Written Permission

T speaks: "I thought 'gestate' was what a Southern boy said after a meal."

2012-02-09T10:15:00.005-05:00

“Lawdy, Lawdy, Miss Bunny. I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies.”

Seriously, no stork?

So Shannon’s pregnant, you got that much, and it’s all magical, blah, blah, blah. But there’s a not so magical side to it as well. It’s the actual childbirth. You know how they say people don’t want to see how sausage is made? I’ve watched those videos and Jimmy Dean can be found on my breakfast plate every weekend. I’ve now been privy to birthing videos, thank you Science Channel. The Exorcist is no longer my scariest movie to watch; I laugh at it now.

I thought I had dutifully prepared myself for this by watching Mr. Mom 17 times and thought parenthood would be a comically satisfying experience, much like Michael Keaton’s performance. But they skipped the whole horrifying genesis of their wonderful family romps, the actual passage of a slimy, bluish, reddish, let’s say creature, through an obviously pained woman’s birth canal. And that’s NOT all. Seemingly needed body parts and other liquids also follow acting as the parsley and au jus sauce in our freshly made, Frankensteinian main course.

Apparently being a baby is akin to being a stuntman because the freshly squeezed child has a safety line to keep from actually falling. At least this is my understanding of gestation. Presumably after the safety line has failed in its attempt to keep the child entombed in the mother’s womb one of the educated throng of degreed persons will ask the father to cut said safety line. What good is the line at this point anyway and why would you keep faulty equipment? It’s a newborn for Pete’s sake.

Now, at this point, the video skips ahead and here is the newly proud mother and father and baby in tow. All laughing and smiling, happy. I can only assume they skip ahead to conceal the real horror show. The clean-up. Don’t think we can handle that Sci Channel? Thank you, I suppose, but I’m pretty sure the preceding horror show has prepared us. I just want to see the poor guy cursing and muttering that gets stuck with that job.

Oddly enough, none of these “pictures” are censored or blurred, but yet the bleeps come fast and furious. Momma’s got a potty mouth. This rite of passage might be fun for me because Shannon has such a large vocabulary and can unite words that would never seem to fit together. Ooh and she knows some German, I’m sure cursing at me in German will bring the nightmare altogether. My plan is to only reply in Spanish, Italian or French just for my own amusement.

The point I am trying to make here is that the Mrs. wants me in the delivery room to share in the aforementioned miracle of birth. My plan of handing out cigars to complete strangers has been thwarted. Smoking and newborn babies are sadly only in my dreams now. Being with her in spirit won’t be enough. I’m the designated hand holder and have been told that a small curtain will shield my eyes from the “miracle” that is occurring. C’mon, the curtain didn’t stop Dorothy. Well, a better analogy would be the curtain not stopping Anthony Perkins in Psycho. Dorothy got to meet a nice guy to help her get home; Vivian Leigh did a performance art version of woman giving birth while taking a shower.

There are also rules for my being there:

Take any and all abuse that is hurled my way with a smile on my face. No problem, I’m a Mets fan.

Don’t be funny. As this post shows, also not a problem. Honestly, let’s face facts: Childbirth has to be funny. Who hasn’t wanted to give a “Push em out, push em out, wwaaaayyy out?” “C’mon, it can’t feel THAT bad.” “What about me? My feet hurt, you at least get to lie down.” “Wow, you really need to do something with your hair.” “I bet my mom didn’t whine this much.” “Are these stirrups regulation size?” “I think you’re PULLING.” “Honey, I lost my ruler. How else I am supposed to measure how far apart the contractions are?” “Episioto-ME? No, episioto-YOU.” “No, I thought you said you DIDN’T want the epidural.” “C- section? Can’t we upgrade to a B?” And so on and so forth.

Don’t pass out. That’s a rule. Do my best, honey. Just have to make sure I don’t peek in the baby theatre.

Have her mom on deck in case I cannot fulfill the above duties. Not a big request, but I put it here because there’s a caveat. Part two of this rule is to explain to her mother that she will hear all sorts of new and exciting words that she has never heard her daughter utter. So I get to walk out and forewarn her mother that Shannon has been replaced by Joe Pesci. Ironically, they’re both Italian and 5’3”.

**Mushy part warning**

Obviously, I’m joking about all of this. I’m beyond excited for what’s next and can’t wait for the experience. I joke about all the preceding because it will lead to my favorite part. Of course, I cannot wait to see my child for the first time—well, more so second time, after they’ve cleaned him up.

The moment I cannot wait for, though, is after the whole “ordeal” is over and it’s just Shannon and myself. I lean forward and place my forehead to hers and say “You done good, kiddo."

Spontaneous life-changing decisions

2011-12-27T12:11:00.000-05:00

(I'm going to ignore the fact that I haven't posted anything for more than a month. I'm already thoroughly disappointed in myself that I haven't used this blog as a way to document my pregnancy. But work is crazy, the holidays are nuts -- you all get it, right? Sigh. OK, moving on.)

When we found out we were expecting, after we did the whole "OMG!" tearful hug, dance-around-the-room, "I can't believe we're going to be mama and daddy!" thing, T and I had a serious talk.

Decisions needed to be made.

Where would the baby's room go?

Breast milk or formula?

Which college football team will this baby be forced to root for?

You know. The really important stuff.

And somewhere in and around deciding that, although we're not planning to force our child to love the University of Virginia like Daddy, we are NOT raising an Ohio State fan, we decided we were not going to find out the gender.

"There are so few true surprises in life," T said convincingly, as I was kind of wavering back and forth. "You know: We're in the delivery room. You're screaming. I'm telling you to suck it up. And the doctor says -- OW."

(At this point I hit him. Obviously.)

His point, among the sarcasm: That moment, when the doctor says "It's a girl!" or "It's a boy!" is one of the only real surprises left in life. Why would we want to deprive ourselves of that?

It made sense.

So. It was settled. We informed everyone of this decision shortly after announcing Baby G's impending birth, and were met with mixed reactions. Most folks were excited about our more traditional approach; our parents were annoyed they had to wait to buy gender-appropriate toys and booties.

But really, it didn't change much from our perspective. I'm not a fan of pink, so the nursery was always going to be blue, anyway. Our son would have stuffed animals; our daughter would learn to play catch. This was not the end of the world.

During our 20-week ultrasound, everything went as planned. We confidently answered "No!" when the ultrasound tech asked if we wanted to know the gender, and we got to see Squirmy doing his happy, squirmy thing on screen all the same. All was well. When the tech informed us that our child was stubborn (SHOCKER) and didn't want to show his/her face, meaning we'd need a follow-up ultrasound in a few weeks to get those measurements, we didn't bat an eye. Easy peasy.

When that 22-week ultrasound rolled around, the plan was on track. Goop on the belly, Squirmy squirming, ready to roll.

Except this time, when the (new) tech asked us if we wanted to know the gender, something weird happened.

I looked at T, we made eye contact and said, in unison, "Yes!"

Um, what?

We hadn't discussed this change of plan. Our minds were made up. No one was wavering on the way into the doctor's office.

Apparently 9+ years of marriage means your brains are melded to the point where you make spontaneous, life-changing decisions AT THE SAME TIME.

While we were still reeling from this apparent simultanously 180-degree turn, the ultrasound tech said, casually, "Oh. OK. It's a boy."

...

Just like that.

No big deal.

A boy.

A BOY.

BOY!!

We stared at her in disbelief. (For some reason, we'd both become convinced we were going to have a girl.)

Our shock must have been evident, because she felt she needed to drive the point home by creating this picture, with an arrow conveniently pointing to the evidence at hand (click to enlarge):

(She also wrote it in block letters at the top left, with three exclamation points, in case we STILL hadn't wrapped our brains around it after leaving the office. Smartass.)

I looked at T. He looked at me. We stared at the tech. She snorted. We cried. And grinned. And laughed. And asked, "Are you sure?" about five million times.

(We would have reacted this way if it'd been a girl, too, you know. We are emotional schmoes, regardless of gender.)

**********

So today, as I arrive at 31 weeks (!!) please allow me to scream from the rooftops: WE ARE HAVING A SON!!

We are so incredibly thrilled.

I've been feeling great, aside from some low back pain (this boy -- BOY! -- loves to lay looooow in my belly, and apparently stand on my spine) and massive heartburn (duh) and occasional weepiness-interspersed-with-yelling-for-no-reason (triple duh). The child is moving around all over the place and has perfected the one-two punch maneuver, in addition to the somersault.

Life is good.

I have many other things to share, but this post is long enough. For now, let me leave you with a few more pictures of our boy.

First, a profile shot:

Are you as bad at deciphering ultrasound photos as I am? Here's a labeled version; he's facing left (click to enlarge):

And yes, that's his leg extending straight out over his head in the shot above. He is in this position for every.single.ultrasound. I tell T this means he's going to be a ballet dancer. He prefers to think "kicker for the NFL." :)

Profile shot number two, in which T swears there's a pretzel floating around with the child:

And finally...the bottoms of both of his feet. I mean... COME ON.

The tiniest ballerina

2011-11-07T09:54:00.001-05:00

As is often the case these days, my niece was at my parents' house when I called last week. At some point during our conversation, my mother or father will inevitably ask her if she wants to talk to "Auntie Shan."

(She calls me Auntie Shan. Not "Shannon" or "Aunt Shannon." "Auntie Shan." HOW CUTE IS THAT?)

And because she is three and has a very short attention span, she will grab the phone and we'll have a very short and mostly one-sided conversation wherein she tells me what she's eating and other three-year-old conversation topics until she's tired of me and she says, "OK, thanks for calling Auntie Shan, bye bye!" and hangs up on me, usually in mid-sentence.

I adore her. :)

The news du jour during our most recent call? "I start dancing, Auntie Shan!" And this time she didn't mean in my parents' kitchen.

Seems our little ball of energy is channeling her inner fire into a ballet class for tiny wee ones at the local health club.

Since she is three and going through the normal orneriness that goes along with that age, it was a toss-up: She'd either be super into it, or she'd be that kid in the corner jumping off a pile of mats while the teacher is leading the rest of the class in a round of plies.

Fortunately, she chose the former.

(They have to wear special outfits and shoes, and wear their hair in buns. Can you even stand the cute?)

No word yet on whether or not my brother is becoming a "Dance Mom." I'm betting it's only a matter of time.

Miss Understanding

2011-10-17T09:25:00.001-04:00

Our internet service was down all day Saturday.

Because we have internet-based phone service, that was out all day Saturday, too. But since we both have cell phones that worked perfectly well, we weren't really that concerned about it. Plus, we knew we could check our voicemail once the service came back on, AND our phone service offers a voicemail transcript email service as well. We were totally covered.

When the service was restored, we checked our voicemail and listened to this message from Tommy's dad, who was calling from the Virginia Tech football game:

"Hi Tommy, this is your daddy. I'm just giving you a call.

How 'bout those Cavaliers? How 'bout those Hokies?

Talk to you later. Bye, I love you. ...how do I close this thing?"

(That last bit was him figuring out how to hang up the cell phone. Hee.)

And when we received the email transcript of this missed message? Here is what THAT said:

"Hi Tommy, this is your daddy. I'm just giving you a call.

Will you go hear little ears for the oldies?

Talk to you later. Bye, I love you. Supposedly."

Bahahahaaaaaa.

Wisdom

2011-10-05T10:01:00.001-04:00

I think maybe it comes from being an only child for so long before my brother was born.

I've always been bossy, and I've always known what I wanted.

In first grade, Ms. Yoder asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. Every other girl said either "nurse" or "teacher." I said "actress."

When I was 10, my best friend Pam and I wrote out our life plans. (We were extremely ambitious -- or deluded -- for 10 year olds.) They went something like this:

Graduate from college.

Become zoologists or veterinarians. (I'm not convinced we understood that numbers 1 and 2 were related. We just knew we were supposed to go to college for some reason.)

Meet and marry handsome men (professions optional) in a double wedding ceremony (obviously).

Move to Africa, so we could study jungle animals. (We had no idea what this entailed, but I'm pretty sure I was envisioning living in a zoo that someone else would maintain for us while we got to pet the tigers whenever we wanted. That sounds awesome, doesn't it?)

Have kids on the same day (obviously).

And...that's where it ended. Not surprisingly, our life plan closely resembled a fairy tale -- there were no actual details. Our husbands had no discernable qualities other than being handsome and being willing to put up with our propensity for living with elephants, and there was zero concern for what everyday life would be like. Would any of us know how to cook? Who would pay us to do this ridiculous job? Who cares? Wheee!! Let's go play Barbies now.

**********************************************************

My life today? It's not a fairy tale.

We live in Ohio.

There are no tigers.

I write for a living instead of gracing the stage on Broadway or living a constant African safari.

My husband is handsome, but that's where his resemblance to my 10-year-old fantasy husband ends.

Our life is so much better than I was ever even able to dream it.

About 10 years and two months ago, my now-husband took my hand and led me into the bedroom of the house we'd just purchased together.

With a tell-tale small white box in his hand, he got down on one knee and said, "Baby, I just want to ask you one question." As I gasped and started getting teary, he looked up at me and continued, "Would accept these earrings for your birthday, and then help me up off the floor? My knee hurts."

Sneaky and mean. I forgot to put that on my list of husband pre-requisites.

10 years ago today, he got down on one knee again, with another white box in his hand, and he asked me for real. He claims I took forever to answer. I was just making sure there was actually a ring in there this time.

And then, exactly one year later, we did this:

And although we of course had plans for our life together, I don't think I ever really thought about what day-to-day life would be like.

How much football there would be.

How little cooking I would do.

How many times we'd argue.

How much hard stuff we'd have to endure and work through and somehow come out on the other side of.

And how not once, not even once, would I consider my life with anyone else.

**********************************************************

When I think about the last nine years, I cannot believe we're the same two people in those pictures up there.

Together, we have grown calmer. We have gotten saner. We have weathered anger and sorrow and boredom and hilarity.

We have grown up. We have grown together. We have become SO MUCH BETTER.

This husband of mine...I wish I could adequately explain how special he is. Not many people know him the way I do; he's quiet and keeps to himself quite a bit, and he saves the best parts of himself for those who know him best.

I could write paragraphs and pages about the times he's built me up when I felt completely worthless, and the times he's held me as I cried and felt utterly hopeless. About how his faith has saved me (and us) more times than I can count. About his amazing, unfaltering belief in me that leaves me staggered and awed.

All those things are true.

But I'd rather tell you about this morning, when he woke me up at 5 a.m. to watch me read a note he'd written for our anniversary, watching me, eyes smiling as I got to the parts that made me laugh uncontrollably. (It takes a lot to make me belly laugh when I can barely see out of both eyes.)

This man wrote me three pages explaining how much he loves the "mundanity" of our lives. The way I never let him finish singing a song. The way I constantly drop food on my boobs. The way I spend days in my pajama pants that say "Big Money" all over them.

The fact that, in just five and a half months, we'll be calling ourselves Mama and Daddy. (Oh...I cannot tell you how just the thought of that makes me just shiver. And cry. Both in a good way.)

This man, this man I married. Our marriage. It's imperfect and weird and often smelly and mostly loud and occasionally rocky and sometimes so calm it might look completely boring.

I love it and him so much I feel my heart is exploding. (Probably all over my boobs.)

**********************************************************

There's no way to adequately say how much, but baby: I love you. This year is going to be epic and scary and insane and sleep-deprived. I cannot wait to do it all with you.

Happy anniversary.

Weeks 15-17: STAY OUT OF MY PREGNANT WAY. (And good stuff, too.)

2011-09-26T13:07:00.001-04:00

Want the whole baby scoop? See all previous posts here.

******************

First things first: It's been a few weeks since I last posted, let alone gave some kind of baby update. You know. Life. Work. Lots and lots of work. My day job is rewarding but demanding, and it's been especially demanding of late. Something has to give, and unfortunately, this blog is usually the first thing to go. It cannot be helped. I'm sorry. (And also sorry that, as a result, this post will be kind of long.)

And that's about all the apologizing you'll get out of me because the theme for the last few weeks has been Laugh Cry About Nothing Yell About Something Stupid PREGNANT SHANNON SMASH Cry More Laugh Hysterically Rinse Lather Repeat.

In other words: Moody.

OK, let's just say it: BITCHY.

My husband looooooooooves this part of pregnancy.

:)

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't aware of it; I am. But to some extent it feels like I just can't...control it? To me, it feels like PMS turned up to 11. In any case, I am on the verge of tears and/or yelling all.the.time and it is super fun for all of us.

However, physically? I'm feeling really, really...good! So good, in fact, that it's been a little unnerving. I commented to my mother a week or so ago that I kind of miss the nausea and constant exhaustion because at least that let me know stuff was happening. Then that mostly went away, and I felt mostly normal (well, except for the aforementioned Exorcist Bitchfacedness), and I kind of missed it.

(Only I could find a way to complain about NOT feeling like I'm going to puke. Therapy, I need it.)

Only physical complaint: I've now hit the inevitable point where I need to pee every 5.3 seconds. As Two Pretzels will tell you, I find this INCREDIBLY annoying. (I hate stopping what I'm doing to pee; I don't like to be interrupted.)

All right. Enough about the (very inconsequential) negative. On to the positive!

I AM FEELING THE BABY MOVE.

This actually started around the end of Week 14. It felt like something was tickling me from the inside. My thoughts:

There is absolutely no way I'm feeling the baby move this early.

I'm a big girl; big girls don't feel movement this early.

I just have really weird gas.

When I had that really weird gas around the same times every day for a week and a half, I finally gave in and accepted that either A) I am the gassiest human being on the planet (still debatable) or B) OMG I AM FEELING THE BABY MOVE.

Allow me to state the obvious and say this is The Coolest Thing Ever, and knowing that it will only get stronger and cooler is, well, really really cool.
(The baby has stolen my vocabulary, apparently. And my thesaurus. Sticky in-utero fingers.)

For me, this is making the pregnancy seem really, truly real. There is a person in there, and he or she is tickling me. Well, more likely punching me, but his or her fists are teeny-weeny, so it's more like fist smashes, but from a tiny soft angel. Angel Smashes. Yes.

And speaking of teeny-weeny, since we last spoke, Angel Smash has breezed right past the navel orange and avocado and is now the size of...an onion! Although you must picture an onion that's about five or so inches long, which, to me, seems like an awfully big onion. But whatever.

Allow me a moment for reflection: I cannot believe we're almost halfway there. It seems like a dream. On one hand, it feels like we've known about this pregnancy FOREVER (T asks me daily, "Is it time for the baby to be born YET?" We're excited). On the other hand, there's still SO much to do, that I'm actually happy we still have 5.5 months to go.

Thankfully (happily, gratefully), I'm now on vacation, so we'll be doing a lot of things over the next two weeks:

Clearing out the eventual nursery (which is now, as my mother puts it, our "Employees Only" room

Checking out childcare options in our area

Finding out what kind of classes are available at the hospital we're using

Figuring out what furniture and other big items we need

Registering for baby stuff

Talking about names (but still not sharing any, so don't get excited)

NOT finding out the gender

We do have our 20-week ultrasound next Friday (not quite 20 weeks, but close, and I'll be across the country during week 20), and I can't wait to see Kicky Magoo again. I don't even care that I'll have to turn away at some point: I just love seeing him or her thriving in there. It will never get old.

Next week, I'll give you my lament about finding maternity clothes for the, um, more voluptuous expectant mother. Hint: You should really like looking as if you're on safari. At least that's what clothes manufacturers seem to think.

Entertain me.

2011-09-08T10:37:00.003-04:00

I don't have an iPad.

But my generous little brother is lending me his for a few upcoming business trips, so I can see how I dig it.

So, here's what I need from you experienced 'padders:

Which (preferably free) apps will keep me entertained on a six-hour flight to Seattle?

Which are your favorites?

Which ones are waaaaay over-hyped and not worth the time/money?

I like doodley-type apps, puzzle-type games, simple games like Angry Birds (which I do already have), word games, etc. But, I'm willing to give pretty much anything a look if you think it's a must-have.

Clue me in!

Baby Q&A: Week 14

2011-09-06T10:22:00.001-04:00

Want the whole baby scoop? See all previous posts here.

******************

So, this week's theme is thus:

No, our child is not forming a People's Justice League from within the womb (although that would be kind of awesome). He or she (according to "What to Expect When You're Expecting," that is) is now, in Week 14, about the size of a clenched fist.

I shared this factoid with T the other day, and we both were rather freaked out that our baby is still so tiny. Even though I'm not really showing yet, we still forget often how teeny-weeny he or she really still is. For whatever reason, we just envision our bambino as a full-term newborn and it kind of flips us out to remember we're still dealing with someone who's just a few inches long.

So, how are you feeling about pregnancy in this, the 14th week?
Honestly? It's still a little weird. Since I'm not showing, really, and I can't feel movement yet, it often feels a little like, "Helloooooo, baby...anyone in there?" I told T it almost feels like the baby lives in the ultrasound machine, and we have to go to the doctor's office to visit him or her. :)

Does this mean your nausea and extreme exhaustion is waning?
Why, yes -- yes it does. I still have my moments with both -- vegetables still kind of gross me out -- but for the most part, my appetite has returned to normal, and I can go most days without a nap.

The biggest difference I'm noticing as I head into the second trimester is that I'm no longer just eating because I know I have to; I'm actually eating because things sound and taste good again. This is both good and bad: I'm finding it harder to eat what I should because I'm craving starchy snacky food. I think this'll be my biggest challenge in the foreseeable future.

Um, are you at least taking a multi-vitamin so your baby has things like feet and brain cells?
YES, smarty-pants. I'm not completely ignorant to the ways of nutrition. And I am trying really hard to get a balanced diet full of fruits and veggies and Omega-3s and whatnot. I just have a day here and there where all I want is Captain Crunch cereal. BACK OFF.

O...kay. This may be a good time to ask if you're experiencing any of the famed pregnancy moodiness of late?
What? I'm sorry, I was over here crying and couldn't hear your question.

So...yeah. I am finding myself rather moody (or, as T so lovingly says, "moodier than usual"). About twice a week (and sometimes more), I'll find myself totally bummed out about something, real or imagined (often the latter), and will be utterly inconsolable for an hour or so. T, bless him, is learning how to navigate these mood swings -- namely, to hug me, pat me on the back and say, "I know, baby. But it'll be OK."

(He is less good at navigating my sudden outbursts of groundless anger that I, naturally, direct right at him. Well, why DID he load the dishwasher THAT WAY, anyway?! I mean, really.)

How are the dogs handling all of this? Do they know you're pregnant?
Mmm...not really. As I've told a few people, our dogs are far too self-involved to notice. We're not seeing any overprotectiveness or gentleness that I've heard others talk about. Essentially they just want to make sure they get fed, and occasionally they will deign to snuggle with me, but no more than usual. It'll be interesting to see if this changes in the next six months.

Have you told folks at work yet?
Yes -- unfortunately I had to clue them in quite early, as I had to travel for work in my 8th week and I knew it would affect things somewhat. I have two more out-of-town trips planned for my fifth month (with my doctors' full OK, of course), so I'm glad my co-workers can be in the loop and understand when I want to crash at the hotel after work vs. whooping it up at happy hour. (And they do; I have awesome co-workers.)

OK, last question: What's the best piece of advice you've received so far?
Hands down: Just relax. Relax and enjoy pregnancy for what it is, whatever it is for you. Don't worry too much about everyone else's advice, listen to your doctor, do what feels right for you. I am trying to take all of this to heart and not stress out, although it's hard (I am a fretter by nature).

More to come!

Exaggerated crises

2011-09-01T14:30:00.003-04:00

Our air conditioning is out.

I don't really understand the particulars, but essentially it just keeps running and running and running but no cold air (or any air, period) is coming through the vents.

It needs some serious repair, that much is evident. But we'd decided to "ride it out" since it's basically fall, and we need a host of other more immediate expensive things in preparation for a March baby (including, but not limited to, a new washer, new windows and propane for, y'know, heat for the winter).

The Weather Channel says it is 87 degrees at my house, and it feels like 92. I don't really understand heat indexes (indices?) but my own pregnant ass is telling me that 92 is a joke and it is HOT AS BALLS in my house.

(Note: This is a technical term used by meterologists. Don't look it up. Just trust me.)

So: Windows are open, fan is on, conference calls are being had while I'm sweatin' (although, sadly, not to the oldies). But I FEEL LIKE I'M DYING.

(Am I dying? Most decidedly not. Am I incredibly spoiled because many people who aren't even in third-world countries only get to experience A/C when they go to the supermarket? Most definitely. But I'm hot RIGHT NOW and therefore need a solution.)

Things I am considering to cool off after work:

Breaking into the (now closed for the winter -- WHY?!) county pool and having a one-woman pool party until the cops arrest me for trespassing

Taking a cold shower and then lying on the bed, spread-eagled and whimpering

Whining until someone buys me ice cream and then feeds it to me

Constructing a suit out of ice cube-filled Ziploc bags and parading through my neighborhood wearing nothing else

Crying, allowing my tears to lower my body temperature

Getting the dogs to fan me with palm fronds (will need to invent prosthetic thumbs)

If anyone has less humiliating suggestions (that don't involve telling me to just get over myself, because I know, OK?), please lay 'em on me.

We don't forget or leave behind; we grow.

2011-08-31T10:03:00.003-04:00

I’ve spent a lot of my adult life defending our relationship with our dogs.

“They aren’t kids, you know.”

"They’re JUST ANIMALS.”

Mmhmm. Thank you, well-meaning friends and relatives.

Listen, I get it. Dogs ≠ children. They can’t take care of us when we’re old, they can’t tell us what they’re thinking, we’ll never watch them grow up and leave the nest and become doctors and lawyers and whatever else.

But, do you know how they are EXACTLY like children?

They’re mischievous, they love to play and they can make a toy out of ANYthing.

They do the craziest things that make us laugh until we pee our pants (sometimes literally).

They poop and puke in the most inconvenient places, at the most inconvenient times.

They put EVERYTHING in their mouths.

They love to snuggle.

They’re completely dependent on us for food, water, shelter, discipline, structure, care and love.

And they somehow know the exact moment we need a quiet, warm presence next to us, comforting us.

****************

This morning (Tuesday), I took Ozzie to the vet – the time has come in our young dog’s life to have his, ah, equipment adjusted, shall we say.

And although I didn’t strap him into a car seat, and he was wearing a leash instead of a uniform, and he was, well, going to get the boys chopped off instead of learning about sharing and cooperation, I couldn’t help but compare the experience to my friends who’ve been dropping off their little ones at school this week.

He was a trooper in the car, although he hasn’t had many car rides in his young life. He sat quietly, looking all around, as I told him what a good boy he was being and chattered on about how everything would be fine, and we’d pick him up tomorrow, and everything would be as good as new.

When we got to the vet’s office, he sprang from the car and skipped up the sidewalk and through the front door with his usual joyful lightness, greeting everyone enthusiastically in the lobby, nubbin tail (and entire backside) wiggling at top speed.

It wasn’t until the vet tech took the leash from me, and he turned back and looked at me, confused, that he realized something was up. Up to now, he’d been on an adventure with his mama, in a car with his mama, meeting strangers with his mama. His dark brown eyes looked concerned.

"…Mama?"

I told him he was a good boy, and it was OK, and then he disappeared into the examination room while I confirmed his pick-up time with the front desk.

And then I walked outside, a lump in my throat, and got in my car, feeling kind of oddly empty and more than a little guilty. (Seriously, how do parents of human babies DO this?? You have my eternal kudos.)

I called the vet just after noon, and was told he was in recovery, doing just fine, we can pick him up tomorrow as scheduled. After all, it’s an incredibly low-risk and routine surgery for a male dog.

But tonight, as it’s just T and Murray and me sitting here on the couch… Our family has a little hole in it. Until tomorrow, when it can be the four of us again.

(These are the moments when I feel the losses of our other beloved pets the most.)

****************

Now that we’re expecting our own little HUMAN baby, we’ve started talking a bit about how our relationship to our dogs will inevitably change. They won’t be the center of our world anymore. They’ll have to share us, bigtime, with someone who’s even more dependent on us, who will get most of our snuggles and pats and coos, who will always get to eat before they do.

But today was a good reminder that they are just as much a part of our family as they always were, and always will be. They won’t be squeezed out or shoved to the side as our family grows. They’ll be right in there with us, growing too.

Baby Q&A: Week 13

2011-08-29T10:23:00.001-04:00

So, it seems it’s now my turn to continue our bloggy tradition of pregnancy-related Q&As, and I am more than happy to oblige. Although my day job makes it hard to blog regularly (clearly), I’m going to do my best to A) make these updates weekly, and B) not let my blog become ALL about the bambino.

This I solemnly vow to you. Or, you know, let’s see how things go.

****

So, you’re pregnant!
Um, yeah – I think we’ve covered that.

Oh, sorry. So…how far along are you?
I am 13 weeks today! Just at the very end of the first trimester. According to a variety of sources, our baby is about the size of a peach this week.

(I'd love to be the one assigning visual imagery to fetus size. "This week your baby is the size of a football, if it was deflated and rolled into a tiny coil!" Clearly I missed my calling.)

How have you been feeling?
I’ve been very lucky so far – although I’ve had kind of a mild, pervasive queasiness throughout the first trimester, it HAS been very mild, and I only threw up once. Otherwise, I’ve just been incredibly exhausted – I’ve been taking lots and lots of naps. (Often on the weekends I’d only wake up to eat.)

But, overall, I’ve been feeling pretty good! As my grandma said, "Pregnancy agrees with me." :)

Any cravings or aversions?
No cravings to speak of – certainly not the pickles-and-ice-cream combo that everyone seems to think is SO HILARIOUS. I don’t really like the smell of meat, although I haven’t had any problems eating it.

Actually, vegetables have been the only thing that have turned my stomach while I’m eating them. Obviously I can’t get away with not eating veggies, so there’s been many a time when I’ve forced myself to chew, chew, swallow, grimace my way through a plate of spinach or pile of green beans. Blech.

And…when are you due again? You started out saying March 5 and now your header just says “March.” What gives?
Yeah, apparently my due date depends on who you ask. My doctors have told us both March 1 and March 5, and they keep changing their minds. Pretty much every due date calculator we’ve tried says March 5, because my cycle tends to be 32 days instead of 28. We try to tell the doctors this, and some of them hear us and some don’t (they also say we’re measuring a little ahead of the March 5 date). So the “official” due date is March 1, but we think it’s a little later.

Do we really care this much? Um, no. (Although March 5 is T’s birthday—and my grandpa’s birthday—so that makes it kind of cool.) And the likelihood of the baby being born on its due date is slim anyway. It’s just annoying that the doctors can’t get on the same page and listen to us.

Anyway. This is why we’re just going with “March” at this point.

How does T feel about everything?
He would probably roll his eyes at my choice of words, but I would describe him as “over-the-moon excited.” I’ll go on and on about this more in a future post, but: For a man who’s never been around many little kids, he is just made to be a daddy. (Watching him play with my niece is just the best thing ever.)

As far as the actual pregnancy goes, he is incredibly doting and attentive to me, slightly overprotective (although he claims this is because I’m incredibly clumsy; there may be some truth to this) and completely involved. I think he knows more about pregnancy and childbirth than I do at this point (he’s a researcher). I could not ask for a better partner in all of this.

OK, let’s hit the top three questions everyone is asking you right now:

Are you going to find out the gender? We’re still debating this, but we’ve pretty much decided we are NOT going to find out the gender until the baby’s born. As T says, “There are so few true surprises in life, and one of the big ones is being in the delivery room, and hearing the doctor say, ‘It’s a ____!’ Why would we deprive ourselves of that?” Well said, husband. I love the idea of finding out the same day we meet him or her. So far people are either really annoyed by this (as our neighbor said, “I need to know whether to buy regular camo or pink camo!” Oh, dear Lord…) or totally supportive.

What names are you thinking about? So…that’s the other thing. Regardless of whether or not we find out the gender ahead of time, we will not be sharing our potential names. This is partly because we don’t want any negative comments from the peanut gallery (however well-meaning), and partly because we like the idea of keeping that as something that’s just ours until the day. I’m sure this will be another controversial decision, but it’s ours to make – so there.

Why did you wait so long to have kids? Hoo boy. We are hearing this a lot right now. I will probably write more about this at a later time, but for right now I’ll just say two things: A) We are 34 and 36, not 50, and B) this baby is coming along at the exact right time for US. And we are incredibly happy, excited, thrilled and grateful for this blessing.

So…this is getting kind of long. How ‘bout you end this week by telling us a random fact about your pregnancy?
All righty then. Random fact: I found my first gray hair EVER during my 9th week of pregnancy. True story. You’d better believe I will lord that over our future child when he or she is old enough to tease about those things.

Just a final note: Thank you all for all your wonderful comments and for sharing our excitement the way you have been. I could not ask for a more supportive network, and I can’t wait to pick your mommy brains, both during this pregnancy and once the little (appropriately camouflaged) bundle arrives!

Conversations with T

2011-08-26T11:30:00.000-04:00

We're finishing our basement.

The other day, I returned home from work and T greeted me in the driveway.

T: Hi. So, you're a writer: Which sounds worse, "I hate something" or "I loathe something"?

Me: Um...I guess hate is probably overused, so "loathe" would probably get your point across more strongly.

T: OK, cool. I LOATHE the paint color you picked out for the spare bedroom.

:)

I love him.

(And yes, the color is staying, despite his LOATHING. Lucky for me, he'd already finished painting by the time he figured out how much he hated it. I win!)

P.S.: Thank you all so much for sharing in our baby excitement! I swear this weekend I will write more. This week has been insane. Love y'all.

We're getting a new roommate.

2011-08-23T11:15:00.001-04:00

A tiny, squishy-faced roommate.

Whose breath smells like rainbows.

And who's guaranteed to completely turn our lives upside-down...

(Waving hello.)

...in the very, very best kind of way.

ETA: March 5, 2012

Our hearts are full to bursting.

More to come. Much, much more to come.

:)

There are friends, and then there are friends. (Alternate title: Happy birthday)

2011-08-16T10:05:00.002-04:00

(Before I start I want to say: I don't think it's an actual birthday cake, but how great is this cupcake caterpillar?? I wuv him. Anyway. Pretend he's a birthday cake. 'Kay?)

Friendship is funny.

When I met Kylee (of Two Pretzels) fame, she was a college freshman with a mass of reddish-brown hair piled on top of her head, adorable clothes and a giant smile. I was going through a massive transition in my life, and she was one of the first friendly faces I'd seen in a loooong time. I'm sure we weren't friends instantaneously, but it felt like it.

What I remember most about the early days of our friendship is that we laughed.a.LOT. We co-edited our college newspaper, and every week we were up until 3 a.m., trying to meet our deadline, editing hopelessly unreadable articles from our columnists and singing Sting songs in ridiculous accents while our friends brought us Taco Bell.

Our office was at the very tippity-top of the oldest building on campus, and the only bathroom in the entire building was in the basement, only accessible by traversing three flights of stairs through a pitch-black building. We only braved the trip as a pair, taking turns clutching one another and clutching a gigantic umbrella that we wielded against potential predators. (I still have that umbrella. It's a formidable weapon.) Those are still my favorite memories of college, bar none.

And then I graduated. She transferred. We emailed all the time, but we rarely saw one another. We moved in with our respective boyfriends. Then we married them. Then she moved to Mexico.

Through all of life's changes, this was a constant: Kylee was as close as an email or an instant message (we did a lot of the latter in pre-texting days). And she was really THERE. She is not a friend who always leads in with "GUESS what HAPPENED to ME, OMG, my drama my drama my drama." She wants to know what's happening with you. Not only that, she actually CARES, AND she remembers the details of what you told her last time.

She thinks about you when you're not in constant contact.

She prays for you.

When you get sick, she will recite a poem to you about germs in tiny bowling shoes.

She will be outraged with you. She will also tell you when you are being unreasonable. :)

She has an amazing, full, wonderful life. She's a wife and mother and daughter and sister and, I swear, probably has more friends than me and every other friend of mine combined...but you'd never know it to talk to her. That doesn't sound right; what I mean is: Kylee makes you feel IMPORTANT. As though she has all the time in the world to listen to YOU and think about how to help with whatever you're going through. I'm here to say that I truly have no idea how she does that. It is truly a gift.

Today is her birthday. She is, like me, a Leo, so I know she loves her birthday and being the center of attention. :) (That's something else that's amazing about her: She loves to be the focus of the room, but she makes sure you're the focus, too. How does she do that? I have no idea.)

This has been an especially challenging year for me, both professionally and personally. And while I have an amazing husband, supportive family and wonderful friends, I'd be lying if I didn't attribute a big part of the fact that I'm still standing here to my friend, this birthday girl.

Kylee, I want to tell you: I CHERISH you as my friend. You inspire me for many reasons, in many different parts of my life, but I especially want you to know that you inspire me to be a better friend. There is really just no one -- in my life, in LIFE -- quite like you. You deserve every little bit of happiness that can be squeezed out of one life, and I hope that today, you get as much as you can of that. With your C and your girls and your Ferg, I know you will. :)

Thank you for being my friend -- for the past 14 years and until we're old and can't remember who we are anymore. I absolutely love you to pieces!

Just because...

2011-08-09T10:38:00.001-04:00

Just because you've never seen an acorn finger hat...

...doesn't mean you won't want to hug this one.

(Cozy Memories)

Just because I rave about sauteed vegetables...

...doesn't mean I wouldn't throw them in the river if you handed me these nachos.

Just because Dolly Parton is pretty much a caricature...

...doesn't mean she isn't also freaking adorable.

Just because you don't use spell check...

...doesn't mean you shouldn't just know how to spell "didn't" off the top of your head (for the love).

Just because things are on the internet...

...doesn't mean they should be. (Click at your own risk. No, really.)

Just because it's cheesy...

...doesn't mean it isn't also capital-A Awesome.

Just because Goodfellas came out more than 20 years ago...

...doesn't mean it's still not the best movie of all time. (After Clue, of course.)

(GapingVoid.com)

(Sorry, Mom.)

"Just because your voice reaches halfway around the world doesn't mean you are wiser than when it reached only to the end of the bar." -Edward R. Murrow

Just because I have no one to give these cards to...

...doesn't mean I'm not still buying 50 of them and wallpapering my house with them.

Just because I haven't written here in almost a month, and I still haven't posted about 45,000 pictures of things like food I've grown, crafts I've made and me seeing NKOTB live in concert (oh, yes I did)...

...doesn't mean you should give up hope.

Please don't leave me.

At least not until we eat some nachos.

Real brothers...

2011-07-12T10:05:00.000-04:00

...sleep together...

...stare out the window at birds together...

...sleep together some more...

...play together...

...look insane together...

...aaaaaand sleep together again...

...attack together...
(although admittedly one is doing the attacking and the other is BEING attacked)

...annoy each other...together...

...wait patiently for Daddy to return together...

...did we mention sleep together?

Yep. Despite the fact that Ozzie's still learning that "Go get the bone!" doesn't mean "Jump on Murray's head and bite his face!" it's official: They're besties.

Sometimes heroes are reckless

2011-06-20T10:17:00.001-04:00

I am a daddy’s girl.

I could deny it, but honestly’? There’s no point. My mama’s my best friend; my dad’s my hero. This is the way of the world.

We grew up in the country, and Dad is a real DIY kind of guy – I really can’t remember a time when we actually HIRED someone to fix or build anything we needed around the house. So, when an especially hilly part of the property needed to be leveled out so grass would grow, there was no “Let’s hire a team of people who are trained to use earth-moving equipment. Dad came home one afternoon with a Bobcat on the back of a trailer, and that was that.

It's like the Smart Car of bulldozers.

I was about 8 years old, playing in the yard, watching my father happily push dirt around in this tiny bulldozer while Mom and my baby brother chilled in the house. I watched him coax the thick tires up the bumpy hill, chopping up sod and leaving dark brown earth in his wake.

Then, I heard the sound of the engine change from a low growl to a higher-pitched whine. I looked up from my “Barbie Climbs a Tree” adventure to see the Bobcat wobble, then lean, then completely tip over, with my beloved daddy trapped inside.

He landed with a crash, and I could hear nothing but the engine whining and the sound of screaming – the latter of which was coming from me.

I was absolutely positive my dad was dead.

I ran, screaming and crying, toward the house, apparently to inform my unsuspecting mother that she was now husbandless. She emerged, my baby brother on her hip, blinking and confused, as I explained that the Bobcat had crushed Daddy and OMG WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DOOOOOOOOOOOO??!!!

And…that’s where my memory of this incident abruptly ends. I’m assuming this is because my mother decided I was too hysterical to be of much use and sent me inside to recuperate while she helped my very-much-still-alive (albeit bruised) father out of the toppled machine.

What I’ll never forget, though, is that feeling of watching him tip over and the absolute certainty that that was the end of him.

And, unfortunately, I’ve had that feeling more than a few times since then.

Four times within the next 10 years, my father was involved in car accidents that, by all rights, should have killed or at least maimed him. Each time, he managed to walk away with little more than a few scratches and the occasional broken rib.

(I’m realizing that this kind of makes it sound like he’s a crazy drunk driver, or at the very least a careless one. While I know the former isn’t true, the jury’s still out on the latter – when the reasons progressed from “I fell asleep” to “A flock of geese flew in front of my windshield! No, really!” we all became a bit suspicious.)

The thought of losing him was so profoundly devastating that each time, I would have nightmares for weeks that he was suffering horrible deaths, being ripped out of my arms, crying out in my sleep until he came into my room and proved to me he was still alive.

In 2001, just a month after 9/11, he had open-heart surgery. Afterward, in his hospital room, I watched him sleeping, hooked up to 500,000 tubes and machines and monitors, and marveled at how frail he suddenly seemed.

I hated that thought. He’d survived crash after horrific crash, kidney stone surgery that nearly ripped him in half, and a quadruple-bypass was going to knock this man down?

I should have known better.

Today, at 64, he’s just as alive and vibrant as he ever was. Yes, he complains about his back a little bit more than he did 25 years ago. But he’ll still golf 18 holes, joke around with his family and carry my niece proudly through a room to show her off. He still offers advice and gives perhaps the best hugs EVER.

And he still tells me when my attitude needs adjusting. (That still kind of annoys me, Dad.)

The long and the short of it? Today, my dad is still as much of a hero to me as he was when I was a kid. He’s still one of the only people whose opinion actually matters to me. Hearing him say “Good job” or “I’m proud of you”? Still some of my finest moments in life, ever.

Dad, I know I told you about 100 times over the weekend, but allow me to say again in this public forum: I love you. You are the best dad a girl could ask for. And so many of the wonderful things in my life today started with you and the hero you’ve always been to me.

Happy Father’s Day.

And please be careful. :)

Swindled

2011-06-07T10:16:00.001-04:00

When we moved from a Columbus suburb to what we lovingly refer to as "the boondocks," "the middle of nowhere" and "BFE," it took us a while to venture out. There isn’t much around here except your standard fast food fare and the occasional locally-owned restaurant, and this was, frankly, kind of a bummer.

But we’re not a couple who cooks much (frankly, we’re lazy), and one can only eat so many Lean Cuisines before breaking down one’s door in search of ANYTHING that hasn’t been flash-frozen. But where to go? How to keep our money in the community vs. padding the coffers of Mssrs King and McDonald?

Enter: The local greasy spoon. Every community has one. Yes, the floor is dirty. Yes, there are trophies on the wall, covered in dust, from softball championships won 20 years ago by pot-bellied, mutton-chopped locals. Yes, the menus are covered in cracked, curling plastic that’s brown around the edges.

And yes, the food is mostly fried.

{Insert Homer Simpson drool-moan here}

It took us a while, but we found our greasy, dirty, fried-food-having haven. We’d go about once a month and bask in the goodness that was their burgers, onion rings and 24/7 breakfast. The owner was a grizzled, surly old man who sported perpetual five-o’clock shadow and growled things like, “Hell, no – I hate that bitch,” when we asked him if he bought his meat from the local butcher.

It was everything we’d dreamed of and more.

Said owner, grizzled and surly as he was, took great pride in the fact that he made most of the food himself, and was forever trying to get us to eat his famed homemade desserts. “You know you want some!” he’d bark at us every time, describing his from-scratch chocolate cake and homemade pies before finally surrendering our check when we pleaded overstuffed bellies.

One Friday night, after sharing a booth with our neighbors (ambience provided by the requisite trophies and plaques from the early 90s and some novelty hot sauce bottles), the owner gave us his usual dessert song and dance routine. “Caramel apple nut pie,” he said in a voice I’m sure he thought was seductive. It wasn’t. But the description of the pie was.

“What the heck,” K and I decided. We’d split a piece of caramelly-appley goodness, warmed up just a little, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side.

The first bite was a revelation. Cinnamon-spiced apples, just the right amount of sweet and tart. Caramel drizzled along the top and popping up every so often in the middle of a bite. Roasted walnuts breaking up the sweetness and adding some crunch. And the crust. Oh, Angels of Pie, the crust. Buttery, light, just the right amount of crumbly.

It was a masterpiece.

We were in awe of this man, with his wild white hair and eternal scowl and, apparently, culinary genius. (True to form, when we confirmed that he made the crust itself from scratch, he said, “Honey, I do everything in this place except the customers. Heh heh heh…” Ew.)

K and I bought the rest of the pie on the spot and spent the next two weeks telling anyone who was listening that the next master pie chef was wasting away in rural Ohio, serving home fries to Nascar enthusiasts.

My best friend, B, swayed by my tales of confectionery wonderment, decided she wanted to try the homemade pie firsthand. She raved about the (admittedly amazing) burgers and onion rings, and when it was time for the pièce de resistance, she nearly melted into the scratched-up vinyl of the booth.

“This is the best pie I’ve ever had!” she exclaimed to our waitress. “Do you think I could buy the rest of the pie so I could take it to work with me? My coworkers would love this.”

The old crusty man wasn’t working that day, so there was some confusion about how much one charges for a whole pie. We waited patiently while our waitress worked it out with the cook on duty. Pretty soon, the waitress emerged from the back, holding this in her outstretched arms:

B and I looked at each other, dumbstruck.

“Wait,” I said to the waitress. “So he BUYS these pies?”

“Yep!” she said, completely clueless as to why my face was turning redder by the second. “I need to ask him where he buys these – they’re SO good, right?”

Yes. They are SO good. And apparently the only people I have to thank for that is "Chef Pièrre" and the good folks at Sara-freaking-Lee.

A very special birthday!

2011-06-06T10:10:00.002-04:00

I met my best friend, B, about 16 years ago.

We were singing in our college select choir together, and when said choir went on tour, we just kind of...found each other.

We bonded over our love of music and the fact that we thought it was HILARIOUS to add "crack" and "hole" to the end of people's names.

(I really, really wish I was joking about that last part.)

I've written before about our friendship and what it means to me, and that bond is only growing with each passing year. I tell her often that I think of her as a sister, and that's really true: There aren't many friends who will be truly, brutally honest with you, be there for you NO MATTER WHAT -- having that in your life is a GIFT.

B is an amazing person. She's an incredible singer, a ridiculously-talented photographer and hands down one of the funniest people I've ever met. It's not an overstatement to say that being her friend has shaped my sense of humor. If I am ever funny, it's largely thanks to my friendship with her.

She's gone through a lot the past year, and I can't remember ever being so proud of her. She's a class act, a true and loyal friend, and one of my very most favorite people in the universe.

B, happy, happiest of birthdays!! I take great comfort in the fact that you are taking on year 34 just a few months ahead of me, to make sure it's safe. :) I love you absolutely to pieces, and I hope this year is your best year yet. I cannot wait to see what this sisterhood looks like in another 16 years.

Love,

Shanhole

Wordless Wednesday: Paws of Fury

2011-05-11T11:45:00.000-04:00

"You will play with me, even if I have to SIT on your FACE!"

"Oh, yeah? Two can play at this game, buddy. How ya' like me now?"

The Four Paws of the Apocalypse, finally at rest. Briefly.

Google fun times

2011-05-11T09:18:00.002-04:00

I love Google's animation today honoring dance legend Martha Graham.

Every time they have one of these, I think how much fun it'd be to work on the team that dreams these up.

Go check it out -- the above is the end product, but the actual animation is much cooler.

Back in the vacation backyard

2011-05-10T10:16:00.002-04:00

It's true: We were on vacation. Thanks for not telling any burglars. (Although in the future, if you do, please also tell them that our really mean, bloodthirsty dogs are still at home, guarding the premesis. And that we've recently trained them to use shotguns. Well, not the puppy -- he can only handle a .38.)

BUT YES. We just returned from vacation. (Oh, sad vacation end times!) And most of the time, when we take a vacation, it's either a "stay-cation" (ugh -- hate that stupid "word") during which I try to convince T that weeding the flowerbeds is NOT relaxing, or we head to Florida. Specifically, Sarasota, land of white sandy beaches and my family's vacation house.

Growing up, my grandparents owned a house in Sarasota (along with approximately 1 bajillion* of our relatives) and lived here from right-after-Thanksgiving to right-after-Easter with a quick trip back to Ohio for Christmas. For us, this meant fall breaks on the beach, and hunting for melting Easter candy around the orange trees in the backyard. Back then, it was such a sleepy tourist town that my cousins and I were allowed to walk or bike the two miles to the beach by ourselves, which was SUPER cool.

The neighborhood today looks COMPLETELY different. The formerly two-lane roads are now six- to eight-lane monstrosities, and I'd no sooner allow a child to take off for the beach unattended than let them leap off the Empire State Building, but it's still a nice, slightly-less-sleepy little neighborhood. My grandparents still winter there, but since my parents now own the house, the rest of the family uses it for super-cheap, super-relaxing vacations.

Since we go there at least once, maybe twice, each year, there are certain highlights we like to hit. The beach, obviously. Walt's Fish Market, where you can get ridiculously amazing seafood on paper plates, surrounded by kitschy sea decor. Mote Aquarium. And Smuggler's Cove, where I kick T's butt at putt-putt on the regular, and you can feed meaty treats to the baby alligators chilling in their lagoon.

But one of our favorite things, maybe even more than the beach and the running around, is just chilling in the backyard. It's nothing special: Just a little patio, some grass that never really grows and a cracked shuffleboard court. But there's something so tranquil about it. It's surrounded by the fruit trees and tropical plants my grandparents so lovingly planted and cultivated over the last 25+ years.

And you know what? Shuffleboard is kind of awesome. Especially when you make up your own rules.

*Estimates may be grossly exaggerated

Here's where I admit that I really don't have a point to this post, and this very wordy diatribe was supposed to be a short, simple lead-in to a photo montage of our beloved Florida backyard. Since I've robbed myself of any logical and/or smooth transition, I'll now just say...here are the photos! Yay!

********

Tropical Plant of Some Unknown Variety
(Now may be a good time to tell you that, while I enjoy them,
I know absolutely nothing about plants.)

Cool-looking Palm Tree Offshoots
(The larger tree wasn't quite as cool-looking, so it didn't make the cut.)

Tiny Green Oranges!
(They're tiny! And green! I guess they're greens at this point, vs. oranges?
Whatever. They're adorable.)

Medium-sized Palm Tree
(Not as cute as the tiny offshoots above, not as impressive as the big mama palm tree below.
I call this one "Meh.")

Shuffleboard!
(The awesomeness cannot be denied.)

Mango Tree! With Mangos!
(It took us forever to figure out what kind of tree this was. Also, I hate mangos. Also, I think it may be spelled "mangoes," but that makes me think of "man toes," and therefore I don't spell it that way. Because, ew. And also I'm too lazy to look it up.)

Awesome Spiny Cactus
(It's ridiculous how much I love this cactus.)

Aloe Plant!
(So handy when you come home from the beach all sunburny! Except, as it turns out, raw aloe smells like B.O. Did everyone know this but me? It's seriously gross.)

And finally, Big Mama Palm Tree
(It pains me that I can't get a shot of her without the power lines. Stupid electricity.)

Mother's Day flashbacks

2011-05-09T10:17:00.001-04:00

When I was about 12 years old, my father and my brother and I did the unthinkable.

We forgot about Mother’s Day.

I suppose, if we’re really looking to assign blame here, my father’s the one to logically throw under the proverbial bus. I was only 12, after all, and in the throes of a typical self-involved, melodramatic adolescence, and my brother, at age 4, was just really excited about his bike and the cat. Dad, as the adult, should have remembered. (Sorry, Dad.)

But regardless of whose fault it was, all of us ended up in the same horrifying boat:

We made my mother cry.

Even now, more than 20 years later, I still want to climb into my closet and hide just thinking about it.

My mother never asks for anything for herself. I know everyone always says that, but it’s really true. And I don’t mean that in some kind of martyred “Oh, no, REALLY – I don’t need anything. No, REALLY (sniffle, sniffle)” kind of way. If my mom wants something for herself, she’ll get it, but she doesn’t get off on guilt-tripping us for imagined slights. She is her own woman, which is one of the things I love most about her.

But I imagine even the most independent of women like to be acknowledged now and then.

Maybe it was the respective phases of life we were all embroiled in at the time: Me in my aforementioned self-involved adolescence, obsessed (against all reason) with New Kids on the Block and talking on the phone with my friends and going on hayrides with boys who may or may not want to hold hands while pointedly not talking to one another. My brother with his diminishing dependence on my mother and insistence that he COULD SO ride a dirtbike, despite being only four. My father with his growing business that demanded his attention days, nights and sometimes weekends.

It’s safe to say we were all a little self-involved at this point.

When the morning came and went with no acknowledgement from her selfish family, my mother held back tears during church, begrudgingly ate the lunch we haphazardly slung together in a desperate attempt to redeem ourselves and then after a muted fight with my father, told us all she wanted to be alone for a little while.

We all retreated to our rooms, mortified, leaving her to clean up the kitchen.

I’ve seen some great discussions this week (on Twitter and also on this fantastic blog) about Mother’s Day, and what it means to different mothers, and the expectations therein. Do you make your mother queen for a day? Card and a phone call? Gifts? Breakfast in bed? Pats on the back? If you’re a mother, do you celebrate with just you and your family, or do you include your mother and the MIL and the grandmas and OMG where does it all end? I’m a mother to two dogs: Does that count?

All those years ago, I think my mother would have been satisfied with an extra hug and a kiss, and a “Happy Mother’s Day” followed by a heartfelt “I love you.” Maybe a card would’ve been nice. But just the act of acknowledging the absolutely ESSENTIAL role she played in our lives, just one day out of the entire year, was all she really wanted.

I remember being in my room, feeling horrible and guilt-stricken, listening to my mother sniffle in the kitchen (which happened to be right underneath my room). My room was a loft that, at that time, had no enclosing wall or door – it was open to the living room below, with only a railing separating the two areas.

I picked up a little notebook I had lying around and wrote my mother an apology. I have no idea what it said exactly, but if I had to guess, I’m sure it was something eloquent like, “Dear Mom, I am really really really really really really totally sorry that we forgot about Mother’s Day. You are awesome and I love you. And I’m really really really really totally glad you’re my mom. Love, Shannon. PS: It was totally Scotty’s fault.”

Then I folded it into a little paper airplane and, lying on my stomach near the railing, just above the kitchen, I threw it into the kitchen where my mother was still loading the dishwasher.

It fluttered down and hit the floor, but since my mother’s back was turned, the only one who noticed it was the cat, who just sniffed and batted at it disinterestedly before leaving the room. I wasn’t about to let my good deed go unappreciated (see? Selfish!), so I made a “Pssst! PSSSSSSSSST!!!” noise until she got the hint, turned around and saw the note. She read it quietly, then folded it up and put it in her pocket and stood there for a minute, staring into space.

I crept downstairs and went to give her a hug; she hugged me back, but her heart wasn’t quite in it yet.

She, of course, got over our family faux pas – I’m not even sure if she remembers this at all, actually. But I know for a fact that none of us have forgotten about Mother’s Day since then.

This year, I sent her a card that’s arriving late. I called, but didn’t visit – we were traveling, exhausted (see? Still selfish) and didn’t make the trip up.

So today, just a little late, I picked up my electronic pen and notebook and started to write.

Some things never change.

Mom, even though I didn’t forget about Mother’s Day, I’m really really really really totally sorry I didn’t get to spend it with you. You are awesome, and I love you. PS: I’m still trying to figure out a way to blame it on Scott. I’ll keep you posted.

Hello there, sunshine.

2011-05-03T17:51:00.002-04:00

On (The Day After) Her Birthday: 20 Reasons My Mom is Ultra Fabulous

2011-05-01T09:37:00.000-04:00

T and I have a running joke with my mom.

Every April 30, we tell her, “It’s a very special day today!” and when she laughs and gives us a little embarrassed smile, we say, “That’s right! It’s Murray’s birthday! YAY!!”

This usually earns us an eyeroll and a smack.

Well, it IS Murray’s birthday. (My baby is 8! How did this happen? And how did he get so fat?!)

But, more importantly, ~~today is~~ yesterday was my mama’s birthday. (We were traveling and didn't have Internet service yesterday... It still counts!)

Back in January, I wrote a post about how ridiculously awesome my dad is. (The answer: RIDICULOUSLY AWESOME.) I just want to make it clear: This post is not just so the two of them can be even-stevens on the daughter love. The below list of reasons why my mom is so completely fabulous is simply because she IS THAT FABULOUS. And if you don’t believe me, you’ve clearly never met my mother.

She’s gorgeous. She has big, dark eyes, naturally wavy hair, an amazing smile. My entire life, people have either assumed she was my younger sister, or, at the very least, insisted there’s NO WAY she could possibly have a child my age. And since she had me when she was 28, not 14, that’s saying something. The woman is beautiful. And the best part is: She has no idea.
She never knows the words to songs but she always sings along. “Then I saw her face! Now I’m a believer, I couldn’t dum dum dah-dah TRIED! Na-na-na-na face! Na-na-na believer!” (Oh, Mom – you know I speak the truth.)
She has passion. You know that part of the Bible about God wanting you to be hot or cold, but never lukewarm? My mother has got this NAILED. She holds tightly to her beliefs, whether they’re related to her faith or her fervent desire for James Durbin to win American Idol. (“He has overcome SO MUCH, Shannon!” “I know, Mom.”) For those of us with her in our corner, this is supremely reassuring. It’s also one of the things I admire most about her.
She loves Steven Tyler. She sees past the ridiculous hair and hobo-chic clothing and thinly-veiled pickup lines and sees the REAL Steven. “I don’t know why, I just really like him!” I don’t know either, Mom, but it is awesome.
She has the best laugh, ever. EVER. She is the only person I know who can make me laugh until I cry without even saying anything remotely funny. We will catch each other’s eye and start laughing just because, then forget why we’re laughing and start laughing at each other laughing, until we’re both puddles of tears and goo and mascara, and my father and T are left looking at each other, bewildered. We can’t explain it. And we certainly can’t control it. Nor would we ever want to.
She is the consummate compassionate nurse. Before she retired a few years ago, she spent the majority of her nursing career caring for the elderly in nursing and retirement homes. I’ve had the privilege of seeing her in action, and the way she listens and offers a gentle touch and reassurance is, frankly, humbling. I told her a story recently about a nurse who, as I was having a semi-painful procedure done, simply reached out and touched my shoulder. It brought tears to her eyes. “That’s exactly what I’ve tried to do,” she said. “That’s what nursing is all about.” If only there were more nurses out there like my mom, eh?
She cries at the drop of a hat. Good stuff, bad stuff and everything in between – my mom is an emotional gal. And, guess what? I’m exactly the same way. Together, we will buy stock in waterproof eye makeup and Kleenex. And then we will rule the world! Right after we stop crying.
She makes the world’s best lasagna. Maybe you think YOUR mother makes the best lasagna. You are wrong. Homemade, from-scratch sauce, NO ricotta cheese (yecchhh), heavy on the mozzarella. Mmmmmm…
She still thinks my father is cute. I mean, how adorable is that? I will be laughing at something my dad said/did/wore, and she’ll laugh fondly and say, “Isn’t he cute? He’s cute. Definitely cute.” It’s totally cute.
She is a Nana with a capital “N.” Since the moment my niece was born, my mother has been RIGHT there, soaking up each and every moment of her new Nana role. True, I think she’d encase Cadence in head-to-toe foam rubber if she thought my brother would let her (she’s a weeeee bit overprotective). But the role fits her like a glove. She was just always meant to be a Nana.
She is feisty and fiercely independent. She always wanted a career and went after what was important to her. After taking a break to be home with us for awhile, she fulfilled her dream of owning her own gift shop and then went on to finish her career as a highly-respected nurse. More than anyone else in my life, she has always instilled in me that I can do anything, and I don’t need to depend on anyone else to take care of me.
She thinks the word “fart” is vulgar. There’s something so great about still being able to shock your mother when you’re 33 and a little gassy.
She knows what she wants, and what she doesn’t want. My mother is not your crafty, let’s-bake-some-bread kind of mother, and she makes no apologies for this. She’ll never let herself be guilted into doing something she doesn’t want to do. She’ll smile, laugh, then say, “Nope. I don’t want to. Not doing it.” End of discussion. There’s something so great about that.
She’s an amazing friend. She either read the book or saw the movie Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and began calling her group of girlfriends her “Ya-Yas.” This group of women, all in their late 50s and early 60s, go out to dinner, have sleepovers, help each other through unimaginable heartache and are right there when one of them needs a hand. When one of their number was recently laid up with a chronic illness, my mother and her fellow Ya-Yas stormed her house and just hung out in her bedroom, telling stories, playing with her dogs and giving line dancing demonstrations. (No, really.) I have my own set of Ya-Yas, and I love – LOVE – that this is something we have in common.
She is still my biggest cheerleader. When I was growing up, she came to every volleyball game and then, when I came to my senses and realized an athlete was precisely what I was NOT, she came to every play and every concert. When I was asked to speak at my alma mater recently, she squealed and then said excitedly, “Can we come watch you?”
She is trustworthy. For starters, she’s the only person in the entire world I would trust to pick out clothes for me, even though our styles are quite different. And while she loves a good dish session, she is a locked vault if you ask her to keep a secret.
She can laugh at herself. A few weeks ago she told me about an article she read that said by the time you turn 35, you’re already as much like your mother as you ever will be. “So you have two more years to go,” she said, eyes twinkling. “What do you think it’s going to be next? Haha!”
She loves the Cleveland Indians. About 20 years ago, after previously showing very little interest in sports, period, she suddenly developed a fierce and undying passion and loyalty for the baseball team. I’d come home from school and the game would be on TV in the family room and on the radio in every other room in the house so she could go from room to room without missing a play. She jumped at the chance to get season tickets a few years ago and, although she’s generous with them when others want to see a game, she’ll also make the 1 ½ hour trip to Cleveland by herself multiple times a week, just because “It’s fun, and I like it.”
She’s loud. Ask T: She has an uncanny knack for making my phone-voice volume raise about 10,000 decibels whenever she calls. Sometimes we just yell things for no reason, because it makes us laugh. I love it.
She will never, ever stop being my mommy. I'm 33, and she still worries. When I told her about a recent harrowing tale of traveling for work, she said, “Oh, I wish I could have known so I could’ve prayed for you! But I’m kind of glad I didn’t know, so I didn’t have to worry, either.”

She calls me for no reason other than to ask how things are, and to talk about American Idol.

She gives the best, tightest hugs that make me feel so very safe and loved.

She takes out stitches and gives medical advice at midnight and cries with me and laughs with me and tells me “You can do it!”

Mom, you know you’re fabulous. But I don’t know if you know just HOW fabulous you are. And somehow, that makes me love you even more.

Happy birthday! Oooh, I love you!

World? Meet Ozzie.

2011-04-13T11:16:00.000-04:00

Since the day we got Murray and saw the joyousness that is two dogs playing together, we pretty much knew we'd have two dogs for the rest of our lives.

Not only is it adorable when they play together (even when it sounds as though they're killing each other), they can entertain each other, learn from one another, be better with other dogs -- and all with relatively minimal effort on our parts. It's really a win-win, like, all over the place.

So we knew, when we lost Bubba, that another dog was in our future at some point. The question became: When? When have we grieved enough, when will it feel as though we aren't trying to "replace" the dog we've lost, when will Murray be so sad that we just have to get him another little brother (which is what happened the last time around)?

In the end, it didn't come down to any of those things. Murray was, actually, OK with being an only dog this time around. Neither of us felt like we were overwhelmed or wanting to replace Bubba -- he'd been sick for so long, we'd made our peace with losing him, as much as one can. It ended up a matter of practicality.

Both of us are home much more now. Caring for the constant needs of a puppy would be less of a burden than if both of us were at an office full-time. We have neighbors who are excellent and willing caretakers if we ever need to go out of town. And, most importantly: We still have Murray, who has proven himself a stellar big brother, teacher, patient playtime companion and selfless snuggler.

T found a couple in our area who were selling boxer puppies. This worried me. I understand my husband's strong desire to get a puppy, so we can train it from day one, but I don't want to perpetuate the puppy mill atrocities. But I agreed to go look, with the understanding that we'd hightail it out of there if I got a whiff of mill-dom. And, because we are impulsive when it comes to these things, I forced T to leave his wallet at home. :)

My worries were put to rest the moment we met the lovely elderly couple. The boxer parents were their beloved pets, living in their home, and not churning out litters left and right. After taking the day to think about it and discuss (to death) all the possible pros and cons, T went out and bought this bed:

...and we brought home our new family member, complete with a blanket and a few weeks' worth of food from that lovely elderly couple. (Have I mentioned they were lovely? They were.)

Here, we introduced the two new brothers. Apologies for the grainy cell phone pics; just assume Murray's face is saying, "Seriously? You brought me another one of THESE?" Shortly followed by "PLAY PLAY PLAY PLAY PLAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY!"

So, world: This is our Ozzie when we brought him home at six weeks old, just a teeny-weeny, itty-bitty thing:

Tiny pink paws! I die.

"Hey, New Mom. You do realize this toy is as big as my head, right?"

There are many things I love about our little muffin. One of my faves is his nose:

It's splotchy! Part of it is pink! His lips look as though they're coated in pink lipstick!

We were pretty much destined to love him.

It helps to remember this when he's biting our toes (OMG, I forgot about puppy needle teeth!), carrying shoes that are bigger than him across the room, chewing on the coffee table and the curtains and the drywall (...really?) and generally just being the spawn of Satan.

It also helps that he knows how cute he is, and understands the value of crawling into Mama's lap for a nap.

They call it "the puppy dog look" for a reason, people.

More photos to come. (Um, duh.)

Airport eavesdropping

2011-04-12T19:43:00.003-04:00

Businessman 1: Hey, Al! How are sales? Heading to D.C.?

Businessman 2: Yep! D.C. Sigh! Oh, man. Well, I'll talk to you later -- my gate's over here.

Businessman 1: Later, numbnuts.

(Lest you think these were young frat boy types, both of these men were well over 40 and wearing suits. I think one of them might have been wearing a pinky ring.)

I don't know whether I think this is hilarious or just deeply disturbing. Or sadly indicative of way things just ARE in Corporate America.

OK. Kind of hilarious.

But the pinky ring is just gross.

A brief, non-African-safari-type interlude

2011-04-11T10:04:00.002-04:00

So I think we can say that March was a month of epic FAIL for this blog. As you can see, I managed to post twice during the entire month. And April isn't off to much of a start, either.

I really wish I could say I was doing something exciting like climbing Kilimanjaro sans sherpa or glamorous like...showering two days in a row.

No such luck.

Instead, I've been trying to meet some wicked work deadlines, burning the midnight and weekend oils, and catching some sleep now and then.

And, OK, I also:

Eked out a few minutes of playtime with the new puppy

Was asked to speak at my alma mater

Immediately began freaking out about speaking in public for the first time since taking a public speaking class at said alma mater

Was swindled by an old, crusty man

Am currently counting the days until vacation (Florida in T-minus 19 days!)

Sadly broke my four-month caffeine-free streak (some things are unavoidable)

Have missed all of you terribly

The crazy work times won't really be over until June. But there are simply too many things swirling around in my head that need to be jettisoned, and T is getting really tired of listening to the same stories over and over.

So.

Next up: Introductions. After that? We'll see.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: Tiny Written Permission

2011-03-02T10:47:00.000-05:00

It's Wednesday, and we're all tired. OK, maybe it's just me. But they, the mythical "they," invented Wordless Wednesday for a reason, and that's because us incessant talkers/typers need a break in the middle of a week.

And so I give you some classic WP moments in time, with minimal wordage because, let's face it, I can never ACTUALLY shut up completely.

Fishin' with the Grandparents, circa 1980

See how happy we all look? That's because we hadn't left yet. My grandpa is a serious fisherman, and when my three-year-old squirmy self got bored and started throwing rocks at the fish, he was NOT amused. On the other hand, look at his wicked '70s 'stache! So awesome. Also awesome: My tiny, ridiculously-spazzy golf pants. Rock-throwing-scoldings aside, this is a great memory.

Tiny Shannon Reads the Classics, circa approx. 1978

Number one: Why do I look like a tiny Latino boy?

Number two: Is it just me, or does the ceramic jug/chimney-sweep-broom combo make it look as though we were living in coal mining country? (We were in suburban Ohio.)

And number three: My mom still has that tiny rocking chair for my niece to use when she visits Nana and Papa. The ciiirrrrcle of liiiiiiiiiife!

Happy Wednesday, friends.

...and if I say no?

2011-03-01T10:08:00.001-05:00

I've said it before: My mother-in-law's gifts might sometimes be strange, but they are almost always awesome.

I am a huge, HUGE fan of the practical gift. (Well, from anyone except T -- your significant other should only buy you fun things. Although I still love my food processor, honey. Really.)

Anyway.

Due to snow, work schedules and various other things (but mostly snow, because holy crap, SNOW OVERLOAD this year), we were just last week able to make the trek to Virginia to celebrate Christmas with T's family. Other than the seeing-the-family parts of these Christmas trips to VA, my favorite thing is replenishing what I like to call "The Stash."

Before you get any bright ideas, no, my in-laws are not cultivating the Ultimate Cash Crop in their backyard or basement-greenhouse.

My MIL? She cultivates toiletries. And I reap the fruits of her labor.

In the 10 years T and I have been together, I have never once purchased a razor. I can probably count on one hand the times I've had to buy myself soap, body wash or toothpaste. If I run out of something, all year long I can throw wide the doors of the magical linen closet or vanity in my bathroom and grab new supplies from The Stash. And at Christmastime (or sometimes in late February), when The Stash is running low? MIL to the rescue!

I absolutely love it.

This year, MIL absolutely outdid herself. Body wash, soap, razors, lotions, scrubs, shampoo and conditioner -- my poor little heart nearly pitter-pattered itself to death. I LOVE this stuff.

But as I gazed upon my new, lovely-smelling bounty, something snagged my eye.

It was a picture...of a carrot.

Um.

What?

I don't read a lot of magazines or online health-and-beauty-type articles, so it's entirely possible I missed the Carrot Coup that's sweeping the nation. But this just seemed so...random.

Carrots?

Let's look a little closer:

OK. Something you should know about me: I'm totally down for anything with more natural ingredients than chemicals. And these Yes to Carrots marketers were speaking my language. Carrots, pumpkins, sweet potatoes AND mud from the Dead Sea? Awesome.

Second: I had no idea what a Paraben was. But since these Carrot Folk are super excited about NOT having any, I assumed it must be bad. And it sounds like it probably is.

Let's look at the directions and "Yay, us!" spiel on the mud mask:

Totally cheesy? Yep. And I'm not sure how accurate it is that everyone who loves vegetables has great skin (I'd like to see more research on that, Yes to Carrots executives).

But then I tried the Moisturizing Body Scrub.

And you know what? My skin looks AWESOME. The scrub doesn't smell like much (which you'd expect, since, you know: carrots and sweet potatoes and pumpkin bits and Dead Sea things), but it's delightfully scrubby and it actually did lovely things to my wintery-dry skin of despair.

I looked up the Yes to Carrots website, and apparently this "Say Yes to..." phenomenon has extended to tomatoes, blueberries and cucumbers as well, depending on your skin type. (And they have a Baby Carrot line for...well, babies. ADORABLE.) And in addition to face and body, they also do hair! It's actually quite fascinating.

So there. I have said YES to the awesome Stash-replenishing of my MIL and, subsequently, YES to the carrot. And since this is a completely-unsolicited and mostly-unresearched opinion piece that will in no way garner me free stuff, you can totally trust me. Or, you know, don't. It really doesn't matter to me either way.

:)

...hello?

2011-02-28T10:06:00.004-05:00

So, remember that time when I had a blog, and I wrote things in it, and you read it and we laughed and cried and had happy, fun times?

Yeah, it's getting harder for me to remember that, too.

I'll be honest: 2011? Not off to a banner start.

And work is like a runaway train with zero scheduled stops.

But in the last few weeks, I've come to realize something.

I need this space. And I need all of you.

How do I know this?

When I'm falling asleep? I'm writing blog posts in my head. Driving? I'm thinking about something that happened that I want to blog about. Sitting through the second half of a two-hour conference call, struggling to pay attention to tech specs? I'm remembering a picture I want to share with all of you.

When my long but satisfying work days are over, my brain? She's exhausted. And the idea of putting aside an hour to write is almost immediately swallowed up by the sheer joy of conversation with my husband and the television's mindless entertainment.

But I can't ignore those falling-asleep, driving-zone-out subconscious nudges any longer.

So, I'm back. Is it going to be like November, when I diligently posted every day and triumphantly finished NaBloPoMo? Most certainly not. But this is more of a need for me than I think I realized. And it's time to make it a priority.

See you soon. :)

(That's supposed to be a warm fuzzy. Because writing things here gives me...oh, whatever, you get it.)

Trend I Don't Get #734

2011-02-03T09:46:00.000-05:00

The black-tipped French manicure:

Or, if you're really fancy:

I just think it makes it look like you have dirty fingernails! I'm sorry. I just don't get it.

Am I alone in this??

(I do like the chick's ring in the first picture, though.)

Doo, doo, doo, lookin' out my back door

2011-02-01T10:48:00.001-05:00

That's my deck out there. Can you see it through the glass?

Nope, we don't have beveled glass, and my phone camera quality isn't THAT bad.

That's ice, yo. Coating our sliding glass door.

I'm staying inside.

(On a related note, fat dog trying to balance on sheets-of-ice-covered lawn while pooing = hilarity.)

My turn.

2011-01-28T09:38:00.001-05:00

Dear readers, I intended to write today about Bubba, to say my piece about the wonderful family member we just lost.

I was going to talk about how he, with one "get-me-outta-here!" look on our first meeting, stole our hearts. How he saved Murray and, really, his daddy too, from their grief over losing Hobbes. How his gentle, I-love-everyone-and-I-really-mean-it attitude made him, in my eyes, the perfect dog for kids, and how devastated I am that he'll never meet ours.

But leave it to my husband to show me up.

T asked me several months ago if he could be the first person on my blog to talk about Bubba. Since he never asks me for anything, of course I said yes. I'm ashamed to admit, I never dreamed he'd do quite that amazing of a job of it. It's true, he isn't a writer. But he captured perfectly what kind of dog Bubba was, and just what he meant to our little family.

There's really nothing I can say that's any better than that.

So instead, I'll say this:

Thank you.

To all of you who've reached out to me/us this week via e-mail, text, Twitter, Facebook and this blog, you have no idea what it meant to me. Just knowing you guys were thinking of us, and that you really GET why losing a "pet" means something more to us than just that -- it's sustained me, it really has. And I know it's meant the world to T, too.

********

I'm sitting here in my home office, with Murray snoring at my feet, wondering if he really knows his brother is not coming back. He shows us in little ways that he does, but he isn't showing the overwhelming depression he exhibited when Hobbes died. Part of that, I'm sure, is that he's nearly eight years old instead of one. But I hope part of it is that we're handling it better ourselves this time, too, and really focusing on trying to make sure he's OK.

One thing's for sure: We all miss Bubba, and the house just doesn't quite feel the same.

Last night, I had a dream. In the nonsensical way of dreams, I was at my parents' old house with Bubba (someplace he'd never been in real life), trying to feed him pizza crust, one of his favorite things EVER, even when he was sick. He took a piece, spit it back out, then somehow sprouted human hands, enough to show me in sign language: "Tummy hurts." Just as I did on the last day of his life, my dream self said, "I know, buddy. It's OK."

And, you know? It is. As much as it hurts, we still have peace.

********

Thank you, again, for indulging both T and me as we come to terms with our grief. Back to regularly scheduled programming next week, just as we're trying to get back to normal life. Have a great weekend, y'all.

Bubba (featuring guest blogger T)

2011-01-27T09:38:00.001-05:00

This is Guest Blogger T. Shannon’s T, not just a random T. First off, all apologies for the length of this post, but I feel no need to be concise. I should also apologize for the grammatical errors that are sure to occur. I am far from the writer my wife is. I am clueless as how to add pics, so S might do it in edit. Nothing groundbreaking or awe-inspiring will be said here. This is just the story I want to tell.

(For all non-dog lovers please go elsewhere, what are you communists? Click on the next blogger, I’m sure their drab introspections on life are a hoot.)

Doggies

In 1997 I lucked out in the dog lottery with the greatest dog that ever lived, Hobbes, a brindle boxer. Yes, he was the greatest dog that ever lived and your dog does not compare. I have never even met your dog and I know that to be a fact. You’re, of course, arguing with me, “No, Sir Barks-a-lot was the greatest dog ever,” “No, P. Doggy could run circles around your dog,” “Well Kim Kardaschund is the bestest ever." You’re all wrong. My dog, not yours.

Hobbes-y

Obviously, I’m joking a little (no I am not at all). My point is you had better be arguing with me. Of course, our own dogs are the greatest ever and we’ll all defend them. Hobbes was the greatest joy in my life. (Besides Shannon.) I could legitimately write scores of chapters on Hobbes, but that’s not my point for this story. Just know that Hobbes was my dog and the thought of ever replacing (I hate the use of that word in this case) him was not happening. When he passed away, we still had Murray, another brindle boxer, decidedly Shannon’s dog. Murray was extremely sad. Hobbes was his world, his big brother, playmate, protector, best friend.

Hobbes and Baby Murray

But, after some cajoling we decided to get another dog; this was to be “my” dog.

We were definitely set on getting another boxer, no other would suffice, love boxers. We showed up to a house with boxer puppies. First off, whoa lady, clean up some, your house is not intended for the sole use of a doggy outhouse. Seriously, 17 dogs lived in the house, NONE were house trained. The stench and her two teeth aside, one cute little boxer was hiding behind a couch and wanted nothing to do with his then-brothers and the other madness going on this house. That’s my dog, right there. He wants out as badly as I do. OK, so he’s covered with fleas, has a HORRENDOUS cough, he’s a fawn not a brindle, seems to be shy and doesn’t have that boxer spazzy hyperness that I love. This was “my” new dog. He was born on Dec. 17, 2004, was now 6 weeks old, and was going to be named Bubba. Bubba Ray to be precise, a nod to my hillbilly upbringing and since Shannon would never allow me to name my firstborn that, he would have to do.

We brought him home that day, after a quick stop at our friends' work to show him off. (They had asked us, oh, about 3 hours earlier if we ever thought about getting another dog. I guess we’re impulsive. Ooh, shiny.) Yes, indeed, the cajoling I referred to was just one of our friends asking if we had ever thought about it. (I dare you to walk into a room full of puppies with money in your pocket and not walk out with a new best friend.) Anyway, just like that we have a new addition to our humble home, Bubba. We get Bubba home and introduce him to Murray. Cue the string quartet. (HEY SHANNON!! Here would be appropriate place for the pic of baby Bubba and Murray meeting) :

Love at first sight does exist. Now if Shannon puts up the pic I’m thinking of, it doesn’t look like love. It looks like we’ve invested in a Devil dog. Bubba told Murray, “You might outweigh me by 80 pounds, but your ankles are in striking distance, Charge!!” Later on that day:

With our assistance Bubba got up on our couch and immediately went and laid down on Murray. A scene that has repeated EVERY day for 6 years. Buddies. It was readily apparent we had made the proper decision, the fleas went away, the cough left, the worry of 17 other dogs running over him passed. Another overwhelmingly obvious fact was Bubba was not “my” dog, he was Murray’s dog.

Dear readers, please forgive me, as I have never read this blog before, but I am sure that Shannon has frequently put up pics of their “companionship,” well Shannon, put the one where they’re spooning. And, no, we did not pose them for this pic.

We did, however, pose Bubba for this pic:

Hopefully, the previous pics illustrate how close they were. They never slept apart, always one on the other, and 9 out of 10 times it was Bubba on Murray. Let’s face it, Murray can handle it, he’s svelte. (Svelte means fat, right?) Point is, they have never been apart for 6 years.

We were lucky enough to be able to move to the country shortly after pairing the two and they went crazy. Acres to run around on and play with each other. Anyone that knows boxers know the 10-minute-long “run”: Run as fast as you possibly can in the most possibly random directions ever, stop, then repeat. This was also done inside of our house. This was Bubba’s favorite pastime. That and to attack Murray’s ankles, never got old. They loved to chase the random bird, curse the stray cat, find out what a snake is together, run away from butterflies (yes they did that), get lost in snow drifts that are taller than them, play “King of the Deck,” and of course their favorite, catch the bunny rabbit. Happiness.

Bubba was the quintessential happy dog. Never met a dog or person that he didn’t like and in return didn’t like him. Bubba was gentle versus Murray’s brute strength. Bubba had a clipped tail that we lovingly call his ‘nubbin. Wagged the live long day. It only stopped when he slept and even sometimes when dreaming it kept going. And Bubba loved to sing. Engage him with a staring contest and he would sing to you and break your concentration. He always won, cheater. Leave the house for 5 minutes and you were greeted the same as if you were gone for days. Have a bad day? He knew and you should be prepared for an hour of kisses. Have a lap? He’s in it. Hide Shannon in an unknown room with a blanket over her, he’s your man to find her. (Most times.) Put him in funny poses with different clothes and accessories, and he’s patient enough to indulge you. Bliss.

On June 12th, 2010 Bubba was diagnosed with Lymphoma, cancer. F**k! What do we do? What are the options? Chemo? Medicate? What do we do? He’s only 5, this can’t be. How did it happen? How long do we have? What will he go through? Will he understand what’s happening? What’s best for him? What’s the vet’s advice? Who does the procedures? What will it cost? What do we need to do? If we do this how long does he have? What are the success rates? Will he suffer? How will we know when its time? Do we want to put him through that? Will this hurt him? What should we feed him? These are the scores of questions that came up.

Unfortunately, our normal vet was out of town when we took Bubba in for diagnosis, and the new vet started him on steroids and antibiotics. We did not realize at the time, but if you were to consider chemotherapy for your dog do not start them on that course of treatment. The success rates are exponentially decreased if they’re started on steroids and antibiotics before chemo. This made our decision easier, along with our vet's eventual advice of not going through chemo. We were given 2-3 months with the steroid/antibiotic treatment; the vet said he’s seen it last 6 months, max.

Day one of treatment and every subsequent day we started out with meds and my telling Bubba, "We’re fighting this, you and me. We’re not giving up. I’m not letting go and neither are you." Day one was June 12th, and with an unlikely prognosis of 6 months at best we set our sights on Dec. 17, Bubba’s 6th birthday. That’s the goal. 6 months and 5 days away, no problem we can do it.

Bubba’s first surgery, our first hope: With lymphoma there are different types, one being beatable and one not, or it possibly could be lyme’s disease. To find out the type Bubba needed to have a lymph node removed from one of his legs. We did it. Took a week to determine. Fingers crossed, prayers flying. The scar was huge and ultimately the hair never grew back. Type was not beatable, back to the fight.

Several weeks later we were dogsitting for one of our neighbor’s dogs that happened to have fleas. Now Bubba has fleas. Apparently, Bubba is very allergic to flea bites and received a “hot spot” right on his ‘nubbin. (A hot spot is when green ooze flows out a dog’s skin. Not a pretty sight. Imagine his tail sneezing while battling a sinus infection.) Anyway, we had to scrub harshly with Dawn and a dish towel, which removed all the hair from the ‘nubbin. Again, the hair never grew back. Gave him a pill to kill off the fleas. Back to the fight.

Aug. 12th: 2 months, done. Sept. 12th: 3 months, toodles. The initial 2-3 month timeline laid to the wayside. Good appetite, good nature. Bald ‘nubbin wagging at full force. Beginning of December. Fight, fight, fight. Dec. 17th, still standing! Happy Birthday!! Bil-Jac and Frosty Paws all around. OK, let’s get to Christmas: Got it. We can make it to the New Year: Passed it. Bear with me here, Elvis’s Birthday, you can do it. MLK day, no problem. Groundhog day’s next, c’mon Punxsutawney Bubba.

Bubba became very sick this past weekend. The appetite left, the ‘nubbin slowed, movement was gone and so on and so forth. It wasn’t a struggle to make the ultimate decision. We love Bubba very much and knew it was time. We were prepared, but not ready. I didn’t want it to have to come to this, but here we are. My fight chant went from "fight, fight, fight" to "you don’t have to fight anymore." "Never give up" was replaced with "it’s ok to let go." Bubba was much more the fighter than me. I attribute that to his not wanting to leave his momma, Shannon. Not wanting to leave Murray alone one more time. Not wanting to see me sad.

Bubba lost his fight today, Jan. 26th, 2011. He made it 7 months and 14 days, when he was given 2-3 months. We showed ‘em. It wasn’t enough. I wanted more. Years. Having said that, I’m thankful for every extra day that we somehow stole. Not one of them was taken for granted.

In 2004 when we lost Hobbes my mother asked our preacher a childlike question, “Do dogs go to Heaven?” He answered, and I believe rightly so (paraphrasing), “No, dogs don’t have souls and therefore don’t go to Heaven.” I believe his answer is correct and who am I to judge its accuracy. But will I be spending my night dreaming that Hobbes and Bubba finally meet in Heaven and play all day long? You’re damn right. I will dream that sweet dream every night. Right or wrong the thought of them being together is a beautiful thought and makes the pain all that much more bearable.

Bubba’s ‘nubbin. Now throughout this “ordeal,” Bubba did slow down: no more running, no more attacking Murray’s ankles, no jumping on your lap. That part of Bubba was gone. But the ‘nubbin remained the same. If the ‘nubbin was the measuring stick, Bubba was healthy as a horse (save the last few days). Today’s trip to the doctor I had to carry Bubba in. When I sat Bubba down and the doctor came in, it was classic Bubba, ‘nubbin flying saying “Hello friend!” When we said our good-byes, my boy let me know everything was ok with a little ‘nubbin wag.

My prayers at the beginning of this were for spontaneous remission. It’s happened before so why not for Bubba? It didn’t happen and my prayer tonight will be a simple one.

Bubba, you fought well. You did so good. I’m so very proud of you. I hope we did good by you. I miss you. I will never forget you. I love you.

Good Boy.

I.O.U.

2011-01-21T10:22:00.002-05:00

Oh, yes, it's one of THOSE posts again.

Wherein I tell you "I'm so busy" and "work is crazy right now" and "here are all the things I'm GOING to write about when things slow down."

(You're probably reading that in a sarcastic, whiny tone. But I prefer the quiet, sincere, regretful, staring-at-my-shoes tone I'm adopting in my head. Your choice.)

So, yes. I'm so busy, and work is crazy right now, so here are all the things I'm GOING to write about when things slow down. Don't give up on me, 'kay?

Music challenge update! Yes, it's true: I asked and you delivered. AND HOW. So far, including the 10 bands I put out there for feedback in my original post, I have 65 recommendations to spin through. SIXTY-FIVE. Y'all are committed to your music, and I love that. I've been taking my assignment seriously and have spent time with 10 of those 65 so far. My (honest) opinions will be forthcoming.
Crafty fun times! I made a few things for Christmas gifts and am working on a few more. And you get to SEE THEM! Yippee!
Poo: A conundrum! It's a problem, people. I know some of you feel my pain. (And before you get really skeered, this is a doggie post, so you aren't going to be getting all up and personal with me. I would never do that to you. Probably.)
The garlic story! Finally! It's a classic.
My most treasured possessions! It's like a tour of why I am a sentimental weirdo. I have a lot of treasured possessions. In fact, maybe I need to make this a series... (And if you're worried I might be opening myself to thievery by sharing my most treasured items on the Internet, never fear -- they're all worth less than $5.)

See? How can you abandon me when all that amazing stuff is just RIGHT around the corner?

(Please don't leave me.)

Hugs.

Wordless Wednesday: Making Me Laugh Today

2011-01-19T10:03:00.001-05:00

www.icanhascheezburger.com

I know. I'm a dork.

Well, it's one more than 299, I'll give it that.

2011-01-18T09:46:00.002-05:00

No, I'm not about to tell you about my three-day weekend adventure with shirtless, six-pack-toting, sword-wielding warriors. ("And then I said, 'Can I pet your stomach?' and he was all, "RAWRRRRRRRR!!!! I must avenge SPARTA!!' and then we laughed and laughed.")

And I did not dine in hell yesterday. Although my cooking IS extraordinarily bad.

Nope.

This is my dubiously-clever way of presenting...my 300th post! Hooray!

***

It still amazes me how many times I'm asked, "So...what IS a blog, anyway?" (Apparently, even in 2011, I run in techologically-challenged circles.) My standard answer is, "It's kind of like an online journal." To which the reply is always, "Weird. So, what do you write about?"

And, you know? It's kind of not an easy answer. Because my blog doesn't have a theme. I'm not campaigning for a cause or debating heated political issues. It's not a mommy blog, and it isn't about cooking or crafting or dogs or family or friends, although I talk about all those things.

So when I'm asked, "What's your blog ABOUT?" I usually say something like, "Just...kind of... whatever I'm thinking about at the time. Things that happen to me. What I think about things. Pictures of things in my life. My life -- it's about MY LIFE."

At which time they eye me suspiciously, noses wrinkled, and say, "And...people want to read about that?"

Shockingly, yes; a few of you do.

For which I am both unbelievably amazed and incredibly grateful.

My friend Maura at 36x37 beat me to the punch a bit with her post yesterday about the mentor we both share, the woman who made both of us better writers and editors. Both of those women have factored so greatly into my journey as a writer -- I can never adequately express to them how grateful I am to have learned at their sides.

But all of you? You have and are continuing to help me become a better blogger.

And as a professional writer/editor, I'm here to tell you: There IS a difference.

When I was in school, I lived for creative writing. I wrote long, fanciful stories and plays, creating colorful characters and even starting a novel or two. My imagination knew no bounds, even when I drifted toward and eventually graduated with a degree in journalism. I was sure that, amidst my articles and columns, I would still pursue writing creatively.

Then, I graduated from college. I spent years as a newspaper reporter and editor, and then as a corporate communications writer and editor for a global corporation. And with guidance from my mentors, my writing became polished, tight, efficient and clear: Exactly what you want from a bank. Not necessarily what you're looking for in a novel.

So by the time I started this blog...I'll admit it: I was terrified. I hadn't written creatively in YEARS. Did I remember how to do this? Had I EVER known how to do this? Would my writing sound sterile and stilted? Did I remember how to use adjectives and create metaphors? Would I panic and end up talking about banking and website usability?

I still feel like I'm learning, and I'm still figuring out just what I want from this here space on the interwebs. And there are many, many days when I wish Written Permission DID have a theme, so I wouldn't have to think so hard about what to write.

But it's starting to feel more like home. And believe me: I am fully aware that I owe most of that to you -- you who read and comment and interact (or don't).

So: Thank you. And I hope you don't mind if I stick around for another 300 posts (or so).

The best and worst thing I've seen all week

2011-01-14T09:46:00.000-05:00

Those moments, they come on out of nowhere.

The moments when I realize: I love living in a small town.

I was giving blood at the hospital earlier this week, and upon exiting my car, I was instantly stopped in my tracks by a truck parked adjacent to my unassuming little Honda.

I know -- at first glance it doesn't look like anything unusual. Black Dodge 4x4, lawn-care sticker on the gate, not-obnoxiously-oversized tires.

But such everyday, run-of-the-mill vehicle accoutrement were clearly not enough for this driver.

Upon closer inspection:

Oh, yes, ladies. Hold on to your girdles.

Awesome.

Let's play a game: Music! Challenge!

2011-01-13T10:08:00.003-05:00

So, I have a confession to make. A really embarrassing one.

And no, it has nothing to do with tequila. Well, this time.

It's about music.

Aside from a brief flirtation into the world of grrrrl bands and indie rock in college, I...am kind of a music lame-o. I blame New Kids on the Block for starting me down this run-of-the-mill, frothy pop/rock road. I was an impressionable young 7th grader, and their fresh-faced questionable harmonies just roped me right in. Before I knew it, my bedroom was plastered with life-sized pictures of Joey McIntyre and that other one with the girly voice, and they were the only music that ever graced my giant boombox.

And even when Nirvana came along and yanked me out of the boy-band doldrums, it was a short-lived victory before I was peer-pressured away by my friends' love for mid-90s country music. (Yeah, I know. I still have a soft spot for Collin Raye, though. Leave me alone.)

But here's the thing: After college? Music wasn't really on my radar -- at least not cutting-edge music. As a lifelong singer and music lover, this probably seems like a travesty of epic proportions, but...I was busy. I had my first job, my first apartment. I moved to the city, I met my husband, reality TV was invented... Before I knew it, I hadn't purchased a CD in years and I found myself listening to middle-of-the-road Columbus pop mush and classic rock stations on the way to work. Then I started listening to Bob and Tom.

(Let's please pause for a moment of silence while I regret this phase of my life.

...

OK. Moving on.)

With the advent of satellite radio, it's almost gotten worse. There are too many choices, so I fall back on the old reliable pop stations. Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, the Black Eyed Peas, Beyonce -- it's all there. And it's fine. I guess.

But there's some part of me that's longing to recapture a little of that college indie rock phase. Or at least listen to something that isn't played in my trying-to-be-hip dentist's office and replayed on pop stations every 15 minutes to the swooning of pre-teens. Justin Bieber and his stupid, stupid hair make my soul cry, and I don't think I'm alone in this.

Recently, I started listening to a satellite radio station that plays some old faves from the '90s (The Verve, anyone?), but also throws on some folks I've never heard before. I'm intrigued by these new (to me) bands, but aside from looking them up on Wikipedia, I know nothing about them. And, more importantly...I don't know if they're really any good, or if I'll just like that one song.

So here's where you come in. I trust you much more than Wikipedia, after all, and I know some of you are serious music junkies/aficionados. So I'm asking you, please: Help me? Help me stop being a middle-of-the-road, music lame-o? Broadening my musical horizons means that, somewhere, Ke$ha (ugh) loses a little bit of her dubious magical powers.

Working together, we can make a difference.

So. Your challenge is twofold: First, I've listed some of the bands I've recently discovered below. Familiar with them? Tell me, in the comments, what you think. Are they worth my time and, possibly, cash? Or just a flash in the pan and/or into devil worship? (Now, before you get all up on your too-cool-for-school musical high-horse, all, "WTF, woman, {X Band} came out 15 years ago! Where have you been?!" -- I get it. I'm lame. That's kind of the whole point here. So just humor me, OK?)

And second, do you have a super-great indie hipster band in your back pocket that I just HAVE to know about/listen to/follow obsessively around the country? Tell me about it. I promise to listen with an open mind and report back to you. Don't worry about what I may or may not like, music-wise -- my tastes are pretty eclectic -- but if you're concerned, the bands I've listed below should give you a reasonable idea of what I enjoy.

Let the challenge begin! (And thanks, in advance, for your help.)

The Black Keys: I'm listing them first because I just saw that they hosted SNL last week, which means they probably are more middle-of-the-road than what I'm going for here. But I want your opinions nonetheless.
Cage the Elephant: I thoroughly enjoy "No Rest for the Wicked." Anything else?
The Decemberists
Ray Lamontagne: I have a sneaking suspicion he's one of those "This guy has been around FOREVER -- HOW have you never heard of him?" dudes. (And I'm pretty sure he sings that version of "Trouble" that's in the commercial about the dog hiding his bone.) But I like the guy's voice, so...he makes the list.
The Midway State
Spoon: I swear I've heard of them before, but I don't know why. Help?
Coconut Records
Eric Hutchinson: Not exactly the most badass rocker name, but I'm willing to give him a try if he's worth it.
The Thrills
Imogen Heap: Now, I'm not completely dense; I HAVE heard of Ms. Heap, and I've thoroughly enjoyed what I've heard. But I'd like your thoughts -- is she worth an extra look? Any of her stuff better than others?

Wordless Wednesday: Waiting

2011-01-12T09:45:00.004-05:00

Classic WP: That time I jumped out of a flying thing

2011-01-10T10:03:00.001-05:00

It was the summer I turned 18. I had just graduated from high school, and was still adjusting to the idea that, in just a few short months, I would be leaving my parents' house for a scary college campus. No matter that it was only three hours away and I was rooming with one of my best friends; it was a change, and change = scary.

As a kid, I wasn't usually one to take risks. I'd had the same friends nearly my entire life. I didn't like trying new foods, I watched the same movies over and over and over and over (oh, Dirty Dancing).

Any physical risks, especially, were out. I was that kid at summer camp who watched from the water's surface while her friends scaled the ladder to the high jump, then vaulted themselves into the lake in a perfect cannonball, with nary a desire to try it herself. It took me forever to learn to ride a bike because I was so afraid of falling. I couldn't even manage a decent cartwheel as a pre-teen because I was afraid kicking my legs up that high would make me fall over.

True story.

That's why, when my friend P said, "I think we should go sky-diving when you turn 18!" I just laughed.

And laughed and laughed.

Because, hello: P had been my best friend since age 5 when we discovered each other at Vacation Bible School. P had vaulted herself off many a high jump while I waited and watched; she knew better than anyone what a fraidy-cat she was dealing with.

And yet.

As I went off to college, started meeting new people, taking new classes and getting into the social scene on campus (sort of), it kept needling me. Jumping out of a plane. Who would expect it from me, the girl who never tried anything new? What a great way to show everyone the new, improved, one-quarter-of-college-educated, RISK-TAKER Shannon?

I called P before I could change my mind. "Let's do it."

On a chilly weekend in October, we headed to Canton, Ohio, and spent a day taking a different kind of course: How Not to Die When Jumping Out of Planes. We studied the planes we'd be jumping out of, learned the basic moves and techniques and watched videos of unsuccessful jumps. (After watching a tandem jump during which the instructor landed on top of the student, grinding her face into a pile of gravel, we immediately decided we were jumping solo.)

And then, it was time to practice. How do you practice jumping out of a plane? For starters, you have a cardboard replica of the actual plane inside the hangar (demonstrated here by my little brother, who'd come to support his big sister and hopefully not watch her plunge to her death):

Here was the plan: A cable would connect our rip cord to the plane, so when we jumped, it'd pull our chute for us automatically. No instructor to possibly land on us, but also no chance of newbie panicking and forgetting how to deploy the chute. We'd ride up in the plane, Step out onto a tiny platform attached to the wing -- first one foot, then both hands, then the other foot -- and then hang from the wing, letting our feet dangle. When the instructor (from inside the plane) gave us the OK, we'd let go. And fall. And hopefully not die.

It was finally time. We suited up, looking most spectacular...

...and a little like we were headed for an expedition in deep space:

Then it was time to board the plane, which looked so very much smaller and more rickety than we'd imagined:

Only three of us could go up at a time. P's boyfriend hopped in first, followed by P and then me. As we readied for takeoff, I suddenly realized: Last one into the plane jumps first. Gulp.

We took off into a lightly-clouded blue sky, with freezing-cold wind pouring into the plane. I noticed again how rattley the plane sounded. Please, God; please don't let the plane crash before we can even jump out of it.

In what seemed like three seconds, we were at 3,500 feet and the instructor was opening the door. There was literally no turning back now; the other two couldn't jump if I didn't, and there was no way I was making the pilot land the plane so I could march, humilated and un-sky-dived, into the hangar.

So I got onto my hands and knees, said a quick prayer (OK, who am I kidding: I was praying the ENTIRE time) and took the first step. Right foot onto the foot-long platform. Right hand onto the bar. Left hand on the bar. Left foot onto the teeny-weeny platform. OMG, I am OUTSIDE AN AIRPLANE THAT IS CURRENTLY HURTLING THROUGH THE AIR.

It was now or never. I let my feet go, so I was literally hanging from the airplane by only my fingers. I looked at my instructor. "BLARGH!" he yelled.

Wait. What?

"GOOOOOOOOOO! Let GO!!!"

Oh!

I closed my eyes.

I let go.

There were a few moments of gorgeous free-fall, during which I felt completely weightless and terrified and exhilarated all at once. And then I felt my chute deploy, and catch, and I remembered I was supposed to do something. Look up, see if your lines are twisted, if they are don't panic, kick your legs and grab your steering toggles. The day's lesson came back in an instant. And after 30 seconds of kicking and untwisting...

...I was flying.

Oh, friends. If you have never done this, I don't quite know how to describe it to you. All I can say is that I was immediately brought to tears by the sheer beauty of the earth I was now floating gently toward.

In those first few moments, my breath was taken. I didn't know what to do. I was alone up there; no one next to me for me to turn to and say, "Oh. My. God. Are you seeing this?!" What is the proper response in those moments of breathless silence?

Me? I started to sing. And I sang and I sang, up where no one could hear me except God Himself, in a moment that was unlike anything I've ever experienced, before or since.

What, you can't see me? Here I am, still singing:

I don't remember now what I sang, but it really isn't important.

As I started nearing the ground, it occurred to me that I was actually supposed to slow myself down so I didn't break my legs when I landed. I grabbed the steering toggles and guided myself as best I could toward the waiting pick-up truck in the big field where we were supposed to land.

I wish I could tell you that, after my one-person concerto in the sky, I landed lightly on both feet, touching down just like an angel, beaming beatifically as the instructors drove to retrieve me.

But I didn't. My knees immediately crumpled under me and I pitched forward to land...directly on my face. After which I completed a truly ugly version of a forward roll and came to rest on my back, legs akimbo and parachute tangled around me.

Back on earth.

And with a permanent smile on my face.

Have you heard about my new lov-ah?

2011-01-07T09:52:00.000-05:00

I was on the Droid, weeding through my junk e-mail this week, looking for an errant message from Amazon (I weed out EVERYTHING), when I saw this subject line:

"A new eCard is waiting for you!"

Ooh, one of my friends sent me an e-card. Fun!

So I clicked the link. And when the page refreshed, I saw:

A little cartoon dude holding a sign that says "I Love You"
The headline "You have a secret admirer!"
A message addressed to "Lover"

OK, so obviously, this was a spammer of some kind. Because as much as I love and adore my T, he would never in a million years send me an e-card, much less one addressed to "Lover." (I mean, ew.)

But the message was so random and hilarious that I knew I had to share it with you here. Please enjoy with me (original message in bold, my commentary in italics, all spelling/grammar errors left in):

Lover,

(I've made my feelings about this word known, I think, but it bears repeating: Don't call your significant other this. It's just creepy. Unless you say it like "LOV-ah!" while batting your eyes and making loud smoochy noises. Then it's just funny.)

This is hard for me because I have never done anything like this.. but I have a huge crush on you. I have never been able to tell you for reasons which you would quickly identify as obvious if you knew who this was.

(In addition to appealing to the reader's vanity, bravo for keeping it juuuuust vague enough to intrigue the reader and yet say absolutely nothing. Also, kudos for using the ellipses' lesser known cousin, the double-period. Definitely under-utilized.)

To help you out with your guessing I made a few pictures and videos with "Lover" written on my body. They're kind of risque photos so I had to make a profile at My Site and post them there.

(OK, let's stop right here. If I had any doubt that this was a generic message intended to bilk something out of the recipient, it's now eliminated. No one I know would write "Lover" on their body and then record this abomination for posterity. Who is falling for this? Also, convenient that the identifying material is on a site I probably have to register for. Well-played, Mystery Lover. Not.)

My username in the members area is "LoverandME200"

(Of course it is.)

You've only got 30 minutes to signup & secure anonymous verify your identity before they expire. I only have 1 chance to find you I don't want to regret this.. Please hurry.

("Secure anonymous verify" is the newest in verbs, have you heard? This was totally written by someone I know. Uh huh. Props to the writer for assuming I would regret any part of NOT participating in this. How well you (apparently) know me. "Please hurry"? Maybe to get AWAY from you.)

Step 1: Go to "my profile" and signup. Step 2: You will be sent an email. Once you click the link in the email, you will verify yourself as my secret admirer and pay the little registration fee. Get started on Step 1 & 2.

(Wait. I thought YOU were MY secret admirer. When did we change roles? Oh, a "little" registration fee? Aha! At last my secret admirer shows his/her true colors. And, P.S., "get started" is a little bossy. Not a trait I cherish in my LOV-AHs.)

I'm shy and this is the bravest thing I've probably ever done, but you need to do the rest. You are honestly the best thing about this city.

(Oh, you're right. You wrote "Lover" on your body and posted sexy pictures of yourself on the Internet. The least I can do is PAY A FEE to see who you are, even though I'm happily married and you are in no way NOT a computer. I will say, though: For a fake lover, you are a really crappy researcher. If you actually knew me, you'd know that using the word "city" to describe my place of residence is a knee-slapping joke.)

Fraudster FAIL.

On his birthday: 20 Reasons My Dad is the Coolest

2011-01-06T10:17:00.003-05:00

Oh, it's a very special day today, friends.

My beloved Dad turns 64 today.

64!

My mother is my best friend, but I have always and will always be a daddy's girl. Always. College speech class, time to give a speech about your hero? Boom, Dad. No thought required.

I've learned so much from him, even when, in my teenage angst, I just wanted to block out the sound of his voice. (And, oh please dear Lord, please never let me hear the words "attitude adjustment" ever again!)

:)

It's a Thursday. We're both working, and I can't be with him on his special day. So instead, today I give you:

20 Reasons My Dad is the Coolest
By Written Permission

His laugh. When he laughs, REALLY laughs, it's an amazing belly laugh that makes him squint his eyes up tightly and throw his head back. I love making him laugh.
His love for music. He's a fantastic singer (he's been part of a quartet for the past 20-odd years called "The Final Four," so named because they were asked to sing at so many funerals) and always sang to us. In fact, he sang ALL the time. In the mornings, getting ready for work. In the kitchen fixing himself a snack. In the bathroom doing...who knows what. Sometimes he'll break into song in the middle of a conversation. It's just part of his charm. :)
His dimples. I just discovered that he had them. He's been my dad for 33 years -- how I have not noticed this before? I blame the beard. But they're adorable.
His determination to make me into an athlete. Growing up, he took me golfing, bowling, to the batting cages -- you name it -- and bought me a volleyball for my 14th birthday. I was hopelessly uncoordinated and WAY too stubborn to take any of his coaching, but he kept encouraging me, spending lots of quality father-daughter time in the process. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little bit sad when I quit sports (for which I have ZERO talent -- sorry, Dad) for good in 9th grade, but he came to every concert, gave me roses before every play and always told me how proud he was. That's a good dad.
His popularity. He was once voted "Favorite Person" in a write-in vote in the county where we lived. (He hates hearing this part, but just between you and me, he beat out "God" and "Jesus" in the polls.)
His terms of endearment. I'm 33, and he still calls me "baby." How nice is that?
His ambition. My father is an incredible businessman who's built a pharmacy chain from the ground up. He's never afraid to ask for help and never afraid to go it alone when the situation called for it. And because he's who he is, he's learned from his failures and come out successful in the end. Very inspiring.
His generosity. Ask anyone who knows him: My dad is a helper. And while he's been a helper his entire life, now that he's semi-retired, he's kicked it up a notch, spending multiple weeks each year helping a village in Honduras build churches, schools, houses -- whatever they need. He gives his time, his money, his advice -- all freely and gladly. It's the trait of his I most want to emulate in my own life.
His ability to "watch" sports while "resting his eyes." Sorry, Dad, but no one believes this.
His better-than-average art skills. This may come as a shock to many people who know him, but he's actually pretty good with a pencil. When I was in fourth grade he illustrated a (completely nonsensical) "book" I had written since my own drawings resembled those of a psychotic prisoner.
His ability to know everyone, everywhere. Anywhere we go -- in state, out of state, places he's never been in his entire life -- my dad will find someone he knows. Or maybe everyone just feels like they know him because he's such a friendly guy. Either way, the man knows no stranger, and that's a heck of a positive way to live.
His love of being our Dad. I'm sure my brother would agree: Our dad loves us with a devotion and loyalty that, while it chafed sometimes when we were younger, is pretty incredible. Our parents were never those parents who defended us no matter what we did -- they made sure we faced every consequence head-on. But they were always there to hug us and tell us they still loved us when it was over. And now when we're adults and going through a hard time? Still RIGHT there.
His love of being a Papa. You will never see that man's eyes light up quite the way they do when my niece walks into the room and says "Papa!" He could eat her for breakfast, lunch and dinner -- he loves being a Papa that much.
His love for my mom. One year, just before Christmas, Mom was at work and Dad asked my brother and me to help him wrap her gifts. To this day I don't know what prompted it, but he said, "I love you kids so much -- you'll just never know how much I love you. And your mom...I love her most of all." At the time (I was about 12), I was silently kind of aghast. How could my dad love my mom MORE than me?! It was like telling me he had a favorite child -- betrayal! As I became a less self-centered adult (hopefully) and got married myself...I finally got how amazing that kind of love really is. And what a great example for his kids. I've never forgotten it.
His cooking. My father, hands-down, makes the best scrambled eggs and grits in the entire world. I'm salivating right now just thinking about it. He's pretty good on the grill, too. And he makes a mean bowl of cereal. :)
His nine lives. In 10 years' time, he totaled four cars and always emerged virtually unscathed (OK, maybe with a few broken ribs). And they were always the most bizarre stories. ("A flock of birds flew in front of my windshield! No, really!") If you could see pictures of the cars, you'd swear he has a guardian angel. I have no doubt. Drive more carefully, Dad!!
His inability to act his age. Christmas this year found us all at a waterpark, and my then-63-year-old father was right in the mix, as always. Running around, scaling and then throwing himself down stories-high water slides and splashing and playing with his granddaughter.
His ambiguous ethnicity. Whenever we'd go on vacation, people would start speaking to my father in foreign languages. Spanish. Italian. Middle Eastern languages I've never heard of. Even Chinese (although I think that's a bit of a stretch). And each time he was forced to say, with an apologetic grin, "Umm...I'm sorry -- I have no idea what you're saying." With his black hair and dark skin, he looks as though he might come from almost any ethnic background except his actual heritage (German/Swiss), and it is endlessly confusing to strangers who JUST want to talk to someone from the motherland.
His willingness to try new things. I'm certain if I told him my new favorite food was peanut butter and pickle sandwiches dipped in barbecue sauce, he'd at least try a bite. He never wants to miss out on new experiences, and I think that's pretty amazing.
His ability to always be himself. One thing's for sure with my dad: He'll always tell you what he thinks, and he isn't afraid to show what he's feeling. When my great-grandmother died 20 years ago, we sang her favorite hymn at her funeral, and my dad couldn't quite make it the whole way through. He put his arm around me and used his other hand to wipe away tears, but he made no effort to hide them. His beloved grandmother had died, and he was going to miss her, and my big, strong dad was going to show it. In that moment and ever since, I've known in my heart that that's what makes a real man.

Oh, Dad. There are so many more than 20 reasons why you're the coolest. Like the way you always have a book (and now a kindle) in your hand, and pretty much single-handedly fostered my lifelong love of reading. Or all the times you did ridiculous dances in the kitchen or farted at the dinner table (sorry, Mom) just to make your children laugh. Or the story of how you threw the hairbrush down the well when you were little.

There are just too many reasons to count.

So on your birthday, let me just say, from daughter to father: I love you. You really are the coolest, bestest, most fabulous-est father a girl could ask for. Thanks for being my dad. :)

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: Christmas, Part 2

2011-01-05T09:45:00.002-05:00

After the waterpark extravaganza, we were (OK, maybe just I was) in need of some quiet, traditional Christmas togetherness.

And on New Year's Day, I got it.

We ate enchiladas (seriously, NO MORE HAM, please, EVER), opened gifts, bowled on the Wii my dad bought for himself (...) and just had laid-back, fabulous family time. And no one was in a bathing suit. :)

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The Christmas crew, preparing to be whupped by the Wii Bowling queen, aka me.
(It's true. I am inexplicably awesome at fake bowling.)

My brother. The very focused, serious clown.

The niece.
While I was trying to get her to show off the scarf I knitted her,
she was apparently possessed by Chuckie. Or she ate too much candy.

Mmrph? Picture?
Hugging her amazing handmade doll from Couple More Hours!
She refused to put it down all afternoon -- HUGE hit.

Oh, this girl. She does love an audience.
This face killed me.

Cooking: Inspiration borne from desperation

2011-01-04T12:29:00.000-05:00

It started out when B and I decided to have a two-person dinner party.

"Let's do Mexican!" one of us said, and the other agreed. B would make her famous cheese enchiladas, and I would make...something vaguely Mexican to go with it.

(If you haven't figured it out by now, my cooking style could best be described as "fly by the seat of my pants and hope something OK comes out of it." Or, more accurately, "This will probably work. Right? Eh.")

When the time came, I realized too late that I hadn't put much thought into my end of the menu. (Shocker!) So, as I readied for my departure for B's, I scanned my cupboards and started throwing things into a bag.

Box of Spanish rice -- that's Mexican, right? Ish? Black beans are always good. Green chiles. Frozen ground turkey. Onions. I can TOTALLY make something out of this.

Miraculously, this time? I was actually RIGHT.

Since then I've modified the enchiladas for my non-cheese-loving (GASP) husband, added optional refried beans for the very same, and the combination has become one of our go-to meals. In fact, I made it for our Christmas-on-New-Year's-Day celebration with my parents (more on this tomorrow), and it was a monster hit.

So now I give you:

Chicken Enchiladas Meal
by Written Permission

Serves at least 4 (with some leftovers, probably)

Ingredients (for the whole meal)

Six large tortillas
1 white onion
1 green pepper
2 large cans white meat chicken
2 large cans enchilada sauce (or 3-4 small cans)
1 large or 2 small bags of shredded cheese
1 box Zatarain's Spanish Rice
1 small can diced tomatoes
1/2 to 1 pound ground turkey
2 cans black beans
1 can green chiles (or one fresh green chile)
Minced garlic
Olive oil

Chicken Enchiladas

Slice and saute a white onion and a green pepper until they're just shy of crisp. (I usually do about half the onion and the whole green pepper, but it just depends how onion-y and pepper-y you want the enchiladas.)
Add chicken to the onions and green peppers. I just use two large cans of white-meat chicken, but I suppose if you're fancy you could cut up an already-cooked boneless chicken breast.) Saute all together for about five minutes.
In a large tortilla, layer the onion/pepper/chicken mixture, a shredded cheese of your choosing (I usually use some combo of the Mexican-flavored and cheddar varieties) and a few dollops of enchilada sauce. Wrap up like a papoose and place in a baking dish *that has been sprayed with cooking spray or otherwise greased.* (I cannot emphasize this point enough.) Repeat for six enchiladas.
Once all the enchiladas are in the pan, sprinkle more cheese and a generous swath of enchilada sauce over each one.
Place in oven at 350 for about 25-30 minutes, but check on it regularly after the 25-minute mark. Remove when it's nice and bubbly and melty.

Spanish Rice

Brown the ground turkey. (You can also use ground beef, of course, or just leave out the meat. I just think it makes the rice even better, and we only use ground turkey in our house.) Drain and set aside.
Prepare the Zatarain's according to the directions on the box, using olive oil instead of butter. (The diced tomatoes go in here.) When it's ready to simmer, add in the ground meat and cover until the directions say it's done.

Black Beans

Drain cans of black beans.
In a pan, saute a sprinkling (no more than a 1/4 teaspoon; probably less) of minced garlic in olive oil.
Add in green chiles and saute for a minute or two.
Add in black beans and saute until heated through.

And, voila!

Super tasty, warms up well, takes about 40 minutes from start to finish, but most of that is just waiting for the food to finish cooking, vs. actively doing something.

Easy. Bada-bing, bada-boom.

A very furry birthday

2011-01-03T09:45:00.000-05:00

When we found out Bubba was sick and started him on his medication course, the vet told us not to get our hopes up. "With most dogs, this will get you about 1-2 months," he told us. "Best case scenario, you're looking at six months. But I really wouldn't count on that. I'm sorry."

That was in June.

Which means we, happily, are living the best-case scenario, and then some.

Both of us know that, really, there isn't anything we can do for Bubba besides give him his meds, hope for the best and give him lots of hugs, smooches and treats. But one of our goals, however silly, was to get him to his next birthday. In June, that seemed like a ridiculous goal. Completely unreachable.

But Dec. 17 rolled around, and what do you know?

Turns out our little, mild-mannered dog is a fighter.

So it was only fitting that we give the little trooper a proper birthday party, complete with Bil-Jac (aka: Dog Crack):

...and, of course, Frosty Paws:

I don't have any pictures of the actual birthday party because, frankly, it was all kind of a blur of wagging tail nubbins and drool, but here is the birthday boy in his happy post-gorge coma:

It was a good day in the Goad house. :)

Our next goal for him was Christmas, and he knocked that one out of the park. Next up? Taking 2011 by storm. We can totally do this.

Christmas, Part 1: Waterpark! Family! Christmas!

2010-12-30T10:03:00.001-05:00

Since T and I have been together, we've had a few Christmas traditions with my side of the family:

The weekend before Christmas, either Friday or Saturday, T and I spend the day with my parents and my brother (and now his wife and daughter), exchanging gifts and eating nothing but appetizers. It's both low-key and lovely.

The following day, we drive up that way again to celebrate with my extended family: Grandparents, aunt, uncle, cousins and now the cousins' gaggle of children. Big dinner, presents, games and talking afterward, a fire in the fireplace. Chaotic, millions of kids underfoot -- but lovely.

A few weeks before Thanksgiving, my mom called us at home. T answered, then quickly brought the phone to me on speaker.

"Dad and I were thinking: This year, instead of getting together with the whole extended family at our house, we would take everyone to an indoor water park!"

Silence. A moment passed. Neither Tommy nor I said a word, but we both looked at each other with our noses wrinkled. Um. What?

Doing our best to be supportive, we said, "O...K." And we found someone to stay with the dogs so we could spend an entire day celebrating Christmas...at a water park.

Now, before you start in with your "Ooh, water park! I would LOVE to do that with my family for the holidays!! Why the wrinkled noses?" let me say: I hear you. I know you water park enthusiasts are out there. We are just not part of your ranks. We are not water park people in the BEST of circumstances, and now we're going to celebrate CHRISTMAS there? In our bathing suits?!

Ahem.

The weekend before Christmas, T and I left the dogs in the capable hands of our neighbor and schlepped the hour and a half to Huron, Ohio. Which is, frankly, a completely unlikely place to have a water park, I think. And an entirely unlikely place to find the biggest water park I have ever seen in my entire life. As we rounded the corner into the Kalahari complex, our jaws dropped and the only word we said for five minutes was "...whoa."

"Huge" doesn't even begin to describe it. "Monstrosity" is getting a little bit closer. "Seven football stadiums stacked end to end" is probably more like it.

We managed (barely) to navigate through the enormous complex to our hotel and found the rest of the fam in one of three humongous suites my parents had rented for the night. (This was their Christmas gift to everyone.) Again: Insanely huge. And there sat my grandma, in her best Christmas sweater, surrounded by all the Christmas candy and popcorn balls she'd made for the occasion. In that moment, I found all of these things extremely comforting -- a little shot of something familiar in this anything-but environment.

Everyone started to arrive, and as usual, things...didn't get loud. See, half of my extended family is deaf. But in place of the usual din of a family gathering, we have even more hugging, signing and animated storytelling than your average clan. It all balances out.

And kids. Holy goodness and light, did we have kids. In addition to my niece, my aunt and uncle have four, my cousin S has three (including a be-dimpled six-month-old cherub named Gavin) and my cousin J has SIX, five of whom were present and roaming around everywhere, already trying to escape to the henceforth-forbidden balcony.

In the confusion J's second-youngest, Jaylen, ran to each person in the room and excitedly told them (in words and in sign language) that there was a BABY in the room, did everyone know this?! She immediately appointed herself guardian of young Gavin:

As said kids were starting to get antsy -- I mean, we're at a water park; let's get this swimming train out of the station! -- my dad disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a huge box in tow, practically skipping with delight.

"As everyone can see, this place is really big," he understatement-ed as my aunt translated. "So I got us all a little something to help us find each other in this giant mix of people."

Oh, yes we did.

(As my brother so lovingly put it in a text he sent me surreptitiously: "OMG. We are those people I used to throw things at.")

So, yes. We all trekked, as one large, bright-red, frolicking group, down to the indoor water park. It was not at all embarrassing. (People seemed to like our shirts, actually.)

The indoor water park? One enormous room, about 90 degrees, humid and full of wet people. It did not smell...good. T had decided not to swim (party pooper!), but we didn't want to leave the herd, so we hung out in the middle of the melee.

"You're not swimming?" one of my cousins asked. When I responded in the negative, she handed me a frightened-looking one-year-old I had just met for the first time 10 minutes prior. "Here, can you hold Jazella while we swim?" she asked, ignoring my panicked look. Before I could protest, she had rocketed across the room to stand in line for a three-story-high water slide, and I was left with a terrified spider monkey clinging to my neck.

And so went the afternoon. Random confused children were assigned to me so their parents could go have fun. I love the little'uns, but...this was not what I'd signed up for.

At last, the parents came to retrieve their young, and my niece arrived, ready to take on the Lazy River with her Aunt Shan. Hooray! Something I actually wanted to do! :)

T and I eventually escaped the asylum and headed back to the sanctuary of the main suite, where we had a lovely (non-bathing-suited) time talking to my aunt and grandparents and putting a hurt on the Christmas candy.

Around 7, everyone returned. Pizza was ordered and eaten, gifts were distributed and all of a sudden, just like that, here it was: The Christmas I'd been mourning all day. Everyone in one room, talking and laughing and signing, eating and playing, hugging and napping.

And it was lovely.

Today's definition of heartbreak

2010-12-28T11:43:00.000-05:00

Telling Bubba that, between the two of us, we've eaten all the Cheerios.

How to make Christmas dinner, Written Permission-style

2010-12-27T14:30:00.000-05:00

Buy a ham, making sure it is both A) fully cooked and B) NOT sweetened with honey, brown sugar or any other manner of sweetener, so it is actually consumed and not ridiculed by Mr. WP.
Throw ham in the oven. If there are no directions on the label, guess. (It's fully cooked already; what could go wrong?)
Make versions of your favorite side dishes that require almost zero cooking prep or time. In fact, if you can throw it in the microwave and call it a day, you're on the right track.
Take ham out of the oven, pronounce it "done" with absolutely no justification for doing so and toss it onto the table with your quickie side dishes.
Stab ham with giant knife before serving, just because it looks cool.
Mash on everything on the table, because while it might have only taken 15 minutes to make most of it, holy wow is it tasty.
Eat ham sandwiches until March.

Happy birthday, Trophy Life!!

2010-12-22T08:38:00.004-05:00

Today is a very special day.

Today, my friend M (aka Trophy Life) celebrates her very most marvelous birthday.

Let me tell you a little something about M. She is really, really funny. :) I first met her when I was a sophomore in college, and she was a visiting high school senior who slept in my loft bed. Even though she was a little high school student who was TOTALLY cramping my obviously cool college self (...), right away that girl made me laugh.

She still makes me laugh. A lot.

But she also amazes me daily. She's one of the strongest, hardest-working, fiercely loyal and caring people I've ever met. The girl is dedicated and has one of the most amazing attitudes I've ever encountered. It's been a tough year, and you know? She has come through it stronger than ever. Still hard-working and loyal and caring and compassionate, and still AMAZING.

Still gorgeous. Still smiling. Still making everyone around her laugh.

M, I cannot wait to see what the next year brings for you. It's going to be simply wonderful, I just know it. I feel incredibly privileged to call you my friend, and I hope today is fabulous.

I love you to pieces. :) Happy birthday!

Late edition: To make it up to you...

2010-12-21T14:31:00.003-05:00

I'll be honest, friends: My day job, the holidays, the pups -- it's all kind of kicking my butt right now.

How my brain looks on the inside:

A very wise friend of mine (cough, TwoPretzels, cough) told me recently to cut myself some slack. So that's what I'm doing. Or trying to do. (Love you, Ky.)

Unfortunately, that means posting on this here blog is going to be extremely sparse for at least the next week. For that I am most apologetic; I hate to think I'm depriving you of more chapters in the scintillating "Doodlefest" arena. But something has to give, and, sadly, this is one of those things.

To make it up to you, as the title of this post indicates, please accept this list of topics I WILL be writing about in the days shortly following the holidays:

A very furry birthday celebration
Waterpark! Family! Christmas! (Matching shirts? Oh, yes we did.)
Why I am a knitting extraordinare (or maybe just a master of personal marketing)
Poo: A conundrum
Cooking update: The one thing I can make well these days
20 reasons my dad is the coolest (it's almost his birthday!)
Things That Make Me Happy (in Pictures) -- a series
Classic WP: Jumping outta planes
My most-treasured possessions
The one where I finally tell the garlic story, just for Anna
New editions of NBX
The File of Love (please note that this has nothing to do with adult movies)
And more! No, really!

Note: If there's anything you'd LIKE me to write about that you don't see on the list (or something on the list that you desperately DON'T want me to write about), please tell me about it in the comments.

In closing, I will kick off the Things That Make Me Happy (in Pictures) series with the following:

My Big Money pajama pants. My mother-in-law buys really strange gifts, but they are strangely AWESOME.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year and (for me and a few of you) a big WOOHOO to the holidays being almost over! :)

For reals, though: Sending warm, fuzzy love to all of you today. Internet hug!

Thursday Doodlefest

2010-12-16T09:55:00.007-05:00

Work is crazy-busy.

It's almost Christmas.

!!!

For some reason, I decided I needed to knit presents for several of my family members. (When did I think I'd have time for that, again?)

AND we have our first Christmas celebration of the season on Saturday. And it's...at a water park. (More on this later.)

In other words: Free time is just not something I have a lot of these days. And, sadly, writing lengthy, meaningful, thought-provoking blog posts is nearly last on my priority list.

(I'm sorry.)

Which is how we've ended up here: The Thursday Doodlefest.

I had some particularly grueling conference calls this week, and sometimes, you know, you just need to doodle to keep from falling asleep. (You know you do it, too.) In the absence of any other ideas for posts, please allow me to invite you to my GALLERY OF ART (in all-caps because it is THAT IMPORTANT).

Brief disclaimer: As will become immediately evident, I am a horrible artist. I choose to believe this makes my doodles extra charming.

***************************************

1. Goofy Face No. 1

Right away, there are a few troubling elements. What is the mood of this person? He/she is smiling, but the eyebrows are cocked like "I might be smiling ironically!" The nose and the chin, obviously. And maybe most worrisome: Where is the rest of his head? Is he just a face, floating in the ether? Yes. Yes he is.

2. The Flower

This is a mainstay of my doodling repertoire. Mostly because it's kind of hard to mess up a flower. For some reason I always draw them very vine-y and/or droopy, and I always, always, ALWAYS draw one of the petals larger than the others, which then necessitates the heavy outlining and "shading" you see here.

You officially have my permission to tattoo this on your ankle. Or your right boob. (The left boob is just trashy.)

3. The Portrait

On the right: Frankie the Frankenstein ring.

On the left: An artist's rendering of the aforementioned Frankie. Yes the proportions are amazingly incorrect. But I think the likeness is remarkable. At the very least, this is good enough for a missing person's report or something, should Frankie ever be ringnapped.

4. Goofy Face No. 2 (Now with more warts!)

As with the first face, you'll note the distinct absence of any outward facial definition. This is a profile shot, so obviously we've reached the Intermediate level of Goofy Face Drawing. Key skills to master: One giant eye (giant eyebrow optional); completely ridiculous nose wart (with hair); freckles (naturally); rotting teeth in apparently-cavernous mouth (bonus points for ambiguous expression). Check, check, checkity-check.

5. Goofy Face No. 3

At first glance, it probably looks like we've taken a step back in the Goofy Face hierarchy. But I would argue that the glasses, the crossed eyes and the artfully-missing tooth in No. 3 set this Goofy Face apart from the rest. If only in a "Wow, she really wasn't kidding about the not being able to draw AT ALL" kind of way.

And besides, without the simplicity of Goofy Face No. 3, how would you ever appreciate the piece de resistance that I like to call...

6.Dog-faced Potato Girl!

Pretty sure this was one of those add-on drawings. Like, I drew a squiggly shape, and it kind of looked like a potato, so I added eyes to the body. The I drew a face, and it came out looking kind of dog-like, so I played up the nose, added wavy, hairy ears and sunglasses (obviously).

The hands and feet were probably added because, without them, it just looked like a dog-faced girl in a potato sack. And that's depressing. Although I'm not sure her tiny T-Rex arms are much of an improvement.

*****************************

In other news: This whole post was dumb, and I apologize profusely. Unless you found it entertaining, in which case: You are welcome. :)

Almost Wordless Wednesday: Mmmm...

2010-12-15T10:31:00.000-05:00

...homemade chili...

T makes the absolute best homemade chili.

It's freezing outside.

A warm, full tummy is a happy tummy.

What's your favorite cold-weather food?

NBX Vol. 5: Icky-sounding dreams, tacky-awesome crafts and Philistines of dubious origin

2010-12-14T10:16:00.008-05:00

(What the heck is this?)

This week's offering (ha! Isn't it cute how I pretend I stick to some kind of schedule with these?) is a little more subdued than the last one. But it's the holidays, so please cut me some slack.

Aaaaaaand, here we go:

Most awesomest blog name: Bourgeois Philistines of Minnesota (Maybe my favorite blog name ever. There are just so many interesting questions there. What exactly is a bourgeois Philistine? Why would one live in one of the coldest states in the U.S.? Why does the author apparently wish he had named his blog "Sober Epicurean" instead? Why does his other blog's name, Old Whig's Brain Dump, also delight me? Clearly more research is required.)

So-ugly-it's-fabulous-est blog layout: Raspberry Dreams (Basically the reason this category was invented. And it prominently features a bird, which means it gets double-bonus points for awfulness. No idea what it’s about, no desire to find out; I can’t look – it’s blinding me! Makes my eyes look like this: @@)

Most random blog post title (and/or title that best lends itself to double-entendre or horrible puns): Kayak Yak, "Crab Dream" (Because I'm frighteningly immature.)

Most engaging overall blog (for better or for worse): the flying pencil (One of those blogs I just want to sit and walk through one afternoon. Light, decent writing, original artwork. The author hasn't posted anything for awhile, but I'll certainly be checking out her backlog.)

Wild card: Most fabulously horrible crafts: At least I'm skinny (A somewhat dubious blog name, but the coasters she made with pictures of the stars of Laguna Beach are fabulously, horribly awesome.)

Have you come across an awesomely-awful blog? Share it!

Nose burns

2010-12-13T09:55:00.000-05:00

We live in the middle of nowhere. Our house's heating system? Propane. And it ain't cheap.

But we, however, are.

So rather than crank the heat to tropical levels (cough-Grandma!-cough) and spend $5 trillion to fill our propane tank several times each year, we keep the themostat set at a balmy 58 degrees.

"How can you stand it? Isn't that like living inside a glacier?" Yes. Yes it is. And so, we have these:

Space heaters. One for pretty much every room. (Except the guest room. Sorry, guests.) It does blow up the ol' electric bill a bit, but not as much as you'd think -- and it's eons more affordable than propane.

(Disclaimer: We're very safe: We never leave one running in a room unattended, and we never leave the house without unplugging all of them. Just say no to house fires.)

"So what's the problem?"

Oh, I'll tell you what the problem is. Or, better yet, I'll show you:

It seems that having a BUILT-IN FUR COAT doesn't necessarily mean you're nice and toasty all winter long. Apparently, you also need to be close to the heater.

Sorry, scratch that. You need to be ON TOP OF the heater.

How does it not burn their tiny noses? Your guess is as good as mine.

And, meanwhile, the entire room is still freezing.

But at least the important ones are warm.

Part 2: The Human Race Redeemed

2010-12-09T09:52:00.001-05:00

Need to catch up? Read Part 1.

I've had a lot of time to ~~obsess~~ think about The Showdown at Dollar General this week. And I've come to an important conclusion in its wake:

My faith in people remains intact.

And I haven't found myself wanting to lash out at someone else because of the way Psycho Lady verbally attacked me. In fact, just the opposite -- I find myself almost obsessively going out of my way to be nice to everyone I come across. I've come to think of it as my own very small way of karmically making up for PL's rant and the negativity it put out into the universe.

And the universe has responded favorably.

I was doing some Christmas shopping the other night, and I decided to grab dinner at Panera (T hates it, so I have to grab it when I'm on solo missions). It was P-A-C-K-E-D. And when I grabbed my veggie sandwich and soup and took a look around, it was clear: There was nowhere to sit. Every table was teeming with snow-covered, hungry shoppers, huddled next to the fire in the middle of the room or warming their hands on hot coffee mugs, chatting with friends or tap-tapping away on laptops.

One lone table in the middle of the room sat empty: A long, skinny table that sat about 10. One lone girl sat at one of the ends. I ventured over to her.

"Do you have a big party sitting with you here?" I asked, balancing my tray.

"No, it's just three of us," she said, smiling.

"Would you mind if I sat at the other end? I promise I won't bother you," I said, smiling back. She nodded, and I sat down, and soon we were joined by another dining refugee, looking for a place to sit. I'd brought a book, but before too long, we were all chatting, my book lying unread beside me. Can you believe the snow? It's so cold outside. So cold we had a mouse in our house! OMG, us, too. At least it wasn't a rat, right? Hey, remember that book, "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH"?

And before I knew it, these strangers and I were having a warm conversation that lasted all through our meals and even afterward. And when we parted ways, we smiled at one another fondly and wished each other a happy holiday season.

I left with a smile on my face and held the door open for someone. On the way home, I let someone merge in front of me and waved back when they waved a "thank you."

So there, Psycho Lady. You can spew venom and vitriol, and call me fat, and it will almost certainly mess up my afternoon.

But the universe reminds me every day why it's a good place, filled with basically good people. And no matter what you say, you can't change that for me.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: The stairs

2010-12-08T09:35:00.000-05:00

The newest addition to our bedroom:

Because sometimes, a dog just needs to get into bed for a snuggle. And if he doesn't have the strength to jump anymore? It's our job to make sure he gets that snuggle anyway.

(Apologies for two dog-related posts so close together. This is just kind of our main focus these days.)

Part 1: Showdown at the Dollar General

2010-12-07T09:54:00.007-05:00

Disclaimer: This is kind of a long one. You may want to grab some coffee and a snack.
Disclaimer #2: If you are my mother, one of my mother's friends and/or someone who is easily offended by colorful language, please forgive the quotes below. I try not to bring that side of my vocab to this blog very often. But sometimes there's just no way around it.

I've always been of the belief that most people are basically decent. Basically polite, basically respectful of others, basically...NICE. Or, at least they will be if you're decent, polite, respectful and nice to them.

And most of the time, it works. And maybe it's because I don't work in the food industry or in retail sales, but I choose to believe it's the Golden Rule or karma or whatever you want to call it making the Universe right.

But every once in awhile, I have an experience that challenges this theory. And Saturday was a humdinger.

On a quick Kroger run, I overhear a woman saying that Dollar General is having a huge sale on all manner of things. So, I'm thinking, what the heck: I'll stop by, pick up some cheap shampoo and see if I can find any stocking stuffers for my niece.

The store is packed, and I see several people with baskets piled high, so I grab my shampoo and a $1 Tinkerbell puzzle and I hit the checkout lines.

Two lines, each with at least four people in front of me. But, no big deal. I don't really have anywhere to be. I choose a line with three elderly patrons in front of me, capped off by a woman who's currently checking out a cart filled with food. We will call this woman Psycho Lady. (A moniker that will make sense soon, dear readers.)

Old Man, Old Woman, Older Woman and I (each with only 3-5 items in our arms) wait patiently. We wait while Psycho Lady stacks item after item on the conveyor belt. (Hey, it's a sale -- who can blame her for stocking up?)

We wait while she roots in her purse for additional coupons.

When she leaves the line to retrieve something she forgot from the other end of the store, and it takes her five minutes to return, no one complains. Old Man rolls his eyes, but continues to wait patiently. I sigh. Older woman reads about Kate Middleton's wedding dress in US Weekly.

PL finally finishes checking out, grabs her receipt and bags and heads for the door. We all breathe a sigh of relief. Old Man checks out, and heads for his car.

But lo, PL intercepts him on his way out. "I saw you got {Coupon XYZ} when you checked out. I left mine at home. Would you mind if I used it to buy {XYZ product}?" Old Man, being lovely and patient, says "Sure" and hands it over.

At which time PL darts over to the register (where Old Woman is now being checked out) and demands that the cashier check her out. Again.

"Ma'am, I'll be glad to let you use the coupon, but you'll have to get back in line," the cashier says, a little wearily. PL stares at him.

"You've got to be kidding me," she snarls, her voice dripping with venom, and she eyes the rest of us in line like we're vermin. Vermin preventing her from saving 30 cents on a bottle of detergent right.this.minute. "WHY can't you just do it NOW? You want me to go stand in line behind all these people AGAIN?"

The cashier looks uncomfortable, and Old Woman looks panicky as Pscyho Lady tries to edge her back in line. Older Woman, who is at least 85 and has now been standing in line for 15 minutes, just shifts her weight uncomfortably. "This is ridiculous!" PL is now saying, getting louder by the second.

As she continues berating the cashier, I find myself doing something I never, ever do.

"Ma'am, the rest of us have been waiting a long time," I say -- politely -- before I can stop myself. "The people in front of me have easily been standing in line for 10 minutes. We waited patiently while you finished, and now it's our turn."

Instantly, Psycho Lady turns on her heel. I swear I can see delight in her eyes as she lights upon her next victim: Me.

"Well, I was already finished checking out, MA'AM," she says sarcastically. "How about you mind your own business? This doesn't concern you." She dismisses me by turning back to the cashier, but when it becomes clear he's not going to budge on the cutting-in-line rule (which we all learned in kindergarten; I mean, really), PL storms to the back of the line. Older Woman and I breathe a sigh of relief.

But PL is not finished. Oh, not by a damn sight.

As soon as she gets to the back of the line, she starts in. "I hate this g--damned town. Stupid bitches like you up there. Sticking your nose in my business. What the f--k do you care? I'd never let you cut in front of me in line, you know that? Stupid bitch. Look what you're buying -- looks like you have a really exciting life to rush home to."

I turn to look at her and make my first mistake: I engage. "Ma'am, under any other circumstance, I'd gladly let you go in front of me," I say, and I mean it. "But the rest of us waited patiently while you checked out and did whatever you needed to do, and I'd appreciate it if you'd extend us the same cour-"

"Shut up, you dumbass bitch," she says, and I blink in surprise. "I shop in here all the time, and I've never seen your fat, stupid ass in here before."

"I'm sorry, how is that relevant?" I manage to say, still completely stunned by this verbal barrage.

"Shut up. Just shut up," she spits. "Turn around. I don't want to look at your stupid, ugly fat-ass face."

At this, I immediately realize three things:

This lady is psycho.
When the other person has nothing to come back with but "Shut up," it usually means you've won the argument, so, go me.
I am really not cut out for this type of confrontation.

And how do I know that third thing is so very true? Because after I finally pay for my shampoo and puzzle with shaking hands, make my way to the parking lot and finally sit in my car? I burst into tears.

Oh, and also: My hands are still shaking as I'm typing this, two days later.

People like Psycho Lady represent something that I can't reconcile with the universe as I know it. I don't understand entitlement -- thinking you are OWED something just because you think you deserve it -- and I don't understand bullies -- that desire to tear into another person simply for the sake of making yourself feel big and making them feel small. I'm far from perfect, but I'd rather tear off my own arm than think I made someone feel the way Psycho Lady made me feel on Saturday.

I would certainly consider myself a religious person, but I don't even think it matters if you believe in a higher power or not. I cannot imagine worshiping at the Altar of Me at the expense of everyone else in the universe.

I get frustrated, I get annoyed, and sometimes, yes, I find myself feeling entitled to something. I've worked hard -- I deserve this! But I have to draw the line at infringing those feelings on the rest of the world. It's no one else's fault that I am frustrated or annoyed, or that I feel entitled to something. And even if I'm frustrated or annoyed by someone else's actions, only I can control how I react to it. Only I can decide whether to perpetuate the problem or stop the chain of nastiness and handle myself like a rational adult.

If I had it to do over again, I'm not sure I would have done the same thing. I'm glad I stood up for what I felt was right, but in the grand scheme of things, was it such a big deal? Was it worth the verbal abuse and shaky hands?

It's entirely possible that I'm just too sensitive. This has bothered me now for nearly three days, and I'd be surprised if Psycho Lady gave it a second thought once she made it out of the store. But I think -- well, I know -- I'd rather be overly-sensitive than make someone feel that small.

Please stay tuned for Part 2 of this story, which I'll post on Thursday. It's both more positive and much shorter than Part 1. Doesn't that sound nice?

NaBloPoMo: A retrospective

2010-12-06T09:29:00.000-05:00

It hit me on Sunday morning.

"OMG, I didn't post anything yesterday!"

But after a brief, heart-clutching moment of panic, I realized: The NaBloPoMo had released me from its anxiety-inducing clutches!

It's over!

I DID IT!

And it's all because of you, my friends. Seriously.

Your comments kept me going in a big, big way. I don't know if I ever appreciated how much comments mean to all of us. And I loved that our little blogging community was not only taking on the challenge together, but encouraging one another along the way.

Teamwork, people!

OK, enough coaching talk.

It's been said before by almost all of you, but: I'm so glad I did the Nabs. It did for me exactly what I'd hoped: It got the ideas flowing, and it got me excited about blogging again. Shockingly, I didn't have to use any of NaBloPoMo's writing prompts, and I still have at least 15 ideas that I haven't even written about yet.

And, it got me even MORE excited than usual to read all of your blogs, too. I feel as though I've gotten to know a lot of you so much better over the past month, and that's just awesome.

So now I can say, with pride and a huge sense of relief:

I'm going to go take a nap now.

Sort of gross. Sorry. But I need your help.

2010-12-03T09:50:00.001-05:00

So. Are we all familiar with the Neti Pot?

No?

Well, allow me to provide you with a visual:

(I love the guy's super excited expression. Considering that his account of using the Neti Pot includes phrases like "nasal burning/drowning sensation," I don't trust that perky thumbs-up so much.)

Anyway.

It's supposed to flush out your sinuses. And friends, gross as it may be, that's what I need. The things happening in my nose and beyond would frighten small children.

I've tried things like Mucinex in the past -- it serves only to move the problem from my head to my lungs, which, frankly, I can do without. I've tried nasal sprays, both saline and prescription (antihistamine and steroid). I've tried blowing my nose until it's raw and I'm lightheaded.

It ain't working.

Please tell me someone out there has either tried this, or has some kind of advice about this, or has some other, better, preferably-homeopathic remedy for sinuses filled with rubber cement? (I know. Ew. Sorry.)

Because before I try something called The Nose Bidet, I really feel that I need a personal recommendation.

I am a winner!

2010-12-02T09:41:00.000-05:00

While the world may not always agree?

Random.org totally has my back.

The eminently fabulous Couple More Hours, being eminently fabulous, is giving away one of her gorgeous handmade button-eyed dolls. (Haven't checked out her etsy shop? You really owe it to yourself to go there NOW. Her stuff is handmade and SUPER cute.)

I entered to win, and I requested "Bessie," a sassy little blonde with two of the aforementioned button eyes and a kicky flowered dress and leggies. I chose her because she's a cute towhead like my beautiful niece, and Bessie was my beloved late grandmother's name.

I never win anything. But lo and behold, late last night, the Twitterverse delivered unto me the news.

I won!!

My niece, who will be the recipient of little Bessie this Christmas, is totally going to flip.

THANK YOU, Couple More Hours, aka Wendy! I can't wait to meet Bessie in person. :)

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: SNOW!

2010-12-01T09:52:00.004-05:00

I love, love, LOVE snow. And today it's those big, fat flakes that look especially beautiful and peaceful coming down.

I'm feeling rather sick today, so the sight of the snow falling outside my home office window is making me feel slightly better.

Well, that and the comic relief provided by a certain four-pawed member of the family:

Hey. Dogs need to be snuggly warm, too.

(Yes, I know they make dog Snuggies. It's just funnier to see him stuffed into ours. :))

Unsolicited conversation in a Sam's Club parking lot

2010-11-30T09:50:00.007-05:00

(Above: Hyperbole and a Half)

****************************************************

Sunday night, T and I are walking out of Sam's Club after picking up a gargantuan bag of Pupperoni (Slim-Jims for dogs!) and the 1 millionth package of cucumbers we've purchased in the last two months (because SOMEONE who is NOT ME keeps "forgetting to eat them" and letting them go bad) when it happens.

We're almost home free. We've unloaded our wares into the car, and I'm pushing the cart into the corral when I hear T say "Pardon?"

I look over, and a smoking couple (by which I mean they were smoking cigarettes in the parking lot, not that they were smoking hot -- they really, really weren't) is calling something to him from their car a few spaces away. I can't hear what they're saying, but I hear the word "vibe" and can see that tell-tale "Awkward!" look on T's face.

Oh, crap. Are we being propositioned by swingers in a Sam's Club parking lot?!

I debate escaping back into the safety of Sam's, but I can't just abandon my poor husband. I walk over.

"...yeah, it's a good little car," Smoking Man is saying. "Like I said, we got rid of our first one, and we always regretted it."

"Yep," Smoking Wife agrees, ashing her cigarette on the pavement.

I look at T. He has a pained look on his face that I don't quite understand, now that it's become clear the Smokers aren't trying to lure us back to their love dungeon. We make eye contact briefly and he gives me one of those "OMG, I can't say it out loud, but we need to get out of here" looks.

"Like I was telling your husband," Smoking Man says, addressing me directly now, "our son had a Pontiac Vibe (aha! I knew I'd heard the word "vibe"!) just like yours. Really good car. We all really loved it. Really loved it. And then he died."

Wait. What?

"Now the car we had after that, THAT was a story," Smoking Man says, chuckling.

This went on for the next 20 minutes.

It appeared that Smoking Couple had, tragically, lost their son a few years back. Which is a horrible, horrible thing to happen to anyone.

I'm just still not sure how they ended up talking about it with us, total strangers, in a Sam's Club parking lot. And it's not a conversation you can just end with a "Wow, that's really rough. Well, our ice cream is melting. See ya!"

And, you know. It's not their job to make me feel comfortable. Why SHOULDN'T they be able to tell random strangers about losing their son, and expect some compassion in return? Was it really so important that we get home RIGHT then to put our cucumbers in the fridge, where they will probably spoil yet again before someone eats them? Was it so awful that we spent a few awkward moments possibly helping someone voice their grief?

I...don't have a clever end to this post. It was just one of those strange things -- a conversation that left me feeling both uncomfortable (why are you telling me this again?) and sad. I kind of wanted to hug them; in the end we just said a goodbye as awkward as the conversation we'd just had.

How would you have handled this?

I may have to try this myself

2010-11-29T09:23:00.001-05:00

Since he was a puppy, Bubba has slept in one of two ways.

1. Sprawled on his back like a cat:

2. On top of Murray:

(Murray always pretended to be annoyed, but I think he secretly liked the snuggles.)

Since he's gotten sick, it's harder for Bubba to climb onto the couch, and most of his previously-favored positions seem to be uncomfortable for him now.

So he has adapted.

Behold, the new sleeping position:

Always one leg out to the side.

As long as you're comfortable, baby dog.

Poll: Public birthday displays

2010-11-28T10:10:00.000-05:00

(Taking a page from Iris Took's book and doing a quick Sunday poll...)

A few nights ago, we ate dinner at a large Italian restaurant in Columbus.

While we'd come to enjoy a relatively quiet family meal, it quickly became evident that the families in the surrounding tables were after a completely different experience.

It was going on all around us.

And I do mean ALL around us.

One after the other: Boom, boom, boom.

"OK, EVERYBODYYYYYYYY! WE HAVE A BIRTHDAY OVER HEEEEEEEEEEERE!!!"

Commence clapping, hooting and/or hollering, and singing of the Happy Birthday song at ear-splitting volume, all while the birthday boy or girl themselves stands there, red-faced, trying to blend in with the red-and-white-checked tablecloths.

T beckoned to me. I leaned in to hear him over the din. "I love you, but if you ever do that to me, we're getting a divorce," he said with a completely straight face. I think he was only partially joking.

In addition to the spectacle of a few nights ago, I've been present at countless restaurant birthday singalongs. The most famous one in our family (even more so than when my mother donned a sombrero bigger than her head at the now-sadly-departed Chi-Chi's) is when my brother and I were forced to climb ON TOP OF OUR TABLE at Joe's Crab Shack and sing Happy Birthday...to ourselves.

While I'm not quite so mortified by the experience (or the threat of the experience) as T, at this point in my life I think I would gladly forgo the free dessert that generally comes with such things and celebrate my birthday in relative anonymity. I think my standing-on-tables days are over.

What do you think? Love the singing wait-staff and all-eyes-on-you experience? Hate it? Indifferent?

Time has made him (misguidedly) bolder

2010-11-27T09:57:00.000-05:00

I heard Gavin Rossdale's cover of Stevie Nicks's "Landslide" yesterday.

If you're going to cover a well-loved song, you really need to make sure that:

You sing it in tune
You try something different with it so it doesn't sound like straight-up (bad) karaoke, and/or sing a mind-blowingly amazing rendition of it
You don't sing through your nose
YOU SING IT IN TUNE
You don't sound like a goat

I really don't have anything against Gavin Rossdale, per se, but why would you do this??

It's like me trying to sing Whitney Houston. I don't have enough of a power voice (and I don't do enough crack, bahaha), and people would end up looking at their feet or at the ceiling, all embarrassed, trying not to make eye contact with me.

Gavin's voice isn't built for stripped-down acoustic jamming. It makes me uncomfortable, and really, Gavin, this is all about MY level of comfort. I'm surprised you didn't know that.

I am thankful for...

2010-11-26T09:23:00.001-05:00

Thanksgiving was extra special, since we unexpectedly got to share it with my niece, who I hadn't seen since her birthday in August.

Later, at my brother's house, she rediscovered the Christmas tree with an appropriate amount of awe. I really just want to hug her constantly.

Sigh. It's been said before, but: How great is Thanksgiving? Great food, all the people you love in one room, hugs all around.

I don't know about you, but I'm not quite ready to return to the real world just yet.

Work, you are a cruel, cruel mistress. If tomorrow wasn't Saturday, and I wasn't still totally full of Thanksgiving warm-fuzziness, I would punch you right in the face.

Today is Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T09:17:00.002-05:00

I...just thought you should know that.

****************

I hope you have a marvelous day, however and with whomever you choose to spend it!

Pictures of a happy, well-fed Written Permission family to follow.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: When Good Pumpkins Go Bad

2010-11-24T10:04:00.005-05:00

We are two happy pumpkins! Look at us smiling! We're glowing! Woohoo!

*******************************************

~Time passes~

~The wind blows~

~Rain falls~

~Temperatures drop below freezing~

*******************************************

Ohhhh, noooo. I'm so tired... Where are my teeth?
My jaunty stem belies the sadness of my shriveled soul.

I'm so ashamed...

Ugh. I just give up.

Boo...ooooooooo?

Sigh.

Embracing the nerd within

2010-11-23T10:13:00.003-05:00

Do I love to read?

According to parental folklore, I taught myself to read when I was about three and a half with this collection of Beatrix Potter stories:

(There's an audiocassette somewhere of me reading to my parents, saying the "lippety, lippety" line from Peter Rabbit. Or "Pete-uhw Wabbit," as I apparently said back then. Aw.)

When I got to kindergarten, the teacher used to have me read to my classmates while she went to the restroom or made copies of...whatever you learn in kindergarten. Which I'm sure didn't isolate me from my classmates at ALL, and didn't have anything to do with the fact that I didn't have any friends in first grade. Thanks, Mrs. Mishler.

Aherm. Anyway.

I've loved books my entire life. My parents and grandparents gave me books (and then I started reading THEIR books), I bought them for a quarter at yard sales and flea markets, I raided the library and when I ran out? I re-read every book in our house. "Just let me finish this chapter" was something my parents (and, sometimes, my teachers) heard a lot growing up. To this day, I can't fall asleep until I've read for at least 15 minutes or so.

Reading settles me. It grounds me.

And while I still don't mind re-reading the books in my personal library, I'm always looking for new material.

My taste is pretty eclectic, but generally I love books about people -- with good dialogue, a plot that's at least not completely predictable, no 50-page descriptions of a forest of the side of a building, and relatable characters. If a book has these elements, it could be a murder mystery, chick-lit, whatever -- I'll read it.

Up until a year or so ago, whenever I heard about a book I wanted to read, I wrote it down in a little notebook I keep in my purse, like the nerd that was born all those years ago in kindergarten. (I embrace my nerdiness. Fighting it is useless.) Then I'd take it to the library or the bookstore and use it to make my selections.

It wasn't a bad little system. But it didn't help me remember what I thought of the book. My notebook didn't give me recommendations. And it lacked that 21st century flavor.

Enter:

I can find, tag and rate every book I've ever read, and I can write reviews that other readers can see when they view the book. I can find and tag the books I want to read, see reviews from other people who've read the book and get recommendations for books I might like.

And I can organize my books into customizable bookshelves for easy perusing:

Inner nerd, smiling.

And, if you sign up? (It's free, by the way.) We can connect, and make recommendations for each other.

The "What I'm reading" section on this blog is connected directly to my "Currently Reading" shelf on Goodreads.com.

If you love books, check it out. And then connect to me! So we can, like, merge our nerdiness and create a nerdy dynasty. Or whatever.

My best friend is a freak of nature

2010-11-22T10:13:00.003-05:00

"Shan, c'mere -- you've gotta see these awful hats."

B, her mama and I are milling around the gift shop at a Cracker Barrel, smelling candles, pressing buttons that make felt-covered Santas dance and mocking some truly horrible T-shirt sayings.

I round the corner to where they're standing, facing a shelf full of half-off hats. And "awful" is being kind. They're floppy, they're in colors that don't (or shouldn't) exist in nature -- The CB is being optimistic with their "50% Off" sign.

I immediately throw a royal blue plaid newsboy cap (five words that should never be put together) and throw up a peace sign. B and her mom laugh obligingly.

After a few comments (from me) about how unnaturally large my head is, I pick up another plaid hat, this one with a strange buckle thing on the side, and hand it to B.

"Here," I snort. "Try this gem."

She pulls it on, and:

{Angels singing}

Her mom and I stare at her. "What?" B says self-consciously.

SHE LOOKS ADORABLE. How is this possible??

In the end, despite her protests that she's never worn a hat in her life other than her band uniform in high school, we basically force her to get the hat. Anyone who can take a ridiculous-looking piece of clothing and manage to make it look this adorable needs to share her gift with the world.

In other news, we had a wonderful day of eating, classical music and laughing until our stomachs hurt. And hats. Freakishly flattering hats.

I love you, B! You fabulous freak of nature. :)

You'll never guess what I'm doing today.

2010-11-21T10:04:00.001-05:00

Bingo...

...Bango...

...Bongo.

BOOM!

That's right, I'm getting married, getting a tattoo and then sitting on the lap of a really old dude in tights and a powdered wig.

Woohoo!! Somebody stop me!

...

OK, OK, I kid, I kid.

On today's agenda: My friend B and I are hitting church and doing some craft-y things with her mama, then meeting my parents in Columbus for a performance of Handel's Messiah. (That's Handel up there in the pilgrim shoes.)

A very busy day filled with a huge, heaping helping of a LOT of my favorite things: Singing hymns (no, really), knitting, live choral music (no, seriously, really) and hanging out with friends and family.

Sigh. I love this time of year.

Chair graffiti

2010-11-20T11:45:00.000-05:00

My office is enormous. Last time I heard the human capacity quantified, it was somewhere around 10,000 people.

And, unlike most giant buildings, it's long instead of tall.

It's roughly the size of the Empire State Building lying on its side. For real.

Because it's so spread out, it has a huge, mall-like atrium running through its center, lined with towering trees, burbling pools and squashy armchairs where employees hold impromptu meetings and take personal calls throughout the day.

And, sometimes they nap. Really.

Just outside my wing of the building, one such arrangement of squashy chairs is nearly always occupied by a woman in her early 20s, usually clad in a very work-inappropriate outfit (think belly shirts exposing both muffin top and tramp stamp), talking loudly on a crystal-encrusted cell phone.

She's there almost every time I walk by. In the morning. Lunchtime. Mid-afternoon. When I go home in the evening. I find myself not only wondering when this woman ever gets any work done, but also: What can she possibly be talking about?

I think I know now:

Scrawled on the arm of her favorite squashy chair

LOVE KILLS

That may be, Inappropriately-Dressed Loud-Talker. That may be. But something tells me that, if you worked a little bit harder and defaced your employers' property a little less, your life might improve.

This has been a public service announcement.

Schooled by The Universe

2010-11-19T09:25:00.002-05:00

On the recommendation of my good friend Trophy Life, I signed up to receive daily notes from The Universe.

Little affirmations, warm fuzzies, deep thoughts, all addressed to me directly by the magic of technology. (Ooooweeeeooooooooo...)

They all begin as though we're in the middle of a conversation (The Universe and I, that is), or as though I've asked some very deep "meaning of life"-type question, and the Universe is now settling in to give me the answer.

Much like horoscopes, I believe the site sends out the same or similar sentiments to all of its subscribers. The idea is that this Universal wisdom can apply to anyone, and it's up to you how you apply it to your own life. So...it's kind of hard to feel special.

And I'll admit, sometimes they miss the mark. Sometimes it's a nice sentiment, but it really means nothing to me personally. And sometimes the messages just seem like a jumbled paragraph of nonsense, and I just click "Delete," shake my head and go about my day.

But every once in awhile, The Universe comes through with something that actually strikes a chord with me.

Well, actually, Shannon, you were different.

You didn't want a perfect life, a typical life, or even a normal life.

You wanted a one-of-a-kind.

How we doing?

The Universe

I've been having trouble lately with one thing in my life: Contentment.

Don't get me wrong: Love my husband. Love our dogs. Love our house. Love my job.

But I struggle sometimes with feeling OK with where my life is at exactly.this.moment. Not constantly thinking about what I think is missing, how my life is somehow lacking something or somethings that I see in the lives of everyone around me.

And when I read this, it kind of stopped me for a second.

My life is mine.

I don't want cookie-cutter. I don't want someone else's idea of the perfect life, where everything happens perfectly and everything is perfectly timed.

I want one-of-a-kind. I want unique. I want MINE.

It's the last place I expected to find any kind of insight into my whole contentment conundrum -- or any actual life crisis, for that matter.

Well played, Universe. Well played.

NBX Vol. 4: Corporal punishment, disturbing sculptures and my reluctance to dampen an earnest author's spirit

2010-11-18T09:57:00.004-05:00

(If you're asking yourself, "What the heck is this?" click here. Otherwise, read on for snarky fun times.)

Most awesomest blog name: ELECTRIC SPANKING ("Freaky sounds for freaky people. If you're upset and you don't want to be spanked, let me know..." This is a tagline of genius, folks. It's straightforward, it tells you exactly what to expect, and it gives you a way out if you're feeling uncomfortable. Don't want to be spanked? No problem! Just let him/her know. Besides its fabulous name, my favorite part of this blog was the post entitled "Disco Cop.")
So-ugly-it's-fabulous-est blog layout: Reflections from a Teachers Heart (So...I feel sort of bad bagging on this blog. The author seems so earnest and positive. Example: Things that make her happy? Sunsets. And the sound of children laughing. And, you know, I like orange! I really do. And I like vine-y...things, which are also featured prominently in her layout. There's just...a LOT of orange. And a LOT of vine-y things. Sorry, Happy Teacher.)
Most random blog post title (and/or title that lends itself the best to double-entendre or horrible puns): Decision Height, Oct. 12, "Lord, Don't Let Me Get Stapled" (It's just random enough to make you go "whuh?" Apparently, it's some kind of pilot's lingo. ...yeah, I don't know. But I give the author bonus points for his pleasing-to-the-eye blue-toned color scheme.)
Most engaging overall blog (for better or for worse): Food Blogga (The first two entries I read described, respectively, rosemary-spiced roasted nuts and a combo pecan/pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. I want to marry the food she writes about. And, she writes about it engagingly; unlike some other food/recipe sites, it isn't just "Here's the recipe, it's really good, see ya!" Despite the iffy blog name and the odd-looking header, I'll definitely be returning to this one.)
Wild card: Hands-down creepiest piece of art I’ve ever laid eyes on: Jengalog, Super Sculpey mini-mouth (I don’t know if it’s that, proportionately, this fake mouth is frighteningly enormous; or if it’s the ass-chin; or if it’s because the tongue looks MOIST. But I could not stop staring at this thing FOREVER and it kind of haunts my dreams at night. Having browsed this guy’s site for a bit, I can safely say that his other stuff is both decent and less creepy. But still.)

Have you come across an awesomely-awful blog? Share it!

Wordless Wednesday: Ve hoff no ears here

2010-11-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

Perspectives

2010-11-16T09:05:00.001-05:00

You see a mug full of hot chocolatey goodness...

...I see the only thing getting me through 7.5 hours of conference calls.

(I'm not exaggerating. That's what's on my schedule for today. Hold me.)

(Also, I love this mug. It was a gift from my mama. I love her, too. :))

Workplace etiquette: A poll about The Pigs and other disturbing behavior

2010-11-15T09:45:00.002-05:00

Bare feets.

Loves 'em.

I'm not a foot person by any means, but what is cuter than a baby's bare foot? And there's something freeing about running around naked from the ankle down. If I lived in a warm enough climate, I'd go barefoot at home 365 days a year, no question. I love to let the pigs wiggle.

However.

Last week, I walked around the corner of my cube to the printer, which my team shares with an event-planning team in the next row of cubes. (I work for a giant corporation, so it isn't unusual to sit right next to people you never, ever interact with. Except when you're both at the printer.)

As I was waiting for my printed wares, around the corner came one of the event planners...in her bare feet.

Again: Big corporation. No one's wearing suits in our area, but neither are we preparing to attend a seaside campfire or lounge in a grassy meadow. Business casual is what we all subscribe to.

And this woman fit the bill, with her sweater set and gray trousers. Perhaps she was going for the fashion equivalent of the mullet: Business up top, party below the pant cuffs.

My reaction? "Ew." And then: "Ew! Ew ew EW!"

Because, first of all? While I absolutely kick off my shoes underneath my desk from time to time, it's just not right to expect my coworkers to bear the sight of them while taking an innocent stroll to the water fountain.

Second? There's no way there isn't some gross, funky stuff happening in corporate-office carpeting, and this woman is just asking for some kind of nasty fungal infection.

And third? Because she's flaunting her bare piggies all over our biz-nass, said fungal infection will eventually make its way into our (fabric-covered) cube walls, and I'll end up with pinkeye or staph or flesh-eating bacteria. Why is this woman messing with our cube farm homeostasis? Wasn't the fruit-fly infestation of 2008 enough? HOW FAR WILL IT GO, PEOPLE?!

As if that wasn't enough, the very same afternoon, this happened: I walked down the hall to the bathroom. Thankfully, we have separate bathrooms for men and women (as all public buildings -- and homes -- should), but we do have to walk right past the men's on the way to the women's. Right as I walked by, the men's door flung open, and a dude walked out...still tucking in his shirt and buckling his belt.

Wait, let me rephrase that.

A man walked out of the bathroom WITH HIS PANTS STILL UNDONE, shoving his shirt DOWN HIS PANTS with his hands while WALKING DOWN THE HALLWAY in full view of me and God and everyone.

I... Yeah. I couldn't believe my eyes, and I still can't.

So, friends, two questions for you today:

Is it ever acceptable to go barefoot at work? If so, please cite examples.
Why would a grown man who, presumably, has been IN THE WORLD, think it's OK to finish shuffling things around down there while walking down a well-traveled hallway?

Thank you. And a happy Monday to you and yours.

Fall: A one-photo photo gallery

2010-11-14T09:35:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was the most beautiful, balmy, blue-skied fall day.

It was the kind of day that made me want to stand on our deck, look out at the countryside and just take long, deep, cleansing, celebratory breaths.

Today? It looks overcast and kind of yucky.

Luckily, I'm having a two-person dinner party with my BFF today, after which we will watch a horrible chick flick, do crafts and gossip.

So the weather can bite me.

Random Saturday-ness

2010-11-13T10:45:00.000-05:00

1. The Fringe apple with the baby seeds makes my insides feel squirmy:

2. Some weird, horrible things are going on with my nose and sinuses; I haven't been able to properly breathe for weeks. The inside of my nose feels like a dry, barren wasteland, and in a desperate effort to see what was going on in there, I just used a hand mirror and the LED light on my Droid to look up my own nose. It wasn't my proudest moment.

3. Two weeks ago, I had never heard of Demi Lovato. How is she already famous enough to be in rehab?

4. Still cold in my house. (I think it might be warmer outside than it is in my house.) Still wearing my Snuggie. Still totally creeped out by Baby Tumor Snuggie.

5. I've always wanted red hair. Like, natural copper-red hair. I ended up with orange hair once, when the stylist at Fiesta Hair interpreted "Can you warm up my dark brown hair color?" as "Can you please bleach the crap out of my hair, leaving it with the consistency of straw, and then throw some orange dye on it in a misguided attempt to make up for your incompetence?"

6. Red hair DOES run in one side of my family and in T's family, so it's conceivable we could end up with a red-haired baby one of these days. Which should be fun to explain to people, since we both have dark brown hair, and people are judge-y.

7. T and I have been watching every season of Bones on Instant Netflix for the past month or so, and we're locked in a no-holds-barred, fight-to-the-death argument about who is the more beautiful Deschanel sister. (I say Zooey, he says Emily.)

Both of us can agree, though, that David Boreanaz is not nearly as hot as he thinks he is.

Let's talk about comments

2010-11-12T09:45:00.001-05:00

Call me needy. Insecure. Whatever.

I'm a gal who needs feedback.

At work, I wanna know: Am I getting it right? Easy to work with? Producing quality material? Pushing back when I need to push back? Being flexible when I need to be flexible? Good or bad, I want the scoop.

I'm not doing the work for the feedback. But the feedback gives me fuel. It's what makes me want to keep going, keep doing my best.

And while this blog is hardly a job, it is the same in one big way.

Comments are fuel. They give me insight, help me learn about all of you, make me laugh.

They remind me that I'm not just writing these words and sending them out there into Internet-land to float around, unread and unloved.

I read a lot of blogs, and I'm completely guilty of dropping in, reading and going back to work without chiming in on the conversation, saying what I think or just telling the author I appreciate what they've written. And with so many of us doing NaBloPoMo this month...there's just so much to read!

So I've decided that part of my personal NaBloPoMo challenge is going to be about comments.

I can't promise I'll comment on every single thing you post. But I am going to be making a real effort to get in there more often.

I hope you'll do the same. :)

Happy Veterans Day

2010-11-11T11:11:00.001-05:00

All you guys and gals out there? You know who you are.

~Thank you.~

(Special personal thanks to my Grandpa Ted, who served in Korea and Vietnam; my father-in-law, who served in Vietnam; and my Grandpa Ray and my dad, who were conscientious objectors in their respective days. Love you guys.)

Wordless Wednesday: Daylight Savings Time Blows

2010-11-10T09:50:00.000-05:00

5:55 p.m.

SIGH.

NBX Vol 3: Creepy babies, bucketheads, bastards and whatever a "windover" is

2010-11-09T10:41:00.001-05:00

So, when I decided to dive into this NaBloPoMo thing, one thing became quickly evident: I needed some ideas. And where better to turn than some of the old featurey-type things I abandoned this summer?

For any of you who may be new or who may have tried to block NBX out of your memory, please see What the heck is this?

Now that that's out of the way, let's dive right in, shall we?

Most awesomest blog name: Carnival of the Elitist Bastards (...I don't even know where to start. I love everything about this name. The blog and its self-same carnival is a celebration of the cerebral, which I can always get behind. And OK, yes, the stilted pirate-speak in the blog post updates gets waaaay old. But I'm down with any blog that begins its description with this: "You can help raise the level of our public discourse from the subgutter of stupidity in which it currently resides. All you have to do is celebrate your own intelligence.")
So-ugly-it's-fabulous-est blog layout: Baby Hiroshi (The colors...they assault my eyes. And the header. Well. It's just really creeping me out. It's a really cute baby, but there's just something...weird...about it.)
Most random blog post title (and/or title that lends itself the best to double-entendre or horrible puns): The Prettiest Girl in School
(June 12, “Love Will Follow You to Your House and Hide There Until You Find It and Kill It (But It Will Never Die)”; I mean, really. That kind of blog title takes some commitment. As does the actual post, which is a poem about the author's love for...someone or something...that he apparently turned into a song. I have not heard this song, but apparently you can, if you so choose, by visiting his MySpace page. Just…fabulous.)
Most engaging overall blog (for better or for worse): Fluffy Windover's Diary (First, don’t ask me why, the word “fluffy” is inherently funny, every time. It just is. Second, I have no idea what a Windover is, but I like it. And third, the first sentence of the first entry I read was “I wish I could tell you that Edwin was done with talking about boobs.” That, my friends, is how to NOT bury the lead. Excellent work, Fluffy. My former editors would be very proud. And, the more I scanned her previous entries, the more convinced I became that it was not a fluke. Worth checking out. Surprisingly.)
Wild card: Best use of a toddler in a blog post: Travis, Ana and Aidan in the OC! (July 15, “Aidan can’t read without his bucket on his head” Because WHY would anyone want to? Love this kid.)

(Let me know if you come across an awesomely-awful blog that must be shared!)