The Prophet

Sitting in a Tea Lounge reading our books and jotting notes in our journals:

G: This is probably never ever going to happen again, but I just wanted to tell you that it's pretty awesome.

Me: Why is this never ever going to happen again?

G: I don't know.

Me: I see. That is pretty sad now that I think about it.

How Do I Get Myself Into These Situations?

Okay, I need to disclaim something before I start: I do not intentionally go looking for sticky, awkward, or difficult situations to get myself into on a regular basis.

That being said, let's start work in chronological order of my Sticky Situation Timeline. About a month ago, I got a random email from a friend I hadn't seen or heard from in about a year and a half. She was inquiring whether or not my husband and I had a spare bedroom in our apartment and if so, could her husband stay in it for a week while he was competing in an opera contest in the city. (Insert questioning facial expression here.) Um, okay, let me think about this for one sec. I immediately call my lawfully wedded husband and ask him his insight. I did not always do this before making a rash decision, but have learned that I should, should I ever want to vacation/dine out/or heaven's to betsy, shop ever again in my life. He says it's going to be weird having someone traipsing through our bedroom to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but okay. I email my friend and we're off! Uncomfortable moments, here we come!

First night, he arrives late. G is already in bed asleep with Mr. Hunter snuggling beside him. Awkward Guest arrives and proceeds to try to talk both of my ears off while I'm falling asleep standing up in my living room. After an appropriate amount of time, I beg to be allowed to sleep and attempt to show him to his "room", through and adjacent to our room. Only Hunter freaks the crap out and barks at him for a healthy 10 minutes, while jumping on G, before going back to sleep. Awkward Guest goes into his room and shuts the door. I get back into bed and try to fall asleep, but Awkward Awkwardy gets back up and uses the restroom - again through our bedroom and back again.

Three days pass of his slightly incessantly maniacal talking, interspersed with random humming in an operaesque way, and coming in a tad too late to wake up myself, G, and the dog. On the final night of his stay, he competed in the finals of the opera competition and was out again later than we stay up at our dull, sleep-obsessed house. He lost. I didn't realize it until after he'd already left early on Friday morning, so I felt bad for not saying goodbye, and I felt a tad guilty for not listening to his incessantness more while he was here. Before he left he gave us these items: a box of kleenex, a 16oz bottle of spring water, a half gallon of orange juice, a bottle of Italian wine, a box of chocolates, and a $5 bill.

[The $5 bill was from Tuesday night's dinner that G and Awkwardian spent together, at which G didn't have enough money to pay the delivery guy so Awkwardo paid his $10. I returned home from work that night to G asking me to give Awkwardio $10, only I didn't have $10, I only had $5. So I gave him the 5 spot, with a tiny little voice in my head thinking, "Can't he buy G a $10 dinner for inviting him into our home for a week?" But then my better inner voice said, "Shut up you greedy bastard, he probably only has $10 left to spend on meals for his whole trip." And I didn't think anything of it.]

Cut to present time and me feeling like crap because he gave me my $5 back, although I'm still not sure why he took it in the first place. (?) So the entire week passed and left me feeling completely ungracious. Good job, Self!

Second Weird Situation in Timeline: this morning while walking Hunter on our daily Constitutional, I encountered a beautiful Golden Retriever with a red collar walking down the sidewalk by himself. I watched him walk for a while, cross in the middle of the street and continue down my block. I knew something was not right, so I returned Hunter to his kennel and went looking for Goldie. I found him just down my street and brought him home. Now what was I going to do?

I've talked at times about Hunter's "situation" lately with big dogs and conflict situations. It's not pretty, people. So now I have this gigantic beast of a dog in my home while Hunter is locked away in his tiny little kennel. Not an ideal situation. I come up with a plan to let Hunter out in the bedroom and shut the bedroom door with Goldie on the other side so they can smell each other through the 4 foot crack that runs underneath my bedroom door. This works splendidly though they were both a little wary of each other. Eventually, I let Hunter out of the room, while keeping Goldilocks on the leash so I can somewhat control him. Then I decide to call that guy I'm married to again. He's laughing before I even tell him the whole story. After that little boost of anti-confidence, I call the local dog day care, no luck. They tell me to take him to a vet to see if he's microchipped. Good idea! It should be mentioned that I should technically have been at work about an hour ago. While taking him to the vet, I call the Humane Society and they check but do not find and missing dog reports for this kind of dog in my area. My area being South, Coastal Brooklyn.

At the vet, Gold Member and I have to wait for 30 minutes for the vet to show up. Goldie is just chillin and wanting everyone to scratch his belly. He's so adorable. Finally, Vet Lady gets her handy-doody scanner and Mother of all Gods, he's microchipped! They make some calls and get the owner on the phone to tell her we'd found "Stoney" (a name which makes me ponder the capabilities and pasttimes of these so-called "owners"). She's hysterically crying and describing how they live in STATEN ISLAND, and that Stoney's been missing for two days. Now, I'm looking at Stoney like, You Little Shitter, you had a little romp in Bklyn at your poor family's expense. Smart dog. Way to live on the wild side.

So anywho, I leave the dog with the vet and go to work. Several hours later, my cell phone rings and this guy is all, "Hey, you found my dog" and I'm all, "What? Who is this? Where did you get my cell phone number?" And dude's like, "I'm a US Marshall" and I poo my pants before saying, "No shit? That's some crazy shit right there." Something like that anyway. So now Mrs. US Marshall wants to bring us some food and stuff for finding the dog. I tried several times to tell Mr. US Marshall Captain, that that was not necessary but he insisted. And when the Attorney General US Marshall of the US of A insists, you desist.

Will keep you updated on Mrs. Marshall's cooking.

Poo Poo Train

The fastest NYC tour of my life occurred this weekend with my brother, Noah, sister-in-law Mindi and their a-dor-a-ble children, Julie (5) and Joey (2.5). It was insane. It was crazy. It was awesome. Some of the high-highlights include: Joey absolutely freaking out every time he got to right the "Choo-choo train!" (ie the nasty black hole of a subway). He kept singing, "I'm gonna wide the choo-choo twain, I'm gonna wide the choo-choo twain, CHOO-CHOO!" Nonstop. For four days. And now, it's my favorite song too. Only sometimes, he would replace CHOO-CHOO! with POO-POO! and then die laughing like it was the funniest thing since Chevy Chase in this movie. I mean, hysterically laughing that deep belly laugh where he was almost choking. I couldn't get enough of it.

Also, the looks on both of their faces while going through the Natural History Museum was awesome. The hits were: the Dinosaurs, the Snake fossils, and of course, the Whale. I highly recommend this stop on the NYC tour with small children. Noah and Mindi were a little hesitant to take them to a boring museum, but people, trust me. This ain't no boring museum. We also ate New York City hotdogs and walked through Central Park at 81st Street, which is definitely the best entrance to CP because Belvedere's Castle is right there and so is Shakespeare Garden. Not to mention the Puppet Show. Don't even mention it. Don't. I'm warning you. Leave the Puppet Show out of this. Okay, thank you.

We did Rockefeller and Times Square - although telling two small children about the Giant! Christmas! Tree! for three full days and finally getting there only to see it not lit up is a major no-no. Don't try that at home. Julia had this look on her face that said, "Really? You're not shitting me right now? Like, this is it?" But what she really said was, "You know, my Daddy is putting up our Christmas lights as soon as we get home," which equally made Noah swell with pride and me feel like crap in one foul swoop. Well done. Keep setting them up for disappointments, Aunt Tete. Stellar job. Yikes. They loved watching the ice skaters at Rockefeller and the food at the Rock Cafe was surprisingly good, though expectedly expensive. How's that for alliteration?

I secretly forced some selfish endeavors into the weekend... Yeah, Fan Yang is so freaking cool, he will take you places you've never imagined. Although, parts of his show were slightly odd and even bordering on weirdo-nation. Anywho- the bubbles were cool. Also, kinda really wanted to go to FAO, and got to indulge my inner child there too, but I restrained myself from dancing on the giant floor piano a la Big.

All in all, very fun, very busy trip. Children were angels during all of it. Amazing. Will post pics at a later date.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Turkey Day 2007 is quickly approaching and I am devising a smorgasbord at this very minute. Here's what we've got so far:

* 3 Turkey Legs (Why 3? I don't really know.)

* 1 Turkey Breast (Had to order the little guy in pieces 'cause my oven's too small to fit him whole. Holy tiny apartment living.)

* Creamy Smashed Potatoes (ala G-dog)

* Grandma's Cranberry Salad

* Delicious Corn Pudding

* Piping Hot Pumpkin Pie

* Delicate Whipped Topping

Yes! I just realized we need some sort of festive holiday drink, possibly eggnog? Hot cider? Beer? Good idea. We're also going to eat, just the two of us, in our apartment with our wedding china, which we've never even opened yet. This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever, so why does everyone I tell about it keep giving me with this sad look and offering to invite us over to their house instead? I do not need Thanksgiving Adopted. I'm just fine, spank you very much. And do you think my cooking is really that bad? Geez, tough crowd.


I also realized this year that I like Thanksgiving more than Christmas, actually. There's all of the family togetherness (well, aside from this year - whoopsie) and none of the Retail/Consumerism BS. So long as we don't turn on the Parade or go shopping on Friday, neither of which I do. So here's to Thanksgiving 2007, may your gullets be full from morning until night!

Weekend Update

So this sucks. And yes, especially if you're at the game, soaking wet, watching it happen in slow motion. I just can't explain the connection to Michigan football with ordinary sports fan vocabulary terms. It's like a member of my family, who everybody loves, who works so hard all the time expecting nothing in return, who doesn't claim to be perfect, just dedicated and committed to its other members and its leaders. I'm so proud of them. I'm so proud of Lloyd Carr for an amazing career and for leaving a legacy of hard work and good ethics to his team. I'm excited for the future of the program and all the places it will go. I can't wait for the next home game: August 30, 2008. Go Blue. Bring it on.

I also possibly broke my foot on Saturday while attempting to take down the tailgating tent. See, logistically, 4 metal tent poles collected into a group totaling approximately 50 lbs should cause intense pain and death upon one's foot, should said group land squarely on one of the feet falling unobstructed from a height of 6-7 feet in the air* (see attached photo). Breaky footy no funny.

Caution: corny story ahead.
On my outbound flight to D-Troit Rock City, I shared the plane with a family of three: a Mom, her 4 year old daughter, and a 3 month old son. I felt for the mom who was attempting to carry two children, a stroller, a car seat, four suitcases and a hoard of baby elephants onto the plane in a timely fashion. Several people pitched in to lighten the load a bit and finally we were all settled and ready to take off. The children were adorable and no one heard a peep from them the whole flight. I totally forgot about this little threesome until my return flight to NY Cizzle, when I saw them approaching the gate to board on my plane again. I had to hand it to mom at this point, she was rocking it with all of the luggage and two small children again. Fearless.

However, the 4 year old had decided she no longer was on board with this weekend trip idea and she began voicing her opinion before we even boarded the plane. Once on the plane she flat out refused to buckle her seatbelt and the flight attendant did her best for about 15 minutes until finally it was accomplished. Intermittent wailing and crying ensued for the next 45 minutes or so, until we finally left the ground and I believed the little one to be asleep.

The entire flight we didn't hear a peep out of her and just as we were "beginning our final descent" the plane made some very sharp, very scary tips and turns. Mom had held out long enough when finally she yelled out, "Jes**!" In turn waking up the 4 year old who started singing at the top of her lungs, "OLD MACDONALD HAD A FARM, E-I-E-I-O! AND ON HIS FARM HE HAD A DUCK, E-I-E-I-O! WITH A QUACK...." (You get the idea.) She continued her reprisal of the Farmer MacDonald until we'd touched down, through about 4 or 5 different domestic farm animal verses. Everyone around me was laughing to themselves at this point. Then the flight attendant got back on her little speaker thing and made the "Welcome to New York, its 6:15 local time" spiel and after she signed off, she got back on the speaker to say, "E-I-E-I-O." I peed a little.

Snifffff, Ah That's Much Better

So those 2 people who regularly read this site may notice that I've made a few changes to my template today. What do you think of the new design? I was feeling a little verklempt with my old choices and the glory of blogspot is you can change them any old time you want. Glory! Can I get an Amen? Not both of you at once, it gets loud in here. Thank you.

Now that winter has again returned to the Northeast, my office is now registering a temperature somewhere between "Lava" and "Broiler Room". Which doesn't do a whole lot for my attitude problem. There's a meeting this morning?! You mean now?! Like, you want me to actually walk down the hall for it?! You must be out of your mind, man!

Working on that one.

Oh, did I tell you we saw the Black Crowes in concert last week? It was a pretty amazing show actually. I really enjoy on a cosmic level the song Soul Singing.

Home bound
Tired of tired of running town to town
Tired of my heart
turned upside down
Now my lifes a smile not a frown
The sound

The incredible thing about it live is the new voice the song takes on. Maybe its that Chris Robinson is in a different place in his life right now. Or that the band altogether has moved into a new phase of their creative genius. Whatever it was, it was thrilling to watch and hear. Glad we made the trip up to BFE 175th Street to see it.

Oh crap, the meeting.

Hollywood's Not the Only One with Problems

Him: Uh, there's no more orange juice.

Me: Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. The Orange Juice Fairy quit last week.

Him: ........

Me: Yep, in case you were wondering, so did the Milk Fairy, the Cereal Fairy, the Dry Cleaning Fairy, the Clothes Picking Up Fairy, and the Bathroom Fairy actually told me to tell you to suck it. Whatever that means, she told me you'd understand.

Tis the Season to be Merry

Alright, let it be noted: It is November 12th and I am thoroughly and appallingly grossed out of my mind by Holiday Gift Buying Advertising. I mean, come on.

Best Buy, you can suck it. Your customer service is a j.o.k.e. I've seen roadkill more helpful in solving problems than your staff. Your prices are higher than my 6th grade math teacher's pants. And nobody buys people gifts from Best Buy, they buy them gift cards, so spare me the blue wrapping paper/yellow ribboned boxes on every God-fer-loving commercial. Puke.

LL Bean, what's the story? Commercials were never your thing. Stick to catalogs and improving your website. You're better than that. You shouldn't lower your standards because all the other overpriced outdoor clothing lines are. Let's keep it real. Now go play with your Black Labs and Golden Retrievers, they need the exercise.

K mart, honey, no one is buying what you're selling on TV these days. The last time Martha was in a K mart was when they took a prison field trip and she was only going in to get a Mr. Slushie.

Macy's, don't even get me started. You're the worst of the bunch. You've robbed us of our childhoods and a Thanksgiving Day Parade void of advertising since the beginning of time. You practically killed Santa. I can't even say your name anymore without my husband crawling into the fetal position and crying like a baby.

Am I right or am I right? Who else is vomiting consumerism that is being shoved down our throats at the expense of good-hearted holiday celebrating? I just don't know what to expect of entertainment television any more. {sigh}

We All Need A Little More Trudi

Hey, what did you do today Internet? Really? No! Want to know what I did? Yes? Okay, I'll tell you. I went to a live taping of Regis and Kelly at ABC studios this morning. Sweet, right? Well, grab your hot cocoa and gingersnaps and let me tell you all about it.

Marisa Tomei, David Ortiz, and Jennifer Esposito were the guests and they were all pretty nice, somewhat humorous. I just want to squeeze David Ortiz, he looks like he needs it. Also Jennifer talks way too much with her hands - like hey! look at my hands! they're flying around! If I were in a table tennis match where we couldn't use paddles, I would totally want her on my team. Kelly Ripa is T.I.N.Y. I can't stress this enough, people. I think I could sneeze her to Nova Scotia. During one intermission, someone asked her where she got her shirt and she is so cute, she said, "Actually I got it for free!". Usually, I'm really irritated when people don't listen well enough to questions to answer them correctly, but that was more interesting to me than where she got it because I'm continually amazed at how rich and famous people get stuff for free all the time, when they're really the only people who have the money to buy expensive stuff. ? Riddle me that, oh master of the interverse*.

Best part of the show: Baby Bash (I know, don't ask me) raps their new song at the end of the show, and the cutest grandma you've ever seen gets her groove on in the front row like she's been waiting decades for this song to be created thereby enabling her to express herself through dance. And the hosts notice her and call her out onto the stage to dance with them and Baby Bash (I know, see above), upon which time the grandma - Trudi - totally works the entire stage with her dance moves. I was peeing my pants off - not kidding. They played another song just so she would keep dancing. It totally made my weekend. And even though I Tivo'd the episode in case I got on camera and wanted to see how much weight the camera actually put on me, I'm totally going to replay the episode to bring Trudi to life again instead.

PS. I did get on camera for 0.7 seconds during the sign-off portion of the credits. ;) Promise, ask my dad, he Tivo'd it too.

*'Member? I'm allowed to make up words.

Notice of Toll Violation - First Offense

After recieving what was absolutely not a Happy Birthday card in the mail from the Port Authority of NY and NJ, I did receive a happy little letter explaining that since I allegedly "passed through a Port Authority toll lane without payment of the applicable toll", I owed the state of New York 31 bucks. I decided to give the friendly customer service lady a call.

Me: Hi, I received a ticket for violating the EZ Pass lane and I don't own a car.

CSR Lady: Can you give me the ticket number?

Me: Sure! Blah-blah-blah.

CSR Lady: (tap, tap, tap, tap) Hmmmmmmm. Hm. (tap, tap, tap) Hmmmm. And your license plate number is Blah-ble-blay-blahblah?

Me: ....... (cricket) ......... No..... I don't own a car.

CSR Lady: Hmmm. (tap-t-t-t-tap-tap-tap!!) Hold on one second. (tap!, tap!, tap!) Hm. Yes, I'm going to have to turn this over to the DMV.

Me: Oh, riiiight. You certainly do.

Roaches de Cock

Since accusations are on the fly that I have exaggerated our infestation problem, let me clear the air. Eh-hem. OUR APARTMENT IS OVERRUN WITH GIANT, FLESH-EATING, FLYING, COCKROACHES. Never one to over-dramatize, I have toned this last statement down to highlight it's truth and accuracy. Let it be known that the author of the accusations has never once had to assassinate the damn things himself, oh no, it's all me Friends. All me.

Now, I know some of you mean well when you spout off cute little stories about the ONE time you saw a cockroach and killed it swiftly to be on your merry little urban way, and I appreciate that your experience was so painless. However, yours and my experience are very different. Very. I have killed oh, about 8 cockroaches in the 21 months of living in our apartment. All 8 were giant, about this -------------------------------------------- long. (100% not extrapolated.) To increase their specialness, several of them have flown at me at the exact moment I was trying to overpower them. Fantastic!

Others of you have suggested putting traps about the place. Hoho, he, hahaha. You naive, sad little children. I remember when I too had rainbows in my eyes and unicorns in my dreams... Let me paint the picture a tad bit more: they have been found in every room of the apartment, in different times of the year/day/atmospheric pressure, oblivious to the traps and sprays and gels and hand grenades that I have strategically fortified the house with. We do take the trash out every night, I have stored all of our cabinet foods in airtight containers, I try to clean over, under, and between every piece of furniture at least once a week, sometimes more.

Twice last year I called up Sally-Overreactor-Johnson (aka the landlady) to inquire about an exterminator and twice he came to spray. That's it. Just twice. Sally thought, "Surely we got every single itty bitty cockroach in the whole damn building in two applications! Yay us! High five." No high five, Sally, no high five at all.

I've thrown in the towel with the Roaches de Cock. They must really, really like that apartment. Well, I don't want to blight their happiness any longer. I'll just finish out my time in New York, and leave them in peace. Besides, there's no recourse. There's no hope. As my sister Gina said, "You can't kill them all, they survived the Holocaust!" Thanks Gin, I think you meant the nuclear bomb. Nice try, though.

Sigh, there's not even humor left in our apartment, the cockroaches snuffed it all out. It's a sad day in the nut house. Sad, sad, sad.

Maybe I'll have ice cream for dinner.

Warning: Hostile Post Ahead...

That's it. Enough. I can't take it any longer. I have to get this off my chest or I'm going to spontaneously combust.

To all of the inconsiderate pricks who hate dogs in my neighborhood:
I try to CURB MY DOG! but he doesn't always make it there, okay?! So get off it with your little xeroxed fliers taped all over your stupid little front fence and your stupid tree in front of your stupid little apartment. I have a geographical news flash for you, you live in NEW YORK CITY. If you've decided that you don't like people or dogs or people who own dogs, I've got the perfect moving company for you, dial: 1-800-movethef#@$out. They're very handy at maneuvering your stupid furniture down your stupid stairs. And. Don't sit on your steps every day and wait for someone with a dog to come within eyesight so you can start screaming incoherently that they have to CURB THEIR DOG. Because if I see you do that one more time, I'm going to call the ambulance right before I beat the living shit out of you. Then, I'm going to take my dog right up your front steps and have him pee his little heart out right on your front porch. Then I'm going to pee my little heart out all the way down your front steps, so there.

Oh, and to the nice little lady smoking her cig'y on her bottom step? Yeah, I'm pretty sure smelling a drop of urine on the sidewalk is more dangerous than those cancer sticks you're snorting into your lungs. Yep, you totally got me on that one.

{Deep breath}

People, it's urine. And, it's on the sidewalk. Near the curb. It washes off when it rains. Adjust your meds. You'll be fine.

Sincerely,
The Bitch with the dog.

Dear John, (Adirondack Issue)

Finally, I have the time to post some pics from our impromptu vacation to Lake Placid. Sadly, I couldn't snag a shot of the gator... We took this trip in lieu of our Alaskan Cruise after we spent some time in Ohio for G's grandmother's funeral. It ended up being one of my favorite trips we've ever taken and left us very relaxed and well-rested upon it's conclusion. I think it showed me most of all how easily our little family can enjoy time together, and how little planning and expense is needed to do so. We always talk about how great this time period in our lives is, before we have children, with two great jobs, healthy families, and an awesome little mutt to travel with us where ever we wander. Though I feel this time period drawing to its end, I can't help but be excited for the next one and the next and the next.

We made Hunter the lookout because A: He's got the best hearing this side of Planet Earth, and B: we wanted to try to steal as much Mother Nature as we could fit in our fanny packs.

Mmmm, yummy lake water. He was actually seizing with absolute ecstasy over how much time he got to spend hiking, swimming, sprinting, and chasing tennis balls. I felt like Santa on Christmas morning. Look! Water! And Land! And Exercise! I'm the best Santa ever.

I have to give this tree street cred (I am from Brooklyn after all) for persistence. I may have thought when presented with this giant immovable, solid blob of stone that perhaps I would choose to grow in the other direction, say where there was only soft mulch in my path. But no, not this guy, he said fuck you to this rock and I salute him for it. You go tree, it's your birthday.

I'm sorry, how can you NOT want to eat him? I think we successfully ran the living daylights out of Sir Valiant Hunter the Obstinate on our trip North. After an entire day of running and running and running, Forrest Gump style, we'd come back to our room and set up obstacle courses with the hotel room furniture for him to run through and over and under. I'm an idiot for not taking video of him doing this because we laughed until we peed and kept laughing until the guests down below us called to complain about their ceiling leaking yellow fluid.

We took a 13 mile canoe trip down the Saranac River with no guide or other people anywhere in sight. It was glorious. For about a quarter mile we watched a bald eagle follow our winding path down the mountain on the river. I think he might have been sizing Hunter up for lunch, but don't tell him that, he was all man out there on the water that day. It was actually the first time he actually went swimming. We stopped to take a break on a little shore, and truth be told to exercise our right to pee in nature, and as we returned to the canoe and pushed off, he decided he wasn't ready to go back in the boat and leaped over the edge into about 2 feet of water. Only he didn't realize the length of his legs was not greater than the distance between the surface of the water and the bottom of the river. He quickly surmised this was very interesting indeed and with the grace of a drowning cat, floundered his way back to shore. The rest of the trip was spent desperately trying to keep him in the canoe.


My shot as Pocahontas.

We signed up for a 3 hour horse back riding trail ride but when we got to the stables there was no one in sight. After waiting and then searching for about a half hour I finally found someone who told me to go find someone else to take us. I found the other person and she had no idea we were there for a trail ride and she had other stuff to do. However, these girls underestimate my pig-headedness and I have always been obsessed with horses, the Saddle Club Series, and anything equine, so I told her we would wait. About this time in the adventure is when G decides he doesn't want to go anymore and that we should leave. But he too underestimates my stubbornility (yes I frequently exercise my right to combine and make new words that describe my meaning) and so I tell him to shut it, we're waiting. I am so glad we did, the trails were breathtaking and the leaves had just started to turn into their fall colors. I took lots of pics out there. Here is us at a peak. The orchestry of this one picture took at least 20 minutes of horse maneuvering.


The last leg of our trip took us to the Olympic Bobsled Tracks which were surprisingly enrapturing. The minute we got near the track I began to feel this deep respect for the athletes that train their entire lives for a few days of competition among the most elite people in their field. As we toured up the mountainside and the guide gave us back history I blocked him out imagining the hours of training, the huge amounts of money spent, the sacrifices to family and friends that these Olympians had made. From the top of the track you can see the entire Bobsled and Luge Courses, the Olympic Ski Jumps off to your right, and Whiteface Mountain, site of the downhill skiing events in the far distance. It's unreal.

I truly loved every minute of this trip and left sleepy little Mirror Lake feeling somewhat sad to be breaking up with it so soon. My affair with the Adirondacks over morning coffee had only just begun and already it was over. Infatuation is sometimes so fleeting, and that is the thrill of it. We left before I could get annoyed at Adirondack for leaving his wet towel hanging on the bedpost. Oh the perfection.

Fulfillment

I'm on my 8th Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee & Almonds nugget right now and loving my 27th year on this great & beautiful earth.

If only I had an endless supply of coffee...

Don't Be Mad. Come On, Lovely.

Listen, I'm sorry for the recent non-postage of the mundane happenings of my life but the problem, you see, is not my fault. I've been excruciatingly subjected to the return of Crazy Talkative Anti-American French Lady since last week, and it's not going well. Oh the problems she gets into with her Windows XP! Let me tell you, I'm just about... Yep, I'm definitely tallying the "how much incarceration time I would face by throwing her out the window" with "my own sanity and happiness" pro/con list at the present moment. Will keep you updated on the outcome.

Just in case you haven't picked out the perfect color angora sweater for me, my birthday's Thursday so chipchop. There have been mysterious packages arriving a la casa mia for the last few weeks that I have been strictly instructed I am not to open. Which had to be instructed to me strictly because anytime anything whatsoever arrives at our apartment that does not resemble a bill or junk mail, I tear it open immediately regardless of who's name is written on it. Even when the addressee is someone I don't even know. Whoopsy. Let's just tape that sucker up and it's as good as new! This week has been especially difficult because every one of the packages is a different shape, size, and consistency. It's assaulting my senses, and my senses are sensitive. All of this has helped me actually get excited about the big sha-bang this year, which surprises me because I am usually apathetic (let it be known that I Freudianly typed empathetic on accident, or was it?) around my birthday. But I really am empathetic to people who are apathetic about their birthdays, too.

Dear Little Lost Camera,
I think about you often. I wonder if your new owner treats you nice. Do they always put you back in your little black case when they're done using you? Do they give you enough time to automatic focus before they take a picture? Are you being charged enough? How is Mr. Memory Card? Tell him I miss him too. Don't worry, I'm keeping your charger and docking station at home ready for you if you ever decide to return to me. Daddy wants me to throw it out and move on, but I'll never give up searching for you. He's a turd who has an xbox that's 10 years old anyway, so don't worry about him. Enjoy that big, wide world out there, Kiddo.
Love,
Mom

Game Schmame.

I'm shitting you not, this was in my inbox this morning:

"Ahhh, married bliss... what could be better? Well, what if he never left his dirty socks on the floor? (Or, what if she stopped asking if her butt looked big?)
What if you could erase your beloved's annoying habits with the touch of a button? Now you can with The Nest's new game: Marriage Invaders. Zap away quirks and shoot down vices! (And put that toilet seat down for good!)"

~~~Warning, hostile comments to follow~~~

I'm sorry but whoever came up with this game should be shot right now. Marriage, the game? Who in their right mind, except maybe anyone who had taken a vow of celibacy, actually nevermind those people, they're not in their right mind. What married person would want to play a game in which the object is to make your spouse stop doing all of the annoying things that they do? That's called LIFE people. If it were as easy as shooting bullets out of paper airplanes every woman in America would be buying stock in paper companies, me first!

Directions: Insert Foot in Mouth

We're out to dinner with an old friend of my husband's from his Michigan football days last night and I'm having some cocktails, of course. We transition from the bar to our table and begin a large work-related conversation about the finance world that both my husband and the old friend are a part of but to me is in another galaxy far, far away. Mr. G is all, blah-blah finance blah and I'm totally zoned out, obviously. As I patiently wait for a lull in the blah-ing, I'm thinking up some magnetic question that I can hit the old friend with to impress him with my conversational prowess. Finally, the moment arrives while Mr. G stuffs a bit of bread in his mouth and for the first time since we'd sat down pauses to take a breath. I jump at the chance and start right in immediately:

"So Ben, I'm a little late to this conversation, what exactly do you do?"

Sorry Charlie, his name is Eric. Better luck conversating next time. Tune in, it's sure to be a doozy.

Mrs. Wilson

I can't tell you exactly what made me remember this just now, but I want us to know all about each other's individual histories so as to build this relationship on a solid foundation so I think I should share it with you today, k? When I was 5 years old my two best friends were my parent's next door neighbors Mary Lou and her husband Ralph. Mary Lou and Ralph were nothing short of the most awesome people I knew at that time in my life. As an example of how utterly amazing they were, Mary Lou always saved her cereal box toys for me when she opened a new box. She quickly earned the category of Angelic Superhero in my book after that. Her kid was grown up, like 20! So she always saved certain things just for me to cherish.

At the time I had approximately 34 brothers and sisters, so I usually got lost in the jumbly circusry that was my parents own home. But every time I went to Mary Lou and Ralph's it was like I was the only kid in the world. They were about 50-ish years old and Ralph worked as an electrician out of his home while Mary Lou planted a giant garden in their backyard every summer. She would always take me up and down the rows scooping out little holes for the seeds and covering them up delicately before sprinkling water on each little pile. I loved every minute of it. All summer we'd pick our red ripe tomatoes, slice them up with salt and pepper, and gobble them up still warm from the sun's rays. And in the fall we would harvest our beautiful green peppers and laugh at how big the zucchini and pumpkins had grown.

I loved to ride on the tractor with Ralph as he zipped around the backyard mowing the horse field. I would totally forget I didn't live there until darkness fell and my mom would yell out for me to get home from next door.

Every so often Ralph and Lou-Lou's son would drop in for a visit. Needless to say, this did not go over very well with me. They were my friends, and I didn't want to share my cereal box toys or tractor rides with anyone. This animosity absolutely delighted the son, Kevin, to no end. He lived to see me get so worked up every time he showed up. He took to teasing me about anything he could think of just to get me riled up. It was all in good fun, of course, but he and Ralph and Mary Lou would just laugh and laugh at my retorts.

One time he came home and yelled out to me, "Hey Little Lady!" This was not my idea of a proper greeting for someone as sophisticated as myself so I refused to answer him back. "Hey there, Little Lady," Kevin tried again. Still nothing from me. "Well, what's wrong with you?" he asked. "Nothing," I replied, "but my name is not 'Little Lady'. It's...It's Mrs. Wilson".

There! I sure showed him. He better treat me like a grown woman now that my name is Mrs. Wilson. Well, I didn't know a Mrs. Wilson. I've never known a Mrs. Wilson. She was a complete fabrication of my own unwillingness to be teased anymore. But all my plans and strategy crumpled before my eyes. The three of them turned to make eye contact with each other, and it started. They laughed like there was no tomorrow. Big whooping laughs with tears streaming down their faces. I stared in disbelief. Well, if they were going to be nasty then I was going home! And in a flurry of soil and dirty sneakers I stalked back to my own yard. To this day, Kevin still calls me Mrs. Wilson.

Why Are They Called 'Quaker' Oats Anyway?

Here's the problem: I don't have a microwave to use at work. Number of times this annoys me in any given week: 4,567.5. My other problem is that I share an office with Crazy Talkative Anti-American French Lady, but thankfully she is only here about twice a week. So to delve into the foundation of my absent microwave problem we must first visit my dieting habits. I admittedly have terrible diet and exercising habits. It's embarrassing actually. The longest I've gone recently sticking to a healthy diet is a whopping two weeks, look out. And the longest exercising spree lasted one week. Count it, one. However, today happens to be a day that I am trying to diet, and as if I didn't have enough obstacles in my way to doing it, the microwave is adding fuel to the bushfire.

My *potential* first dieting day was supposed to start with a bowl of nutritious, somewhat lacking in deliciousness, oatmeal. I brought my Giant Mr. Quaker Cylinder to work with me today with it's own little measuring cup, intent on my goal. After morning rounds, I retrieved/stole a paper bowl from the cafe and returned to my office to make breakfast. Appropriate measurements were made, water was added and I struck off in search of a nearby nuker. First stop, my girlfriend's office down the hall: no one there. Maybe I'll wait a bit and try again... 30 minutes later, knock knock: still no one there. Shit. Take elevator 12 floors to lobby to use microwave in Cafe, this would have worked perfectly if the cafe EVEN HAD A MICROWAVE. Cafes without microwaves should be shot. Destination Three: Cafeteria. Surely, you think, the cafe-freaking-teria would have a public microwave. No? Holy Sweet Mother of Mercy.

I'm running out of ideas at this point and have been carrying my mushy cold oatmeal water around the entire freaking hospital. I return to my floor and try the girlfriend's office one final time: no one home. I'm about to break into tears when I glance into another office filled with busy-looking people and spot it.

Hallelujah on the highest, a microwave. I gingerly step into the flow of office traffic and beg the first person I see to use their joy-machine. I'm now 1 minute and 30 seconds to heaven and I can't even think straight. I scurry back to my desk to eat my treasure only to realize I want nothing more than to celebrate my victory with a giant piece of chocolate cheesecake. This diet isn't going so well.

Never Forget Your Past

So let's click off the bullet points of why today is a terrific Monday, shall we?

* I have laryngitis.

* My dog bit a basset hound's ear yesterday at the kennel and made PUNCTURE HOLES.

* I left my camera at Panchero's Burrito's at 3am Sunday morning.

* I missed my stop on the subway this morning on my way to work.

* Did I mention I lost my camera? The one I take EVERYWHERE? The one with all the pictures on it from Friday, Saturday and Sunday morning? Okay, just checking.

However, I am trying to make the best of the situation. Reasons why my bullet points are kind of humorous to me:

A. When I try to talk it sounds like this, "Squeak. Squ-sque-squeak? Sque-squeak-squeaky."

B. Hunter is now the scariest, most ferocious 37 pounds of flesh on our block.

C. Nothing funny about losing the camera.

D. I missed my stop because I was reading this amazing new book I got at the library.

E. Still nothing funny about losing the camera.

F. (Bonus) The morning java people were extra nice this morning, and some guy held the door for me to catch the elevator on my way back to my office. Then he offered to push my floor number for me because I was carrying my coffee and oatmeal in both hands. Love you, Nice Elevator Man.

G. (Double Bonus) We had an awesome time reuniting with the world's best friends this weekend in Ann Arbor. Aside from Dev's hospital trip, it was thrillingly rejuvenating to be in the company of many truly wonderful people who care so much about each other. Highlights include: Dinner at Grizzly's, Flip cup at Connors (Caitlin you cheat), Tailgating with Papa's Punch, Killing Penn State, obviously - The Jug, Ray Charles, Hollow Man, Rick's, and playing with Devin on Sunday before our flight. I would show you the pictures but I LOST MY CAMERA. Sorry, I'll be more responsible next time.

* I sniped some pics from Super Stacey's Shutterfly Reel! Yay!

This was at Connor's during intermission of Flip Cup 2007.

Not sure who this guy in the checkered shirt is, I think he just happened to be in the right place at the right time...

There would have been many self portraits of Brent as Ray Charles if I had my camera back. But alas, the world may never know such awesomeness exists...

Hail to the Victors

First Michigan Football game of the season in tomorrow = Yahoo! I love the fall for lots of reasons:

a. I was born in October.

b. I love college football.

c. Halloween is flipping amazing and thanks to my college roommate Kara, I absolutely love decorating the apartment like a jack-o-lantern exploded it's holiday cheer all over everything.

d. I'm no longer sweating my balls off.

e. My down vest is the single most favorite item in my closet. And yes, she has emerged from her summer hiding vacuum-packed zip-lock bag (Don't tell me you don't LOVE those things).

f. Apple cider and pumpkin pie, cinnamon candles and cozy blankets.

Yes, if I could wrap up Fall in shiny paper, tie a bow on it, and give it to all the nasty, grumpy people of New York, I could possibly run for Mayor. OF AMAZINGNESSTOWN.

Hopping a jet plane to Detroit Rock City today after work to meet up with Hutch and Spy and take off for Ann Arbor - I can't stand myself, I'm so excited. I'm taking: my camera, presents, my Michigan jersey, and my tenacity baby, yeah that's right. I'm sure I'll bring back: dirty clothes, tons of inappropriate pictures of my husband and my friends, a hangover, and someone's left shoe. (Hopefully.)

Detective Milton Bradley

Definitely saw two undercover cops bust a group of boys this morning as I was exiting the subway stop at work. It was less like the nail biting Law & Order episode I watched last night and more like playing Guess Who? at a sleepover when I was 8 years old. Unfortunately for the coppers, none of them had red hair.

So Fleeting, Our Time Here

The world lost a beautiful soul on September 7th, Anna Mae Bowman. She was a fiery, devoted wife; an astute and adoring mother; and an ever-present and truly dedicated grandmother. She left her home town to live alone in New Jersey while her husband and one true love fought in the Vietnam War. He returned safely and they moved back home to Greenville where she dedicated her life to raising her two children. She buried her husband in 1966 and lived a spirited and amazing life for 41 more years, never once relinquishing the beloved title of his wife. She went to nursing school and achieved her diploma at the age of 56. Her career was dedicated to the care of the elderly and needy at the Brethren Home. She attended every sporting event her grandchildren ever had and spoke to them about her love of God and commitment to her faith. They were truly the light of her life and she never let them forget it. Everyone in her church congregation loved her and she them as well. She lives on in the hearts and minds of her family and friends as the epitome of laughter, devotion, faith, forgiveness, inspiration, determination, and love.

I'll miss you, Grandma Bowman, but I'll think of you often.

Labored Day

You know how when it's Labor Day and you're feeling all, "I better go out on a boat today, it's Labor Day"? And then you go out on said boat and that's not enough thrill seeking for you so you up the ante with, "I think I want to go tubing!"? So you're dangling precariously far behind a 1,000 mph speedboat hoping to not play chicken with another speedboat out on the lake, and your brother-in-law who is now cut out of your will and will never be allowed to see your children crosses paths with a speedboat to take you over insanely high waves? Then remember what happened next? No? Well, EITHER DO I. I skipped right to the part where I'm in traction and cannot move one single solitary muscle in my entire body. THANKS TODD. Love you bunches and bunches.

Random News Friday

I'm riding pretty high today due to two wonderful events:
1. I got my new cell phone battery FINALLY. (Yes, no more "Hi-nu-uh-shut-up-gotta-go-just-text-me" calls to my friends, compliments of EBay.)
~and~
2. I'm going home to Columbus tomorrow to see the Crazies, I mean... The family. (Double yes, and I get to meet Logan, my new nephew, for the first time.)

So I'm basically rocking on with my bad self right now, watching the minute hand on my computer's digital clock tick by.

Also: My dog got attacked on our walk home from the craft store last night by some giant, snarling, brown beast that tried to eat us. That was pretty not cool. I finally got the beast in a choke hold while simultaneously elbow dropping his owner, just in time to see Hunter limping around on his right front leg. I admit I am extremely embarrassingly attached to my dog, but for real? Playing ball with your dumb dog off his leash, in the street, at 6 o'clock on a weeknight is not exactly advisable - Dipwad. Dipwad gave me her phone number and address and told me how sorry she was all of one time. Then she said, "They just scared each other, I think. Hehehe." WTF? No, I refuse you, Dipwad, you have been refused forever and ever, Amen. Now go play in the street, just leave your dog inside.
Sidebar: Hunter is okay, he's a tough dude. You know, raised on the inner city streets and all.

Morning Java People

I think this society would function so much happier if everyone were as nice as the people at my morning coffee station. I swear, they are the hap hap happiest people this side of the nuthouse and they leave every customer with a smile in the morning. Maybe it's because they realize they are dealing in a product that signifies a daily cocaine dose to most people (ie Me), or maybe it's just because they like their jobs. It is such an endearing moment when they ask how I'm doing and what's new. Crumbles my black little soul. Now pass me the needle.

I've also brought this up to Mr. G who is equally enamored with his Coffee Cart Guy. His CCG knows when he's running late and will often tell him to "get a move on!". He always has his coffee hot and fixed just the way he likes it every morning, without fail. It's almost as if CCG is there specifically to sell only Mr. G his coffee and if that doesn't happen, the universe will totally be screwed up the rest of the day. (Quite possibly.)

These are situations that were completely foreign to both of us prior to moving to the Big City. In the Midwest, you never bump into people on your daily commute, the same person never serves you coffee two days in a row, and conversations with strangers are completely avoided if at all possible. Whereas here, I kinda feel like we're all a bunch of neighbors. Isn't NY funny that way? And don't even get me started about Brooklyn. It's too early to tear up on a Thursday, and I just put my mascara on.

Note: I rarely feel this positive about the city so I thought I better go with it today.

My Kindergarten Teacher Lied to Me

Why do they call compromising an art? Maybe a sport, or torture, or a fight to the death, but I have extreme problems with the distinction "art". There is nothing artsy about compromising. It's really more of a quantitative competition, inversely proportionate, if you will. Example: whoever does the least compromising is the winner. Likewise, whoever does the most compromising is the loser. And, I would offer that the whole "everybody wins" mentality of compromising is just an adage that the lesser of the compromisers says to his/her opponent to placate him/her. In reality, "everybody loses" is a better assessment.

Also, please explain this b.s. about "let's agree to disagree". If you agree that you both have a different position on something and you both think the other one is wrong, but you don't change your opinion, then you don't agree. Let's use a real life example, k?

Sally says animal A is a chicken.
Stew says animal A is a unicorn.

Aside from Stew's mental problems, how do they decide who's right? Well, it's important to Sally to educate Stew on what a chicken looks like so that he doesn't spend the rest of his life in ignorance, looking like a fool every time they go to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Stew wants Sally to trust his judgement and not question his decisions. Sally says chicken, Stew says unicorn. Sally explains that since the animal has wings, feathers, a beak, lays eggs, and tastes good dipped in hot sauce it must be a chicken. Stew says, no Sally, trust me, it's a unicorn, why are you doubting me, what's your problem, are you pms-ing? And scene.

You cannot possibly say in this situation, "let's agree to disagree." You must swiftly and forcibly kick Stew in the balls, and beat him into submission. This is not art to most people. Though many people in the Village might think otherwise, they are not the majority. And I'm pretty sure people aren't lining up to ask the Village People (see? how I did that? sneaky.) for relationship advice, but maybe that's just me.

The moral of my parable is that I'm right and you're wrong. Now let's go get some hot wings.

Jeopardy

Answer: 3:38am.

Question: What time did I stumble home last night because I'm an idiot seeking moronism?

Also, I can cross another thing of my list of mistakes to make in my lifetime:
'Pig out on mini quiches at 3am' - D.O.N.E.

Comments I Swear the Dog Understands

1. So help me God, Hunter.

2. You're hurting mommy's feelings.

3. I will pack your ass up and send you back to Oklahoma.

4. We should have gotten a cat.

5. Daddy's going to take you out.

6. Times are tough, Buddy. Start earning a living if you want to eat.

7. Don't be mad at me, Daddy's responsible for your missing balls.

8. After this commercial.

Sighting

I had another sighting last Monday and totally forgot to tell you about it! I'm sorry, I will never lie to you again. Don't be mad, I'll bring you flowers tomorrow.

I saw Ty Pennington on my way to the gym! Bonus: I was sporting the "sexy" work outfit that I rarely wear but hope that on a day when I do I randomly get asked to act in a movie starring myself. That one. And though no casting directors came my way that Monday, Ty Pennington sure as hell did. P.S. I don't really think he's homosexual, as does the rest of the population, but I definitely do think he's sizzlin'. Rowr.

He noticed me, but probably saw the gigantic rock on my finger and thought to himself, "Ty, maybe you better work a little bit harder and make a ton more money and save Darfur before you even think about getting a girl like that." Yep, that's how it totally went down. That's why he didn't stop me to ask if my legs were tired... From running through his mind all day.

Now I work out at that gym every damn day. Better believe it.

Tag!

So I cannot believe I haven't tagged it yet but this adorable blip of fantasticness is my oldest sister's website. My best friend's husband, who is also one of my best friends, who is also my sister's brother-in-law, (how's that for 6 degrees of separation) is a wicked web designer and he made it for them. They are five times the fun and five times the hilariousness, so I am in the process of making my sister blog about their daily doses because, I shit you not, the things that come out of their mouths will BLOW YOU AWAY. No lie.

I think one of the best stories to illustrate this point took place at my parent's house about 4 years ago when the kids were 3. My nephew, Alex, is my godson and the most fearless (and wild) of all of them. He could literally jump off a moving vehicle, army roll 15 feet, swim across a pond, save a baby seal, and still tell you a 35 minute story at the end*. * End proud godmother rant. I have also alluded to the insane maniac that is my dog here. Needless to say, the two of them have a peas-in-the-proverbial pod thing going on. Background of the story set up enough yet? Anyway, Alex is chasing Hunter around the living room while the adults attempt to carry on conversations the way we used to before our lives were taken over by children, and they stop for a rest. All of the other children had given up catching Hunter hours before and moved on to play with inanimate objects that are much easier to catch. Alex sits down next to a panting Hunter and SWEAR to God says, "Hunter, you're my kinda' guy."

Kid's sharp as a whip, just like his godmomma.

Life Size Jitters

Often I come up with these ideas about what I really want to do with my life. And then I think about it for a few weeks, talk to some friends about it, and eventually forget all about it and do nothing. But some day, I really want to do something daring with my career and my life. I just have to find the right thing to do. I've seen it happen before to people I know. They quit a good job, albeit probably boring, to venture out into the unknown, only to find their idea wasn't novel, or a huge success. Then they scramble to find work that will pay the bills and they're right back where they started. Now granted there are a few who's whim actually pays off, and those are the ones you read about on the internet or in the newspaper. But I'm sure there are many, many more who failed.

So, do I do it? Do I go to the bank, take out a huge sum of money in loans, rent out a little space, and try to sell my idea? How bad can it get? Would the satisfaction of having someone buy my idea be as thrilling as I think it would be? Could I at least make ends meet? What should I do before starting it? Me thinks I feel the spreading excitement of newness budding in my aura. It kind of feels like the first day of school jitters. And this is only with the pre-beginning stages of this new concept forming.

What do you think, Internet, should I go for it? Will my advanced education level pay off? I mean, I think somewhere along the line I must have taken a class in "Entrepreneurship for Idiots", no? Oh yeah, that's right. I didn't so much care for the "Applicable to Life" classes they were offering in college. To busy with Horsemanship 100 and 200. But not even that, when I was in college, (I say that like it was a long time ago, not 4 years ago) they weren't encouraging people to run with their idea that just maybe was a little bit better than someone else's, but here, let me show you how to find out. No one ever stood up in front of one of my classes and spoke about honing your experience into invention. It's kind of pathetic really. All we were taught was how to do it just like everybody else, assembly line style.

It's not a new idea, I just think I could do it better than other people, is all. What do you say? The old college try thing going to work here, maybe? Hopefully?

I think I need to go to the Library.

Welcome Little One

Here is my new nephew, Logan! HI LOGAN! Quit, quit right now. I'm dieing and my diagnosis is: Sickness of the Cute.

The Losing of the Purse, Part Deux

This was about 3 years ago in Chicago. I took a break from the glorious excitement of Pittsburgh to travel to visit my friends in the Windy City for the weekend. I was staying with my dear friend Amanda whom I've known since freshman year in college at the University of Dayton. To say we spent many, many waking (and passed out) moments together that year would be an understatement. On with the show, I arrived at her extremely cute apartment and immediately she had a plethora of festivities on the agenda, I love this girl. We grabbed dinner and then headed to a 80's cover rock band concert for the evening. So perfect. 7 drinks into the evening, I decide to visit the ladies room. After successfully completing my tasks, I begin the long journey back to Amanda at the front of the stage (uh, of course) which took me a good 20 minutes. Being the quickest lightning thinking drunk I've ever met, Amanda notices I am without my purse. What did I do with it, she asks? Huh? Wha? Oh shit.

I beeline it (for the next 20 minutes) back to what I thought was the bathroom, but actually was a totally different bathroom and went into the wrong stall in the wrong bathroom to boot, to look for my long-gone Coach purse. I won't keep you in suspense. It wasn't there? Bullshit, you say? The hell it wasn't? Oh but you doubt my abilities to thwart my own good times. So I panic hysterically, of course, and try to call Amanda from the bathroom because I was smart enough to keep my cell phone in my pocket back then. But the band was so freaking loud that I couldn't hear anything so I walk outside to call her, but hello, she's still inside with the loud band.

So coincidentally, I remember that I have the power to ruin two different people's perfectly good evenings by calling Mr. G. Because as chance would have it, he was in Chicago as well for his friend's Bachelor party. Ring, ring. Hi! It's your idiot fiance calling, do you know how often this is going to happen once we're married? Do you have any idea? No? Well, let me tell you then, A LOT. So he leaves his friends to come pick me up in a cab at the bar and take me back to his hotel room so I can call all of the credit card companies and banks etc that I had previously done business with to cancel said business before said business starts making 1-900 calls to Cuba and importing Asian White Leopards on my tab.

The next day is spent trying to figure out how to get me on the plane back to Pittsburgh, with no id and the only back-up id in Columbus where my parents are and who I absolutely cannot call because then I would have to explain the situation and I am 24 years old, by god, I shouldn't have to remind my parents that I've grown up into an idiot AGAIN. Randomly, throughout the day I've been trying to find a number to the bar where we had seen the band the night before through various Yellow Pages and 411 calls. Eventually, I get the number and begin calling it every few minutes but no one ever answers. Of course. After Amanda and I leave the boys to be on there merry way, we decide we better stop for some drinks to help the situation. As we're heading towards a local watering hole, she mentions we're close to the bar where I lost the damn purse, maybe we should stop by, you know, just to check.

People, I jest you not, I realize I have the ying and the yang to this "luck" thing in the bag. At times I have the certifiably and painfully worst luck, and at times I have the God-has-reached-down-from-Heaven-in-pity-of-my-stupidity good luck. We walk into the bar, and I'm all shy and stupid feeling to the hosts. Did you happen to have a purse turned in last night that was found in a bathroom? (Cringe for the blow). The two people exchange a knowing glance that says, yeah - you were that girl, weren't ya? Then one says, what color was it? A small seed of hope has sprouted, the light begins to filter into the bar one golden ray at a time. It's pink and maroon, it's Coach, I fumble out all at once. He says probably not. The sunlight is gone, the clouds are rumbling and billowing in the wind. Let me just check though, then he turns to go into the office and the sunlight is pouring in now, angels start tuning their voices in the heavens. I wait. I wait. I'm not breathing. And Jesus Christ himself walked out of that office with my purse, my FULL AND COMPLETE purse in his hands. Holy Cannoli, JC. You really had me going there for a minute. I said.

True Story.

Chop Suey is Fun

I did it. I finally released myself from the emotional chains of my hair, and moved on. It was hard to let go, it always is. But in the end I realized as the cut-hair-sweeper-upper man was brushing the last strands of my innocence into the dust pan, that I was being irrational to leave my hair so long. This world needs change and people who can accept it, brush it off, and move the hell on. So I'm moving on, Long Professional Harpist Hair. Find someone else to torment with your lengthfulness and frizziness.

Picture courtesy of: Mr. G (after several re-shoots and lighting malfunctions. During which he decided taking pictures of his hairy legs was more enticing than my new haircut.)

FYI Internet: With my new haircut, I believe I will be capable of living in this INSANITY HAVEN that is New York City a little longer. Also, I may be able to leap small buildings in a single bound, but we'll have to wait till 5 o'clock to find that one out.

And if you're wondering why I didn't put any make-up on for the "shoot", you can suck it.

I'm Sorry, Did You Say TENANT RIGHTS LAWSUIT?

I have a crazy, crazy landlady. Her name is Sally I-Love-to-Overreact-to-Complaints Johnson. Her main goal in life is to cry at her tenants when they call her about miscellaneous maintenance issues. Sally is working hard to become the very best cry-at-tenant landlady there ever was. I feel it my obligation to assist her in her endeavors, because I'm a closet feminist who thinks all elderly women should take up a second career late in life. Who's with me?

Let's start oh, 5 months back, shall we? That would make it March, which was the month I decided I had had enough of the troops of GIGANTIC child-eating "Waterbugs" (we all know what that cozy little word means) parading around my apartment, and so I put in a friendly call to Sally. Needless to say, Sally was not emotionally stable enough at that time to deal with the Waterbug Issue. She did, however, feel comfortable enough to expound on the depths with which I was forcing her spirit, by inquiring if there was an exterminator whom she knew of who I could call about our little infestation problem. Far.Be.It for me to assume that a landlord or lady (read: crazy lady) is responsible for keeping giant cockroaches from taking over the apartment building where her tenants are paying kajillions of dollars to live in BUG INFESTATION FREE. *Editor's note: Kajillions is not a word, as per my spell check, but gazillions sure is.

Maybe there are woes of the money-grubbing apartment owner lifestyle that I am not aware of. If so, please share them with me, because not having enough free time in between counting the piles of money you have painfully extracted from your tenants does not sound like it warrants a depressive episode on a daily basis to me. ! After Sally, begrudgingly gave me the information for the exterminator, she slipped in a nice, "Oh by the way, you've gone and caused me a small coronary infarct with your nagging naggingness, thank you very much," closing comment. Since I pride myself on using Pavlov's theory on anyone and everyone I come in contact with on a daily basis, I start buttering up old Sally over the coming weeks with notes and cookies, even visits from our pup which everyone loves!

So then May comes around, and I notice the actual movable space in my bathroom has diminished to about 8 square inches due to the impressive amount of Black Mold growing on the ceiling and walls of the shower that has no outside vent. Eh-hem, Sally? I wouldn't even have mentioned it, but there were painters traipsing up and down the hallway stairs re-painting from the smoke damage that I will have to use at least four posts to tell you the story about THAT one, but just know there was smoke damage that needed painting over in the hallway for a year before it actually got done. Sorry for the side-tangent, mid-tangent there. Anyway, the painters were so nice and right there ripe for the picking to ask about our bathroom situation/disaster. After one of the guys took a look at our shower, he said he'd be happy to fix it in a jiffy if it was okay with Sally. That night I called Sally and once again unaware of the precariousness of her emotional stability, kindly tried to rip her heart out by inquiring about the paint job. Again with the wailing and the sobbing and the tearing to shreds my dark, black soul. But eventually, after she had decided I had endured enough, she gave in and huffily conceded to tell the painters they could re-paint my mold infestation. (Wiping sweat from brow.)

May = Me spotting what I think is a mouse fece in the dog's bowl, and flipping out for the millionth time since we moved to this beloved little city a year and a half ago. Call Sal, she flips out in turn, I flip out again, Mr. G loses half of his hair. Exterminator comes back, and Sally says that's it, she's sick of being bothered by me and my home-care issues. Dear Sally, how I want to see you treated with heavy medication and possibly shock therapy.

Which brings us to June-July-now August, because I am too afraid of my 85 year old landlady to even ask her about what the hell is wrong with our air conditioner and is it supposed to be completely still as a ghost when plugged in and turned to the ON position? Is this some kind of new invention that is designed specifically to not give any indication that it works while it is in fact in working order? I'm thinking no, because it's hotter than 12 Lesbian Whores in Church in my apartment right now, despite the mute air conditioning units in two windows. I finally decided that I'd had enough, and bought a damn air conditioner that I then had to pay 40 bucks to get delivered to the apartment because that's what you have to do when you live in a city as big as this one with no car because the car insurance people and the street cleaning police are in conspiracy to steal all of your money and fly to Tahiti together. God Bless America.

Destination: Forever

After dealing with the blood, sweat, and tears that is planning a wedding, Mr. G and I were more than ready for the sweet victory of the honeymoon. We took off from Columbus on Monday morning following our wedding and flew through Newark, NJ to San Juan, PR and then on to Antigua.

After a grueling bus ride through pitch black, no-man's land we arrived at our Sandals Resort and dropped our bags. Immediately, a wonderfully friendly resort person introduced himself, greeted us with chilled glasses of champagne, and told us to have a seat in the huge overstuffed chairs in the indoor/outdoor lobby. Perfection.

He checked us in, filed all the necessary paperwork, and showed us through the jungle and pool areas to our room. I remember feeling in awe of the beauty that surrounded us. It was difficult to take it all in. There were gorgeous and smooth terracotta tiled paths leading us through towering palms and chest-high exotic flower bushes. We could hear the sounds of the waves crashing on the beaches nearby, and feel the breeze off the ocean stirring our hair. One of the many pools in the resort flanked our room, and was lit softly from below, empty and beckoning us in with it's coolness.

We entered our room and immediately noticed the huge four poster mahogany bed in the center covered with mounds of soft, cream pillows. A great gold and mahogany fan spun lazily overhead, creating a nice breeze. There was a large, white tiled bathroom and an adjacent mirrored dressing area. Our room had a front entrance onto a common outdoor hallway, everything here was outdoor, and another back entrance to our own private deck. We were on the first floor of two floors and so could step right off our deck and onto the pool path. Though you couldn't see the pool just a few feet away, because the foliage was so encompassing of the walkway.

The staff and support people of the resort were so friendly, I felt like they were in on a big secret with us. They would stop what they were doing to ask us if we would like our picture taken, or did we need anything? I felt so emotional coming off such the incredible high that was our wedding that I immediately felt as if the staff were family, and I wanted to share my vacation with them. Each day we would return to our room after lounging at the pool or on the beach to find it in pristine condition, everything put in it's proper place, with flowers by the bedside.

And even more special than the sand, the sun, the people, and the food was that complete relaxation that only occurs so many times in your life. Being in such a beautiful setting with the man I had just vowed to spend the rest of my life with, enjoying every minute of every day, that was the Honeymoon. Making each other laugh over the impish details of the wedding, and realizing how wrapped up in it we undoubtedly got, made us appreciate each other's sense of humor that much more. Rising together, eating together, walking, swimming, sleeping together made every day feel like a commitment to each other. No interruptions, not one soul who even recognized us. We promised each other everything from the smallest of possibilities to the most outlandish plots ever dreamed up.

After spending so much time there, it was difficult to leave it.

I understand why people return to their honeymoon destinations for years and years to follow. And it has nothing to do with the resort.

Quit...

I could eat this with a spoon, I swear I could.

For lack of creative energy today, because it's late, and I am not capable of working 8.5 hours straight (or gay for that matter), I'll just tell you a little about the psychological problems of my dog lately. Kay? So when Hunter came into our lives as an 11 week old French Brittany pup, he was A.DOR.A.BLE. But let's face it, the only puppies that aren't adorable are the ones Brittany and Paris are constantly trying to manipulate into fashionable baggage. I digress. He was very cute and very, very energetic. And. We got him in November, in Pittsburgh of all places. The people of Pittsburgh know what I'm talking about when I say, kill me now if I have to live through another winter in the Steel City, okay slightly exaggerated, but you get my drift (pun intended). Tons of snow and freezing cold winds are not the ideal setting for potty training a stubborn, active dog with ADD. This is not relevant to my story, FYI.

Okay, so we move 6 times in the next year that we have him, not kidding, and I feel like he's adapting quite well to the crap we've put him through. Now he'll be 3 years old in September and for the last month, he has become possessed by some insanely aggressive, Dr. Jekyll-type character who LOVES to eat small dogs. Mainly, the one pictured above, who our great friends Carter and Erica brought over to our house on the 4th of July to "play" with Hunter (The Small-Dog-Eating Lord of the Underworld). I have to admit that a few weeks earlier we got a small clue that something was going on because the Day Care we take him to (yes, we take him to a day care, shut up I don't have kids yet) the Day Care manager Jenny informed me that she had to give him time-outs for playing too rough, aka attacking the living shit, with another dog. But I couldn't really believe her because A. Hunter is precious and B. I know those beady-eyed little dogs at Day Care secretly have it out for the cool kid in class.

Apparently, Jenny was right. Erica and Carter got Henry (pic'd above) a few weeks ago and I am totally obsessed with dogs so I've been begging them to come over forever. Before they arrived Mr. G intentionally ran the daylights out of Hunter at the dog run so that he would be nice and obedient for our 'play date'. When Henry arrived, we took Hunter outside to meet him formally on neutral turf and then once they seemed to be okay with each other, ie the smelling of the butts was over, we brought both inside. Everything was going along swimmingly and Erica and I were chatting on the couch, next to the dog bed that Hunter and Henry were sharing. All of the sudden Hunter freaked out on the pup and pinned him down, barking, and acting like a total freak of nature. Poor Henry howled his little pants off for at least 10 minutes while Mr. G hung Hunter out the window by his eyelids.

I felt like puking my guac and chips up for the next 4 hours. I don't know what the hell is wrong with the canine, but I only get a week a month to be a bitch so his time is up! There isn't room for both of us in this tiny apartment during our 'special time' of the month.

The Losing of the Purse, Part 1

The losing of the purses, I have decided, is a metaphor for how I like to deal with commitment. Not relationship commitment so much as employment commitment or geographical commitment. Exhibit A: The very first purse I lost was after my sophomore year at Bowling Green when I began to feel like this whole college thing was truly overrated. It was a small, square, rattan number with a very annoying pineapple appliqued into one side of the rattan. Witness fashion perfection. We'll hitherforetoafter refer to this little ditty as 'The Pineapple'.

It was mid-summer before my first year of nursing school, and I was living in Glorious Toledo Ohio, the venerable "Armpit of America". Most of my friends lived in BG and were working joke-jobs for the summer and going out every night, while I was spending 40 hours a week doing clinicals and homework. Yum. Finally, I decided to break out of my anti-social, anti-fun shell and head down to BG for a night of binge drinking and dancing. Thursday night, I arrived at the group house where most of my friends were living for the summer and we proceeded to have a great time grilling out, drinking, and acting like idiots. All the while, carrying my hot little Pineapple around with me.

Some time around 12am, when we decided we were bored with each other and needed to hit the dance floor, we headed to Uptown (both bar and dance mecca for the completely inebriated). I'm basically three sheets at this point and made the all intelligent choice to have the two nice gentlemen stationed beside the bar watch my Pineapple while I went off to strut my Micheal Jackson imitation dance moves. THREE HOURS LATER, du-duh-duh, (we can see where this is going) I return to the bar in search of my Pineapple. What? What's that? Those two nice gentlemen didn't decide to fore-go their night of entertainment in order to safely guardian over my purse? The hell you say. Guar.an.teed those guys hit the door the second I turned my back, holding my Pineapple hostage.

So, now I start to sober up. I'm thinking about the items in the bag: car keys, house keys, wallet, cell phone, money, gift certificates, social security card, etc. I have no idea how to get back to Toledo or even just move my car so the guy parked in front of me in the driveway can get out. Yikes. Friday morning, still no Pineapple, I make the dreaded phone call to my parents begging them to overnight my spare set of keys from Columbus. (Because that is the only logical place for my spare set of keys to be, considering I let perfect strangers watch my purse at 12am in a bar.) My mom reassures me that yes, it will be okay and yes, I am the idiot I think I am. Then I drag all of my friends back to the bar to look in every trash can, ask every wino, and leave no stone unturned trying to locate the purse. Why these people are still my friends I have no idea, because we were hungover as hell and it was 100 degrees outside. Yes!

Still no Pineapple, I wait for my keys to arrive the next day and return to Toledo. I'm a walking zombie for two days, worrying about all of my things and re-ordering important identification documents. All the while I'm thinking in the back of my head, (the part I was not using when I propositioned the boys at the bar) that some one would find my purse and send it back to its rightful owner. Boy am I naive. The dread sets in and I give up hope, congratulations cruel world you won. And yet...

Wait, what's that I hear? Naivety winning in the end? Get this, on Monday afternoon I return to the apartment after class and the little red light is blinking on our answering machine (ah memories, remember answering machines?). I retrieve the message and it's this little Asian-accented man babbling about the post office and blue mailbox and A PINEAPPLE PURSE. I immediately go deaf and dumb, stuttering thanks and praise to my new best Asian friend. We made arrangements to meet at the post office in an hour and I hung up, completely in awe of the situation. I quickly tell my two roommates who were standing by watching the soap opera unfold in disbelief and we're all jumping up and down in the kitchen praising Allah and Jesus and Tom Cruise.

Then I stop. I had just made a crushing revelation and my heart sank into the pits of despair, yet again. Cruel World = 2, Me = 0. This had to be a joke, because during the crying and the wringing of the hands and the blood letting of Saturday, I had made the comment to my friend Sara (the epitome of a best friend and also the greatest and most heinous joke player known to man) that once I saw on Oprah how people find things other people have lost all the time and drop the items in blue mailboxes because they know the postal people will return them to their rightful owners. That little b.i.o.t.c.h just had some guy call me, pretending to be a mailman, and fed me that lie so that they can all gather around a beer cooler in the post office parking lot, waiting for me to come flying in there expecting my Pineapple! I was furyocious. (New word.) I immediately call Sara, and start yelling at her that the joke's over and I know her little tricks and we're broken up best friends now. Only she has no idea what I'm ranting about and I finally realize it's true. The Pineapple is back!

(Wow this is the longest post I've ever written.)

So I'll be brief. Ha. I fly down to BG, go straight to the post office, and am literally crawling out of my skin before I see my new Asian friend behind the counter. I ransack him and explain that I am the Pineapple owner and he leaves to retrieve my treasure. As I watch him walk back to the counter the bag comes into view. I hate what that stupid purse just put me through but I have never been so happy to see a Pineapple in my whole life. Everything was in the purse. The phone, the keys, even the gift certificates, but there was no cash (which may be because I had spent it all ordering Buttery Nipples before leaving the purse with the thieves at the bar).

True Story.

Sign the Petition ~ Save Carroll Gardens!

Since this ridiculous development makes my blood boil more than the heat in my office, I have to tag the story of the atrocious building being constructed in my neighborhood. Please take a moment to sign the petition to ban construction on any buildings higher than 50 feet, which is the height of all of the brownstones in our neighborhood. It would truly ruin the atmosphere and beauty of our serene 'little village'.

Thank you.

E.A.S.

Dear Elbow Lady on the A Express Train This Morning,

I understand that you may have had a rough morning. I, myself, have had many, many, many rough mornings since taking up residence in this Great and Holy city. However, never have I thought it appropriate to stab someone on my morning commute with not one, but both of my elbows in a flurry of skin and bone. But you, Elbow Lady, were not willing to overlook one more subway personal space slight on July 17th, 2007. Oh no, you looked me straight in the eye, after I unknowingly and innocently brushed your arm with my work bag, and gutted me with your elbows while attempting with all your might to make me shrivel up and die from your glare.

Don't get me wrong, in some ways I value your personal space and politeness stance. There have been times when I too have felt the need to strike out at all that is unfair in this world by attacking the person blocking my way to the exit doors. That being said, I have to ask you, Elbow Lady, what if we all decided to wreak havoc with our body parts on unsuspecting passengers in mass transit systems all across the world every morning? Think of the horror. Add to that the overall stench that is ingrained so deep into the bowels of this city that my nasal passages are forever scarred and may never smell the sweetness of a fresh baked cookie ever again, and you tell me we need more violence in our subways. Well? WELL!

Therefore, as my part, I will overlook today's unfortunate experience. But so help me Lord, Elbows, if I ever see you again on any form of public transportation, and if when I see you, you commit some itsy, bitsy impoliteness to anyone around you, trust that I will fly at you like furious vengeance until you beg for mercy from a crumpled heap underneath my feet. This is only fair, and the karma fairies have taken notice this day. So be ye forewarned, I have your number and I'm not afraid to use it.

XOXO,
E.A.S. (Elbow Attack Survivor)

Oh, No You Di'nt

I'm not even sure where to start this little dity of a tale here. Okay, (revving up for monster story telling, hold onto your undies), so a few months ago my darling, forgetful, anti-detail oriented husband got a text message from a college buddy, let's call him Sam, asking for our address. But being the Procrastination King of the East Coast doesn't come right up and knock on your door, oh no. That shit is earned. So my husband doesn't reply to Sam's text message and all's well that ends well. I wish. A few weeks later, our other college friends start making plans to attend the wedding of Sam and his fiance in Michigan. Only we aren't planning anything because someone didn't reply to Sam's text message. (Gaining some momentum here).

Cut to a few weeks later, specifically two weeks before the Glorious Wedding, and the same someone I was referring to earlier gives our old buddy Sam a call and basically Invites Himself To The Wedding that is two weeks away (insert gasp now). Oh yes he did. Only he didn't just Invite Himself, oh no, he roped me into this diabolical plan, too. And! He went ahead and bought the plane tickets from NY to Michigan that same day and all of the sudden I'm stuck in this ill-mannered, tasteless, offensive whirlwind on the high road to hell.

So thinking quickly, I automatically search the internet for their bridal registry and send off a semi-expensive gift with the card reading, "Can't wait to see you at the wedding!" - hint, hint. Ready or not, here we come! Then I check for a wedding webpage, check. Scroll over to the guestbook and quickly jot a note to Sam and his fiance, "Thank you for remembering us on your special day!" - HINT, HINT. I don't really know what I was thinking, only that I had to do something, anything that might lessen the blow of us showing up to crash a wedding in less than two weeks.

Friends, it was inevitable. We pile into the limo on the day of the wedding with all of our friends. We head to the church where we obediently sit on the groom's side and give witness to a beautiful wedding. We hop back in the limo to travel to the reception. We arrive and make our way to the place card table. And do you know what? NO PLACE CARD WITH OUR NAMES ON IT. (Insert cringe and face reddening now.) I'm standing there scanning, scanning, re-scanning but magically, no card appears out of thin air with our names on it. Our friends are all picking up their place cards, as we stand there with what could only be described as Shit-eating Faces on, awaiting our death sentences.

The poor lady at the card table, surmising what has happened off-handedly mentions there might be extra seats at Table 30. While she was really thinking, "These inconsiderate heels are getting what they deserve!" Fantastic. So as we scurry over to Table 30, I resign myself to kill my husband at the first available moment/break in the music. The rest of the evening is spent staring at the bottom of empty drink glasses and repeating over and over to myself that this is not happening. I also had to avoid the bride and groom like the plague in the fear that we might be called upon as the uninvited guests who ruined the party. Super.

Item number 43 on my list of Things To Do Before I Die: Crash Wedding = CHECK!

At least we look good.