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

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.

Part 2: The Human Race Redeemed

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.

Schooled by The Universe

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.

Inspiration

Don't you just love when someone gets you the PERFECT gift?

(The only thing better, of course, is getting the perfect gift for someone else.)

In my life, the giver of the perfect gift is usually T. I swear, for a sports-crazed, "typical" male, he has an uncanny way of knowing exactly what I want/need at any given moment. And he cooks, and gives great backrubs, and remembers all major holidays and anniversaries. I know: He's a keeper.

But I digress.

This time, I'm talking about my best friend, B. Who's not only incredibly talented herself (I hope someday the whole world will see your amazing photos, Beezy!), she's incredibly encouraging and supportive of her friends, too. And lately, she's been on the receiving end of a lot of my rants about my "failure" to really make any progress on the non-day-job writing projects I'm longing to finish.

She took me out for sushi (the girl knows the way to my heart, for sure), and handed me a gift bag with a sparkle in her eye.

"I thought maybe you could keep this in your home office, or wherever you do your writing," she said. "Sort of like your little muse."



Love. I just love it.

And every time I look at it, it reminds me that I not only HAVE a story to tell, I also have someone (many someones, actually) who believe in my ability to tell it.

Thank you, B! And thank you to every one of you who read this blog, and who encourage me in my other projects, too. It's been a rough, uphill summer, and each one of you is helping me climb.

Protected

Every morning when I step out of the shower...




It's entirely possible he just likes the warmth of the steam. Or the sound of the water running. Or the fresh, clean smell of my shampoo. Or the caress of the fuzzy green bathmat.

But I choose to think he's guarding his mama.

And yes, I have to step over him, precariously, every time I exit said shower. Which would be awkward even if I weren't wearing a towel, balancing on wet toes and squinting to try to see without my glasses.

And yes, it's entirely possible that I have, more than once, slipped and nearly fallen headfirst into the linen closet. And/or out the window.

Do I mind?



Nope.

Have a wonderful long weekend, y'all. And please say a prayer for me, as I'm attending an event that has the word "beer" in the TITLE, and I am not much of a drinker. Also I'm 33 now, and thus a little old for all drinking games that don't involve how many times someone says "Woohoo! Big balls!" on Wipeout. In other news: ...help?

Pride, tears and spilled milk

Not quite 25 years ago, my life changed.

Up until then, I had been queen bee around my house. And after eight years as an only child, I was pretty used to it. Just me and my parents. We were a unit. The Three Musketeers. It worked.

And then, suddenly, there was this loud, screaming thing in the next room. And my fellow Musketeers were spending an awful lot of time with it, and not nearly enough time playing Chutes & Ladders with me.

I remember asking my mother, "WHEN is he going to STOP CRYING?" Like, he's cute and everything, but really? With the crying?

Really. Not only was he there to stay, he was moving into my room. The fact that I got the big room upstairs all to myself helped soften the blow. Sort of.

And so it went. I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but the little loud screaming thing in my old bedroom at some point became my little brother.

And oh, how I loved and hated being his big sister.

• He threw up on me.
• I could no longer run around or make noise during what was now "nap time."
• I believe I've mentioned the screaming, which didn't seem to stop as he got older.
• He learned to climb stairs and discovered the joy of raiding his big sister's bedroom. My Barbies and then my CDs had never known such abuse.
• He eventually developed an opinion about which Saturday morning cartoons we should watch, and it was useless to try to argue.
• He once dumped a whole half-gallon of milk on the kitchen table while I was watching him, just because he knew I'd have to clean it up.
• A whole new litany of heretofore unknown phrases came into play: "He looks up to you; set a good example," "You have to share!" and "Oh, what could he possibly do to your {doll/book/game/CD/blanket/puppy}?" (The latter was followed shortly by the object being, of course, completely destroyed.)
• He knew he could hit and kick me with relative immunity, because I would get the "you're older, he doesn't know any better" speech, and I couldn't hit him back.
• When he was mad at me, he told me I was ugly. "He doesn't know what he's saying, and no, you can't say it back. You're older and you know better."

He was kind of a serious pain in my ass.

But then: His face would light up when I came into the room, and he would smile big and run and hug me.

He called me "Non" until he was about four, because he couldn't quite manage "Shannon." I loved hearing him call "Nonnnnnnnnnn!" and knowing he just wanted his big sister.

He found me hilarious. He had the orneriest smile, and whenever I tried to make him laugh, he always, always obliged. When I took some lettuce, threw it in the air and told him it was a tossed salad, he laughed about it for a week. (In fact, he still finds that funny, for some reason.)

And he trusted me. When he was about four, he ate some pills, thinking they were candy. He was terrified to go to the hospital to be checked out, and hid under his covers, refusing to listen to our parents. It wasn't until his big sister came in, gave him a big hug and explained what was going to happen that he knew everything would be OK.

When we weren't trying to kill each other, we were buds.

(How 'bout those glasses, eh?)

Since there are eight years between us, you can't really say we grew up together. We were always in completely different phases of life: When he was in grade school, I was in high school. When he started junior high, I was already in college, and by the time he turned 15, I was already living on my own, with a full-time job, in the "real world."

In a lot of ways, we had separate childhoods. And in a lot of ways, his was a rough one. He had a lot of ups and downs, and for a majority of them, I wasn't around.

And I regret that. I wish I'd been there. I moved away, I got married... I was living my own life, it was bound to happen, and we still connected--when things got really bad he still, miraculously, sometimes sought my advice--but... I wish I'd really been there.

That's why I was so honored that, this past weekend, he wanted me there.

At 24 (almost 25), he has turned some major corners. He has a beautiful daughter. He owns a home. He's becoming the responsible adult we all knew he would become...eventually. :)

And this weekend, he passed another major station on the Adult Train: He became a husband.

I wish I could put into words how I felt watching him go through this milestone. He was a little boy playing dress-up (albeit still in shorts, on the beach), saying those important words and making promises that were so adult. It was absurd!

But then, it just seemed to fit him so naturally. He was a father, still learning but clearly tuned in to his daughter's needs. He was a man, so clearly smitten with his new bride that it was impossible to miss the love and respect and joy and excitement that eminated from both of them. And he was calm, taking in everything, confident that all the details would come together and that, even if it didn't, it would be OK.

As a big sister who still usually sees him as a "little" brother, it was amazing to see.

He's created his own little family, even as he's still a part of mine.

Brittany: Welcome to our family, and thank you for making my brother so happy. I can't wait to get to know you better. (And I'm still really sorry I accidentally dumped Diet Coke on your wedding dress. Oopsie. But it's probably best you know now that I'm really klutzy. You may want to wear old clothing to Thanksgiving.)

And to my stinky little brother: Wow. I'm so proud of you and the man you're becoming. You'll probably always sneak up behind me and goose me, and I'll probably always want to punch you a little. And I'm still a little bitter about having to clean up that milk.

But I'm so glad you're my brother. And I can't wait to see what's next for you. Whatever it is, I know you can handle it. And if you ever find you can't, I hope you know you can always call me, even if it's only to laugh again at my stupid tossed salad remark.

Oh, and also, I love you.

:)

(More pictures of the family vacation-slash-wedding to come!)

I'm sorry, who said the what now?

There are many reasons you may see a few days go by without a new post from me.

Often, it's because life gets in the way.

• I have a full-time job.
• I have a husband I (gasp!) love hanging out with. :)
• I have family and friends I crave spending time with.
• I volunteer.
• I have other writing projects in the works.

Life happens. I know you all get that. Life happens to you, too, of course.

But sometimes, it isn't life -- it's me. I get in my own way.

I'm not talking about writer's block (although I get that, too, from time to time). This is something that actually kind of makes me fear for my own sanity.

I'm not sure how other bloggers get their ideas, but for me, they usually come in flashes of inspiration (whether or not it's a good inspiration is a completely different subject altogether). The problem is, these "flashes" usually happen at the most inopportune times:

• While I'm driving
• In the middle of a conversation with someone
• While I'm doing yard work
• Juuuuuust as I'm falling asleep
• During a conference call at work (Note to my boss, who graciously reads this blog: Just pretend I didn't say this one. Hee.)

None of these situations lends itself to either A) writing an actual post or B) writing a well-thought-out description of the central idea of what I want to say. So I end up trying to later decipher things like this:

• "The meaning of telephone poles." {Voicemail left to myself, accompanied by Lady Gaga playing in the background and the sound of rushing wind}
• "Is Facebook destroying us as humans? Deep discussion. Reconnect: No Growth?" {E-mail sent from my phone while I apparently was half-asleep}
• "Gum: Pervasive smell. Why?" {Note hastily scribbled on the back of a receipt and then crumpled at the bottom of my purse}
• "Just one sound required" {Post-It note on my desk at work}

Um.

WHAT?!

By the time I'm able to revisit these at a convenient time for writing, not only do I have no idea why I thought it'd make an interesting blog post, I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking at all. Gum? Facebook? TELEPHONE POLES? Was I high?

So don't think of these absences as me being neglectful. I'm really just doing you all a favor by waiting until I have a semi-formulated thought.

I'll get back to you when I have one. :)

A few thoughts on friendship

As a "part 2" of my vacation recap, I promised you some deep thoughts. Turns out, that also equals many, long thoughts. So grab a snack and settle in. I hope you'll think it's worth it.

**********

When I was a little girl, having a "best friend" was everything.

It didn't matter if your best friend changed every year, or even every week; you just had to have one.

Someone who sat by you during lunch and made up silly games with you at recess, who invited you to her sleepovers, and got into giggle fits with you, and told you all her best secrets.

From ages 6-12, my best friend, P, and I were inseparable. Absolutely joined at the hip in every way. Other friends came and went; P and I were steadfast. We went to church and school together. Her older brothers teased us relentlessly; my little brother drove us nuts. Our parents patiently listened to giggling well past 3 a.m. nearly every weekend. People at church told us, "You know, when we think of the word 'friend,' we think of you two."

Peas in a tiny little, sheltered pod.

P knew every single one of my secrets. From the silly to the very, very serious. To this day, she is a guardian of one of my biggest secrets, and I'm not sure if she even remembers anymore.

When it came time for high school, our paths divided. And while we still called each other "best friend," and we still saw one another all the time...things changed. Other friends entered our circle. We spent weeks apart.

By the time college rolled around, I still loved her, but things had clearly changed for both of us. It happens. It's a part of life.

As one of my favorite bloggers says: Friendships have a lifespan. Very few are meant to actually go the distance. And that's OK. Life happens. It's OK to let go.

I met B when I was 18. Immediately, we had a lot of surface things in common: Both music majors, both singers, both freshmen at a new school. We discovered we both liked boys who didn't like us back, and we agonized over this mutual slight.

And as the year wore on and we spent more and more time together in dorm rooms, concert halls, dining halls, classrooms and tour buses, one thing became clear: B was really, really funny. And she made me funnier. And together, we could make each other laugh like no one had ever made us laugh before.

Me and B, 1996:

And when we started singing together, just us, in coffee shops and concerts and sometimes just in our rooms? It was like something finally clicked in me. Here was someone who could bond with me over the most fundamentally personal thing I had -- music -- and make me burst into uncontrollable laughter at the same time. For me, this was as close to magical as friendships got at that point.

There was something there, something we recognized in one another -- this kind of sameness.

We were as different as two people could possibly be in almost every way: Our backgrounds, family life, taste in almost everything; we're even polar opposites in hair color, height and body type. But when something made me laugh, it made her laugh, too. Even when no one else in the world got the joke, I knew B always did.

At a time when I was barely becoming an adult, and I had left P and my family behind, and I was secretly sure no one in the entire world would ever, ever really GET me?

She did.

B transferred to another school after our sophomore year. I was crushed, of course, but, in a selfishness only a 19-year-old can display, I had other things going on that seemed more important at the time. We were both dealing with a lot of issues, including "What Do I Want to Do With My Life?", and our paths just naturally divided. We still kept in touch and saw one another fairly often. But that feeling of sameness and safety waned.

Our friendship followed the ebb-and-flow pattern that I think a lot of adult friendships follow. Drift apart, drift back together. Drift apart, see one another again, have a great time, drift apart again. We both got married. We moved to different cities. We started new lives. Friendships have a lifespan. It's OK to move on.

And yet, we never quite did, not completely. We still called each other on our birthdays, and had the occasional dinner. B got divorced and moved back to my area. We saw each other a little more frequently.

It's amazing how conversations change as you get older: Suddenly we were talking about things like our careers and having babies and buying houses. We didn't burst into spontaneous songs at the drop of a hat. We didn't talk in weird voices, or make inappropriate jokes about the waiter, or laugh so hard we cried. It was nice. It was grown-up. Grown-up friendship. Not quite the same, but: Nice. It was lovely to have her as more of a regular part of my life.

When we decided to take a trip together, I'll admit (to her for the first time, too): I was a little nervous about it. Yes, we've been friends for 15 years; yes, I still consider her my "best friend," whatever that REALLY means when you're 32. And it's only four days. But...

But we haven't been together for more than a few hours at a time since we were 21. Will we have enough to talk about? Will it be awkward? Will we want to do the same things? Will we fight? Will we annoy each other? Will we spend all day on the beach in silence and then retreat to separate corners every night to talk to our respective boyfriend/husband and secretly sigh, thinking that we have four/three/two/one more day(s) of this?

My fears were assuaged almost instantly. The night before we left, we stayed up almost until we had to get up again, talking with my mom, reminiscing about all the silly things we did in college and giggling like idiots.

When the plane was readying for takeoff and B started looking nervous, I hesitated, then said, "Wanna hold my hand for takeoff?" When she didn't look alarmed or uncomfortable, I knew. It was going to be fine.

I wish I knew how to describe to you what that weekend meant and still means to me. It was a reaffirmation. Not just that I can still honestly call B my best friend. But that, even at 32, the idea of having a friend who is that in tune with you, who gets you, who loves you and listens? Really listens? And who can know all your best secrets and still not judge you, and will give you honest advice? Who can see a clown wig and automatically know what to do with it?

It's still possible.

It didn't feel like a "grown-up" friendship anymore, where we have a great time together, but it's all at arms' length, on the surface. There was true honesty there, and an ability to just be myself. Really ME. I can't think of anything more valuable, or more rare.

And while I'm lucky enough to be able to call B my "BFF" in the truest sense of the word, I'm also blessed beyond reason to have a whole group of 14 other amazing women (including our own Two Pretzels, Metacognitive Musings, Trophy Life, Chewlies, Aimless Oasis and Snappy Tulip) who have all those "true" friend qualities, too. They'll stop whatever they're doing to just be my friend when I need them, and they know I'd do the same for them.

Even as we grow older, and our lives change and move and grow, and we become more isolated as we have children and families and careers, and life gets in the way, it's still possible to have what we had as little girls. That feeling of sameness, of family, of understanding.

It's possible to be a wife and a star employee and a mother and all the millions of things you have to be each and every day, and still be selfless enough to listen, and laugh, and be someone's best friend.

And while I've really had that all along, it took this trip to really bring it into focus for me. And I'm so grateful for that. And I'm so grateful for B, and my amazing college friends, and all you fellow bloggers, and everyone reading this right now. So, thank you. :)

And thanks most of all for reading if you've gotten this far. I know it rambled a bit. I'd love to know your thoughts about this, too. Do you have a best friend? Tell me about it.

Me and B, 2010: