for me. A place with warm sun, good food, cool salty breezes, Charlie!, impossibly cute beach communities – I have seen the GLORY of the coming of the LAWD, and I want to march right back there.

Two weekends ago, I spent two whole days in the fun and sun of Destin, FL. And y'all, the Gulf Coast is absolutely GORG. EOUS. It was one of those vacations where you scream WEEEEEE all the way through it because there's no time to slow down because you have only TWO! DAYS!, and why are you SLEEPING? There's no time to sleep! It was also the kind of vacation that leaves you a tad more exhausted than when you left.

I would like to give a big shout out to the Erdmann family for inviting me along, and since they were also there to attend the Lee's Famous Recipe Convention a big thanks for giving me the chance to learn more about fried chicken than I ever thought I could learn.

Some highlights:

1. The beach. Beee-yoot-tiful. The last time I was at the ocean I was in San Francisco – and it was cold and rainy and being very San Francisco-ish – so it good to get back to a "real" beach.

2. FRISBEE®! I think I am half hippie because y'all? I was damn good at Frisbee.

3. Walking around the creepiest place on earth, Seaside, FL. I tend to be very uncomfortable around things that are perfect. (That's why I can't talk to gorgeous men, or spend too long in the sculpture gardens of most museums.) And Seaside was perfect in every way – quaint little shops, perfect houses, perfect manicured lawns on manicured streets belonging to the perfect Stepford Wives strolling around in Range Rovers. I kept getting the feeling I was on a movie set, any minute the director would need to call cut because I was in the frame picking my nose. Charlie's sister, Michelle, kindly informed me that Seaside was where The Truman Show was shot. And I was all like, oooooooh yeah. I can't tell how creepy it is to be somewhere you recognize, but that you know you've never been before.

Another thing that was annoying about Seaside is that it proudly boasts that it was established in 1981. I am older than this town.

4. The Erdmanns cannot for the life of them settle on a place to eat. We spent two hours searching for a place to grab a quick bite to eat. We went to every restaurant in a twenty mile radius, only to end up eating back at the hotel. This is so foreign to me because in my family when Mom is hungry the vacation is put on hold until we find somewhere to gorge ourselves. There are no qualifying factors for vegetarian menus or soup quality, my family is like do y'all make stuff in a kitchen? Is it warm? Good, let's eat.

5. Deep sea fishing. I know NOTHING about fishing, but this was by far the coolest experience of the trip. We went out 28 miles into the Gulf, and then proceeded to fish and fish some more. Our fishing consisted of letting a six pound sinker um, sink to the bottom of the ocean. The "mates" explained that after your sinker sunk to the bottom that you could give your line a couple tugs and most likely catch your fish right then. "Most likely" never happened for me. My entire haul was only two fish. I only got to keep one. Something called a mingo. (when I googled it I found out it also goes by the name bastard snapper which rocks so hard) I must have looked like I really knew what I was doing because the guys on the ship would come by and be like, you got something, and then after reeling in over 150 feet of fishing line there would be nada. After about five times they stopped coming around to me.

When I first heard we were going out on the ocean (gulf, whatever) I was a little worried about getting seasick. Although I never get motion sickness, I remember my brother talking about everyone being affected by the proverbially motion in the ocean when he was on the military's big boats. And let me tell you, being out on the waves is like being on a roller coaster ride that never ends. I never got sick, but that's not to say my stomach's contents didn't try to lead several escape attempts throughout the day. Charlie battled the nausea all day. Charlie's dad did get sick, like three times. (Charlie even took a picture of his like seconds after he got sick, which I thought was a little mean. But then again I just told the internet.) Next time, I will pack the Dramamine.

6. While we were fishing Charlie kept telling me how proud he was of me because I went fishing and I was such a tough chick. (Even though I made him bait my hook every time because touching squid? Ew.) When we got back to shore I totally princess-ed out on him. I was like I'm cold and hungry, you're going to get me a big hamburger when we get back to the hotel all while I sleep a glorious little nap wah wah wah. It's a wonder he puts up with me.


The lowlight:

Getting stranded in Houston overnight because I missed my connecting flight to Dallas. I won't go into much detail because there's already enough profanity on the internet. However, I will say that if I ever meet the woman who was at the Continental Airlines counter in the Ft. Walton Beach airport again, I will swiftly kick her in the shins. I told this woman no less than eleventy hundred times that if I was going to miss my connecting flight in Houston (because my first flight was already delayed) I would rather reschedule the flight for in the morning. She looked at me like I was certifiably nutty, of COURSE you'll make your flight, don't be silly. Big surprise, I missed the flight. And frankly after 55 dollars spent on an itchy 4 hours of sleep at the shadiest hotel ever, plus an hour and half waiting on their shuttle, then spending 2.75 on a plastic toothbrush and half a tube of toothpaste because the airline held my luggage hostage, and a 40 dollar cab ride back to the airport because the hotel's shuttle didn't leave before 8 a.m. she's lucky I'm only kicking her in the shins.

Wow. I didn't mean to write a book. But if you're with me this far you get a prize: Boring vacation pictures!

Luck of the Irish be with ye

I want his gold too.

Cause We Can't Be Sad ALL the Time

Folks, I give you what might be my finest achievement in Photoshop to date:




















I like to thank RoboFavo, Nancy Rice and Google Image Search.

And I think I have found my calling - you think hotjobs.com has any positions where the only required skill involves slapping your friends' heads on random pictures for an outrageous salary in Milan, TN?

My Pock

(First, I want to thank everyone for their sympathies about losing my family pet, Ricki. I can't tell you how much it helped.)

Now, on to The Weird:

For those of who remember the birds and are keeping count with me - the count is up to eight (minus the original 17)

The latest dead one was at the front door of my office building. Which means they are indeed following me.

At this rate, there will be one at my desk by the end of the month.

At first, I was like, oh this will make a funny blog. But now it's giving me a serious case of The Icks.

No one likes to have dead birds follow them, especially when you're named after a bird.

Miss Ricki

My parents wrote me this weekend to tell me that they were going to have to put our family dog, Ricki, down. I knew it would be coming soon, - when I saw her at Christmas time she could barely walk and was having seizures pretty frequently – but still when I heard I couldn’t help but stop and cry. Like a little baby. My only regret is that I didn’t get to say goodbye when I saw her last. So I’m choosing to do it now.



Goodbye, sweet girl.

Ricki was our first family dog. In the spring of 1989, we loaded up the family and went to check out some free-to-a-good-home puppies. We brought her home where she met her adoptive parents, Ozzie and Harriet. (I guess my mom had a thing for the Nelsons) We named her Ricki (notice the “i” please don’t call her a BOY!) and fell in love with her immediately. I was 9 years old.



Ricki was so very smart. Her face would light up when we would ask her if she wanted to go on a walk. In fact, it got to the point if we even said, “walk” in passing conversation she would go sit at her leash. Eventually we had to start spelling the word, and still she caught on to that.





We taught her how to catch Frisbees. In 1993, she was named State Frisbee Champion. Her trophy hung in our living room for many years after that. She so loved to catch Frisbees that even when arthritis limited her ability to get around she still wanted to go out and show off her skills. We ended up having to hide all her Frisbees because if she found one she wouldn’t let us rest until we went outside tossed a few around. She would go for hours until her poor little body would give out.



We used to call her “Monkey Dog” because her nervous/excited chattering sounded exactly like the monkeys at the zoo. When one of us would come home after a long day, Ricki would be there oooh-aaah-aah-ooh-ing her entire day’s activities. She couldn’t wait to tell us about how the UPS man had come to visit, or how the crazy lady across the street had let her cat wander into our yard.




Ricki had a nose for water, be it lake, creek, or even large puddle. And when she found it she would bolt towards the water’s edge, and doggie canon ball right in. She would emerge with the biggest grin on her face.



Ricki was the most loyal and eager to please dog I have ever known. And in the end, I’m positive it’s what kept her hanging on as long as she did – she did not want to let us down.

When we lost Ozzie, my mom brought home a new little puppy, P.B. – who quickly became Mr. #1. Yet Ricki was content to play second fiddle. (And secretly Ricki, you were always my favorite. Sure P.B. might have been cute, but he couldn’t hold a candle to how sweet you were.) My mom tells me that P.B. has been walking around the house searching for Ricki, reminding me that we weren’t the only who lost their best bud.



I can’t imagine how hard it was for my mom and Marvin because underneath all the gray whiskers and ailments were the eyes of a puppy. You would almost forget just how old she was. To look into those eyes and have to say goodbye must have been absolutely soul crushing.

I can't understand people who tell me that they're not "pet people." The love of a pet is far-reaching and unconditional. It’s the kind of love that can know when it’s time to go - the tumors and seizures were just too much for you. It’s that kind of love that can give you your last kisses, and whisper that it’s okay, you can let go now.

I know Ricki is in a better place. It’s full of unlimited Frisbees to catch, toys to chew and leaves to bark at in the front yard. I know she is no longer is carrying the weight of a body that can’t keep up with her spirit.

We love you, Ricki.

We will miss you more than you will ever know.



Goodbye, sweet girl.