Tomorrow is D's birthday party. Number 13. (There's a reason people are suspicious about that number. I bet it all started from 13 year old girls.) I didn't think it was that big of a deal - some girls are sleeping over, I get a couple of pizzas, then hide out in my room with my computer and a steady supply of drinks. I didn't realize this is a Really Big Deal.
Monday night D started freaking out. She started asking over and over what activities she could do with her friends, what games they should play, what order each one should be in, where should everyone sleep, like she wanted a detailed itinerary and map of the evening. I, in my infinite stupidity, suggested she make a list. I like lists, they help me think. Her list stirred her into more of a frenzy. I didn't get it. It's just a sleepover that we're calling a birthday party. WTF?
Later that evening I asked her what the big deal is. It's not her first sleepover, it's not her first party, they're not strangers to her. Her response was, "I just want to make sure everyone is happy and has a good time. I want it to be perfect." Oh, yes. Yes, this I get. I realized that I have passed the Party Hostess With the Mostest gene on to my child. The apple does not fall far from the anal tree.
This sent me into my own frenzy, thinking that my kid deserves a cool party, I can't let her be embarrassed in front of her friends. I won't be the lame mom who gives a lame party. I have a reputation to uphold and it's not going to be ruined by a bunch of newly-branded teenagers. As if.
I spent my lunch the next day scouring the internet and the town for the perfect goody bag ideas. Goody bags? Really? Goody bags were invented for three-year-olds to coax them into giving up a birthday gift and not feel like they have to leave empty-handed. Apparently goody bags are still very much desired at this age. At any rate, I went to my friend Michael's for some crafty inspiration and got my final idea D-approved that evening.
Next was the cake. Stupid me, thinking I could get by without it. I didn't want to spend $35 on a cheesy cake (although I might on a cheesecake), so I came up with the brilliant idea of making one. Brilliant because I don't actually bake. I do pretty much everything but bake. Again, I turned to the internets and found - insert sound of angel chorus - the Rainbow Cake. It's unique, it's colorful, it's easy. At least it sounded easy because it uses a cake mix box. It's really a bit more ambitious and I'm beginning to resent the fact that I will be spending my evening tonight relatively alcohol-free baking a multi-layer cake (because drinking could turn it into a fiasco and me into the Lamest Mom Ever. Seriously, the cake is the centerpiece. It can't be messed with.) instead of boozing it up and watching trashy TV like The Bachelorette and I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. It's summer time, people. Don't judge.
Now, for the gift. I procrastinated until yesterday, not knowing for the first time what to get her. She had a list a mile long, that she repeated to me daily for at least a month, but it is the big 1-3 and I thought it should be something really cool but not over the top. I started thinking about what she asks for that I always say no to, which made it so easy. I like saying no. No, you can't wear makeup. No, you can't wear that color nail polish. No, you can't borrow my hair straightener or my curling iron. No, you can't use my face mask. Thus, she is getting her own flattening iron, plus a crimping iron (selfishly, so I don't have to braid her hair every night), pastel eye shadow, face powder, lip gloss, a trio of makeup bags, nail polish and nail decals. I'm considering giving it to her at her party instead of on her actual birthday so the girls can play with all of it and do makeovers. Plus it makes me look like a Cool Mom, which is really all that matters.
Barring some bizarre tragedy with the cake, I believe I have upheld my title as Party Planner Extraordinaire. I might even be feeling generous enough to let them use my face mask. I'll just take pictures in case I need blackmail later.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Broken Truce
I saw a spider on my bathroom ceiling. He was small and curled up in the corner. I was too lazy to get a broom and try to lure him out if his corner just to kill him, so I left him there.
The next time I saw him he was in the same corner with a tiny little web. I figured a spider web could come in handy considering the increase I have seen in bugs lately. Doors and windows are open. I’m prejudiced against mosquitoes and quite enjoy keeping a mosquito-free house. I thought Mr. Spider would come in handy. I approached him with the terms for living in my house. They were as follows:
1. No friends overnight and no parties.
2. Stay in your corner, no traveling around the house.
3. If I wake up and see so much as one leg on any part of my body, I will kill you.
4. Do not get any bigger.
He seemed to agree. Then again, he’s a spider and I’m not sure how large his human vocabulary is. At any rate, he broke at least two of my terms of agreement right away. I am convinced this was done on purpose.
The very next morning Mr. Spider was bigger. He had either doubled his size overnight or had been fooling me by curling up in the corner. Either way, he was exhibiting very devious behavior. I warned him one last time, letting him know I had my eye on him. And all eight of his creepy little legs. Later that afternoon, he was gone and in his place was a really tiny spider. I don’t know if this was a little buddy he invited over, the offspring his baby-mama got tired of taking care of, or a cannibalistic snack. At this point I wasn’t putting anything past him.
I haven’t seen Mr. Spider since, but the next morning, as I’m leisurely waking up and relaxing in my bed, I see it. A single strand of spider string. Above my bed. On my side. I have no evidence, but I bet that little fucker dropped down on me while I was sleeping. Was I not clear in my terms? He just had to push it, didn’t he? The next time I see him he is dead. And the same goes for any of his little friends. His spider-mafia brethren have to understand. He put them all in danger.
Never make an agreement with a spider. They can’t be trusted. Creepy little fuckers.
The next time I saw him he was in the same corner with a tiny little web. I figured a spider web could come in handy considering the increase I have seen in bugs lately. Doors and windows are open. I’m prejudiced against mosquitoes and quite enjoy keeping a mosquito-free house. I thought Mr. Spider would come in handy. I approached him with the terms for living in my house. They were as follows:
1. No friends overnight and no parties.
2. Stay in your corner, no traveling around the house.
3. If I wake up and see so much as one leg on any part of my body, I will kill you.
4. Do not get any bigger.
He seemed to agree. Then again, he’s a spider and I’m not sure how large his human vocabulary is. At any rate, he broke at least two of my terms of agreement right away. I am convinced this was done on purpose.
The very next morning Mr. Spider was bigger. He had either doubled his size overnight or had been fooling me by curling up in the corner. Either way, he was exhibiting very devious behavior. I warned him one last time, letting him know I had my eye on him. And all eight of his creepy little legs. Later that afternoon, he was gone and in his place was a really tiny spider. I don’t know if this was a little buddy he invited over, the offspring his baby-mama got tired of taking care of, or a cannibalistic snack. At this point I wasn’t putting anything past him.
I haven’t seen Mr. Spider since, but the next morning, as I’m leisurely waking up and relaxing in my bed, I see it. A single strand of spider string. Above my bed. On my side. I have no evidence, but I bet that little fucker dropped down on me while I was sleeping. Was I not clear in my terms? He just had to push it, didn’t he? The next time I see him he is dead. And the same goes for any of his little friends. His spider-mafia brethren have to understand. He put them all in danger.
Never make an agreement with a spider. They can’t be trusted. Creepy little fuckers.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Exposed
I went to the dentist today. For a number of years I've been able to successfully avoid it. Having no dental insurance is always a good excuse. But then I noticed a tiny little spot on the top of my tooth at the gum line. Vigorously brushing did nothing to remove it, ditto with ignoring it. A few days ago, I started to feel tenderness when brushing my teeth. No other soreness, no sensitivity to cold or warm water, just an annoying little twinge. Luckily, my dental plan started in January after my "new" job so I made the dreaded appointment.
Seriously, I dread going to the dentist. I know everyone does, but I claim special despising status based on all the work I've had done to my mouth and some of the unexpected aftermath. When I was 9, I had to have a spacer installed. This was a very archaic device that was glued to probably four of my teeth and covered the roof of my mouth. It came with a little key that my mom had to insert into the piece on the roof of my mouth and she would turn it nightly for about six months. The purpose was to stretch my mouth because it wasn't big enough to accommodate all of my teeth. Contrary to what some people might think, my mouth still isn't that big. When it was removed, it pulled out two of my teeth. The two that weren't ready to come out yet. With no pain relief. "Ha ha, thought we were going to lose her there a few times" is what the asinine dentist said.
When I was 14, I had to have two teeth pulled, this time on purpose. It's scary and gross but not really that big of a deal. Not unless they drug you based on your age instead of your weight and you are probably in the 10th percentile of weight compared to everyone else your age. This results in a drug overdose. One in which you are not able to wake up on your own but require more drugs that have an opposite effect to wake you up. Then when you do wake up you don't know what you're saying, but everyone in the room who is supposed to be a professional dental person is laughing at you. Kind of like when college kids get a dog drunk at a party and laugh at it while it runs in circles until it falls down because the poor creature has no idea why it feels the way it does. Then you get in the car to go home and sob uncontrollably for no apparent reason while your five-year-old sister asks why you're acting crazy and when you will stop. The upside to this is that you will most likely never be tempted to try drugs. Just say no.
As an adult, after having worn braces for almost three years, including the headgear contraption that was worn at night (only at night, thank god) and the tiny little rubber bands that went on little hooks and kept me from opening my mouth much at all (and snapped back on me innumerable times), I decided I would have no more oral surgery ever. For a few years my dentist kept recommending that I have my wisdom teeth removed. Nope. No thank you. Can't make me. Nanny, nanny boo-boo.
Until one day I noticed my teeth shifting. My front teeth on top. I could bite my hand and examine the impression left behind. It was crooked. The reason? My wisdom teeth had no room and as they crowded in, they were moving all of my other teeth around. Damn them. I did not go through all that work to have crooked teeth. I agreed to have them removed. By my dentist. Because he said he could put me under and it would be easy. He lied.
First, he did not put me under. Being awake with laughing gas is not the same as being put under. I don't care if it smells like pina coladas, it doesn't feel the same. I can smell a pina colada-scented candle all day long and not get a buzz. Same difference as the gas. (And this was before I became the big drinker I am now.) Secondly, he was a moron and injected the side of my face instead of my gum. I knew something was wrong when he said "Hmmm. Huh. Any history of blood disease in your family? Yeah. Hmmm... that doesn't look good." These are not words one wants to hear from their dentist after they have had a giant needle inserted into their mouth. Had I been knocked out, I wouldn't have had to hear them. But I was only given the nitrous crap so whatever teeny, tiny small little buzz I might have had immediately disappeared. I was sent home, teeth intact, with a cold press.
I ended up with a huge bruise on my face. Huge. Bruise. On my face. My FACE for Christ's sake! It's not that I'm so incredibly vain. It's just that it was so completely unavoidable. I couldn't hide it and it was there for a week or more. I had to go places still. I had scheduled play dates for my one year old daughter. I got looks from people. No, these were Looks. As in "You poor woman, I hope the bastard that did that to you rots in jail." Or worse, "You stupid woman. Do you let him hit your baby too?" At a play date, I was actually asked if I was allowed to be out of my house. Saying "My dentist did it" is roughly the equivalent of "My dog ate my homework." Nobody believed me.
After that little fiasco, I decided an oral surgeon might be better qualified to extract teeth from my mouth. I made an appointment with Dr. Shock. That is his name, I am not kidding you. Don't judge him for it either. He's really not an evil, sadistic ogre working out of a laboratory in some creepy castle tower. In truth, he's quite lovely. When discussing how the procedure would go, he gave me options for pain relief. He said the first level was like drinking one martini. Level two was two martinis, level three was three martinis. I ordered three martinis. See? Lovely. He even spoke my language. I went home coherent, with some lovely pain pills and virtually no swelling. Zero bruises.
The last dental experience is really why I've stayed away so long. I didn't like my dentist. I no longer trusted him. However, as long as I had insurance and was only getting my teeth cleaned, I went. I liked my hygienist. It was just the other guy I wanted to break up with. Making the appointment this week, I had to choose another dentist who would be covered under my plan. As in, "It's not you, it's my insurance."
When I walked into the new place this morning, the smell reminded me of a winery. It was a little jarring, but also comforting. I thought at first that if it smelled that way because they were actually drinking, we might have a problem. Unless they shared with me. I figured that would be okay. It's not like getting three martinis, but a glass or two of wine is nothing to be laughed at.
I wasn't too impressed with the technician who did my x-rays. She's probably not someone who handles her alcohol well. She certainly didn't handle the x-ray card thingies well. My mouth is not that big and they were cutting into my gums every time she stuffed one in and I had to bite down on them. Not cool. One martini or one glass of wine would have helped the situation. You know, I really think I'm onto something here. Spas give you wine, why not your dentist?
Dr. Andy was more pleasant. He poked around a little bit, finally declaring there was "nothing much going on in there." Not what I'd want to hear if someone was referring to a party I was throwing, or maybe my lack of a social life or even my mental state. But with my mouth, I'm fine with it. Nothing much should be going on in there. As in no cavities. No cavities is a good thing. (Yes, I hear you snickering. Grow up.) So why the sore tooth? Here is the bad news. Apparently the gums can start to recede as one grows older and that is what is happening to me. My gum line has started to recede right above my tooth, exposing the root and that is what is causing the tenderness. My root is showing. (Hmmm.. doesn't sound quite as dirty as having a party in my mouth, does it?) I'm going back to have it filled in a few weeks and, until then, I have been given sensitive formula toothpaste.
All in all? Good news - no cavity. Bad news - I'm getting older. Good news - I didn't have to pay anything to be told I'm getting older.
In semi-related news, my therapist let me know that she has diagnosed me with a mild case of adjustment disorder, making it sound like it's nothing more serious than the common cold. Obviously I haven't yet vomited out my entire dental history to her or let her in on how alcohol could benefit my experience at the dentist. It would probably help in her practice too, come to think of it. I'd certainly tell her more things, maybe more than she wants to know. At this point she still thinks I'm normal and not neurotic. That's okay, my deductible is stupidly high and I can't really afford for her to know how crazy I actually am. I'd rather put my resources into vodka.
Seriously, I dread going to the dentist. I know everyone does, but I claim special despising status based on all the work I've had done to my mouth and some of the unexpected aftermath. When I was 9, I had to have a spacer installed. This was a very archaic device that was glued to probably four of my teeth and covered the roof of my mouth. It came with a little key that my mom had to insert into the piece on the roof of my mouth and she would turn it nightly for about six months. The purpose was to stretch my mouth because it wasn't big enough to accommodate all of my teeth. Contrary to what some people might think, my mouth still isn't that big. When it was removed, it pulled out two of my teeth. The two that weren't ready to come out yet. With no pain relief. "Ha ha, thought we were going to lose her there a few times" is what the asinine dentist said.
When I was 14, I had to have two teeth pulled, this time on purpose. It's scary and gross but not really that big of a deal. Not unless they drug you based on your age instead of your weight and you are probably in the 10th percentile of weight compared to everyone else your age. This results in a drug overdose. One in which you are not able to wake up on your own but require more drugs that have an opposite effect to wake you up. Then when you do wake up you don't know what you're saying, but everyone in the room who is supposed to be a professional dental person is laughing at you. Kind of like when college kids get a dog drunk at a party and laugh at it while it runs in circles until it falls down because the poor creature has no idea why it feels the way it does. Then you get in the car to go home and sob uncontrollably for no apparent reason while your five-year-old sister asks why you're acting crazy and when you will stop. The upside to this is that you will most likely never be tempted to try drugs. Just say no.
As an adult, after having worn braces for almost three years, including the headgear contraption that was worn at night (only at night, thank god) and the tiny little rubber bands that went on little hooks and kept me from opening my mouth much at all (and snapped back on me innumerable times), I decided I would have no more oral surgery ever. For a few years my dentist kept recommending that I have my wisdom teeth removed. Nope. No thank you. Can't make me. Nanny, nanny boo-boo.
Until one day I noticed my teeth shifting. My front teeth on top. I could bite my hand and examine the impression left behind. It was crooked. The reason? My wisdom teeth had no room and as they crowded in, they were moving all of my other teeth around. Damn them. I did not go through all that work to have crooked teeth. I agreed to have them removed. By my dentist. Because he said he could put me under and it would be easy. He lied.
First, he did not put me under. Being awake with laughing gas is not the same as being put under. I don't care if it smells like pina coladas, it doesn't feel the same. I can smell a pina colada-scented candle all day long and not get a buzz. Same difference as the gas. (And this was before I became the big drinker I am now.) Secondly, he was a moron and injected the side of my face instead of my gum. I knew something was wrong when he said "Hmmm. Huh. Any history of blood disease in your family? Yeah. Hmmm... that doesn't look good." These are not words one wants to hear from their dentist after they have had a giant needle inserted into their mouth. Had I been knocked out, I wouldn't have had to hear them. But I was only given the nitrous crap so whatever teeny, tiny small little buzz I might have had immediately disappeared. I was sent home, teeth intact, with a cold press.
I ended up with a huge bruise on my face. Huge. Bruise. On my face. My FACE for Christ's sake! It's not that I'm so incredibly vain. It's just that it was so completely unavoidable. I couldn't hide it and it was there for a week or more. I had to go places still. I had scheduled play dates for my one year old daughter. I got looks from people. No, these were Looks. As in "You poor woman, I hope the bastard that did that to you rots in jail." Or worse, "You stupid woman. Do you let him hit your baby too?" At a play date, I was actually asked if I was allowed to be out of my house. Saying "My dentist did it" is roughly the equivalent of "My dog ate my homework." Nobody believed me.
After that little fiasco, I decided an oral surgeon might be better qualified to extract teeth from my mouth. I made an appointment with Dr. Shock. That is his name, I am not kidding you. Don't judge him for it either. He's really not an evil, sadistic ogre working out of a laboratory in some creepy castle tower. In truth, he's quite lovely. When discussing how the procedure would go, he gave me options for pain relief. He said the first level was like drinking one martini. Level two was two martinis, level three was three martinis. I ordered three martinis. See? Lovely. He even spoke my language. I went home coherent, with some lovely pain pills and virtually no swelling. Zero bruises.
The last dental experience is really why I've stayed away so long. I didn't like my dentist. I no longer trusted him. However, as long as I had insurance and was only getting my teeth cleaned, I went. I liked my hygienist. It was just the other guy I wanted to break up with. Making the appointment this week, I had to choose another dentist who would be covered under my plan. As in, "It's not you, it's my insurance."
When I walked into the new place this morning, the smell reminded me of a winery. It was a little jarring, but also comforting. I thought at first that if it smelled that way because they were actually drinking, we might have a problem. Unless they shared with me. I figured that would be okay. It's not like getting three martinis, but a glass or two of wine is nothing to be laughed at.
I wasn't too impressed with the technician who did my x-rays. She's probably not someone who handles her alcohol well. She certainly didn't handle the x-ray card thingies well. My mouth is not that big and they were cutting into my gums every time she stuffed one in and I had to bite down on them. Not cool. One martini or one glass of wine would have helped the situation. You know, I really think I'm onto something here. Spas give you wine, why not your dentist?
Dr. Andy was more pleasant. He poked around a little bit, finally declaring there was "nothing much going on in there." Not what I'd want to hear if someone was referring to a party I was throwing, or maybe my lack of a social life or even my mental state. But with my mouth, I'm fine with it. Nothing much should be going on in there. As in no cavities. No cavities is a good thing. (Yes, I hear you snickering. Grow up.) So why the sore tooth? Here is the bad news. Apparently the gums can start to recede as one grows older and that is what is happening to me. My gum line has started to recede right above my tooth, exposing the root and that is what is causing the tenderness. My root is showing. (Hmmm.. doesn't sound quite as dirty as having a party in my mouth, does it?) I'm going back to have it filled in a few weeks and, until then, I have been given sensitive formula toothpaste.
All in all? Good news - no cavity. Bad news - I'm getting older. Good news - I didn't have to pay anything to be told I'm getting older.
In semi-related news, my therapist let me know that she has diagnosed me with a mild case of adjustment disorder, making it sound like it's nothing more serious than the common cold. Obviously I haven't yet vomited out my entire dental history to her or let her in on how alcohol could benefit my experience at the dentist. It would probably help in her practice too, come to think of it. I'd certainly tell her more things, maybe more than she wants to know. At this point she still thinks I'm normal and not neurotic. That's okay, my deductible is stupidly high and I can't really afford for her to know how crazy I actually am. I'd rather put my resources into vodka.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Also Known As.....
I must have the most neglected blog I've ever seen. Wiping off the layers of dust to write this, in fact. I have been quite busy, I do have some stories to tell. There is one in particular that I wasn't sure I wanted to share, but I feel it is my civic duty to womankind. Okay, maybe that's a little over the top. Here it is anyway.
I recently signed up on a dating site, the merits of which we can discuss at a later time. It's been mostly amusing if not always truly funny. Ladies, we all know there are Bad Men out there and I have run into my fair share lately. I'll give you the short list.
Chicken Man. Falls under the category of Crazy Obsessive Psychotic Asshole.
I get an email from this guy, profile isn't exactly what I'm looking for, but it's decent so I write him back. By the second email I figure out he's just a bit too weird for me. The biggest clue I got was when he told me how much he enjoyed riding his bike with the trailer on it to the grocery store. He made quite the deal out of it and what he's doing for the environment. I'm all for doing my part, but on this day it was pouring down rain. If you've ever seen my shoes, you'd know I'm not the kind of girl who wants to ride a bike in the rain to pick up groceries. I prefer the warm, dry convenience of a car. I don't think that's too much to ask for, really. I didn't write back.
After a couple of days I get an email from him telling me that I must not be "sincere after all" and wishing me luck. Okay. You too, buddy. Weeks later I wake up to an email from Chicken Man asking if my "boob shot" gets me real men. This is followed up with an apology because when I didn't answer his past email he felt "unrequited." Seriously? Let me tell you, this was the wrong morning to mess with me. I replied in a not-very-nice way, saying I owed him nothing and it's no mystery why he is single. Unfortunately, this only served to fuel his psychotic need to harass and insult me. Needless to say, he was blocked from contacting me again.
FBI Guy. Categorized under Extreme Control Freak.
FBI Guy emails me. An intelligent email, an interesting profile. He's in the FBI. (I know because I googled him. Google can be a very important tool in the dating world.) A few emails later, he gives me his phone number. We talk. He lives on the other side of the country and asks if this eliminates him. Nope. Not yet. I get a very sweet email the next morning. (Prince Charming after all?) Followed by a not-so-sweet email telling me I have too many "walls" and I'm not making it easy for him. Um. Yeah, I'm just not willing to move across the country in less than 24 hours. Sorry.
That evening, FBI Guy makes a point of letting me know that he saw me online without him. Excuse me? Did I exchange wedding vows at some point during the day that I'm not aware of? Was I supposed to remove my profile after one phone call? Yeah, now you're eliminated.
Airplane Guy.
Airplane Guy is actually not a Bad Guy. As far as I can tell he is a Good Guy. I would be more than happy to set anyone up with him, in fact. But for me, he is Boring Guy.
Airplane Guy never loosened up. He was polite and courteous, shy. Sincere, dependable and reliable, all good qualities. Probably good Husband Material even. But he bored me. No flirting. Didn't feel like I could talk about South Park or Family Guy. I found myself censoring my own potty mouth, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I was bored. And it's just not right when a girl can't be herself. Maybe I didn't really give him a chance, but I didn't think it was right to lead him on. He's out there, ladies. I can point you in his direction if you're interested.
Any guy who hunts, fishes and is over 50 is put into the category of I Either Don't Read or Don't Care What Your Profile Says.
Really, when I say that I like sushi and wine tasting, what makes you think I'm interested in redneck activities? Riding quads? Again, if you've seen my shoes, you know I'm not. Never have been, never will be. And it's bad enough that a large number of men my age look like they're 50. I don't actually want to date someone who is 50. Or 54. Please, don't waste our time.
It's enough to make me want to give up, really. This would satisfy D of course. According to her, I don't need to date or have sex ever again. She says it's just "not right." It would seem she is still as hung up on Mr. X and The Boy as I am.
I have a month left on my membership and, unless the situation improves, I won't be renewing it. It's hardly worth it at this point, even if it has provided some good laughs. I'm not really after laughs though. I can get that from my friends without the harassment and attempts at control. For free, too. Gotta love my girls!
I recently signed up on a dating site, the merits of which we can discuss at a later time. It's been mostly amusing if not always truly funny. Ladies, we all know there are Bad Men out there and I have run into my fair share lately. I'll give you the short list.
Chicken Man. Falls under the category of Crazy Obsessive Psychotic Asshole.
I get an email from this guy, profile isn't exactly what I'm looking for, but it's decent so I write him back. By the second email I figure out he's just a bit too weird for me. The biggest clue I got was when he told me how much he enjoyed riding his bike with the trailer on it to the grocery store. He made quite the deal out of it and what he's doing for the environment. I'm all for doing my part, but on this day it was pouring down rain. If you've ever seen my shoes, you'd know I'm not the kind of girl who wants to ride a bike in the rain to pick up groceries. I prefer the warm, dry convenience of a car. I don't think that's too much to ask for, really. I didn't write back.
After a couple of days I get an email from him telling me that I must not be "sincere after all" and wishing me luck. Okay. You too, buddy. Weeks later I wake up to an email from Chicken Man asking if my "boob shot" gets me real men. This is followed up with an apology because when I didn't answer his past email he felt "unrequited." Seriously? Let me tell you, this was the wrong morning to mess with me. I replied in a not-very-nice way, saying I owed him nothing and it's no mystery why he is single. Unfortunately, this only served to fuel his psychotic need to harass and insult me. Needless to say, he was blocked from contacting me again.
FBI Guy. Categorized under Extreme Control Freak.
FBI Guy emails me. An intelligent email, an interesting profile. He's in the FBI. (I know because I googled him. Google can be a very important tool in the dating world.) A few emails later, he gives me his phone number. We talk. He lives on the other side of the country and asks if this eliminates him. Nope. Not yet. I get a very sweet email the next morning. (Prince Charming after all?) Followed by a not-so-sweet email telling me I have too many "walls" and I'm not making it easy for him. Um. Yeah, I'm just not willing to move across the country in less than 24 hours. Sorry.
That evening, FBI Guy makes a point of letting me know that he saw me online without him. Excuse me? Did I exchange wedding vows at some point during the day that I'm not aware of? Was I supposed to remove my profile after one phone call? Yeah, now you're eliminated.
Airplane Guy.
Airplane Guy is actually not a Bad Guy. As far as I can tell he is a Good Guy. I would be more than happy to set anyone up with him, in fact. But for me, he is Boring Guy.
Airplane Guy never loosened up. He was polite and courteous, shy. Sincere, dependable and reliable, all good qualities. Probably good Husband Material even. But he bored me. No flirting. Didn't feel like I could talk about South Park or Family Guy. I found myself censoring my own potty mouth, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I was bored. And it's just not right when a girl can't be herself. Maybe I didn't really give him a chance, but I didn't think it was right to lead him on. He's out there, ladies. I can point you in his direction if you're interested.
Any guy who hunts, fishes and is over 50 is put into the category of I Either Don't Read or Don't Care What Your Profile Says.
Really, when I say that I like sushi and wine tasting, what makes you think I'm interested in redneck activities? Riding quads? Again, if you've seen my shoes, you know I'm not. Never have been, never will be. And it's bad enough that a large number of men my age look like they're 50. I don't actually want to date someone who is 50. Or 54. Please, don't waste our time.
It's enough to make me want to give up, really. This would satisfy D of course. According to her, I don't need to date or have sex ever again. She says it's just "not right." It would seem she is still as hung up on Mr. X and The Boy as I am.
I have a month left on my membership and, unless the situation improves, I won't be renewing it. It's hardly worth it at this point, even if it has provided some good laughs. I'm not really after laughs though. I can get that from my friends without the harassment and attempts at control. For free, too. Gotta love my girls!
Saturday, March 07, 2009
True Love Is...
I was asked recently to think of relationships of people I know that I believe are happy and healthy. It surprised me how difficult this turned out to be. Quite difficult and really quite sad. Then, as I was taxiing my daughter around yesterday, I realized that I have known one of the best relationships that has ever been.
I don't think my grandparents had a great romance. I don't know the story of how they met, but I don't imagine it had a fairy-tale quality. Life was more practical in those days - one got married and had children because that was Life. Theirs wasn't an easy one, either. My grandfather fought in World War II and I don't know any more than that because he never talked about it. To anyone. They had six kids and my grandpa worked in the oil fields to provide for them. They were so poor at one point that my grandmother had to sell her wedding ring to be able to feed her children.
When I was around six, my grandmother suffered a major aneurysm. I remember visiting her in the hospital with my mom, watching her drool and pull on my mom's earring in the way that an infant would. She literally had to learn how to talk again, how to walk again. She was never the energetic, independent woman I remembered from before. My grandfather was there every day. When she got quite a bit better he bought her a car, hoping it would motivate her to drive again. She refused. Her mind was still good, she remembered everything, like my love for Cheerios when I was five, and made sure to have them in the house every time I visited. (Even after I had outgrown them at the age of 21.) I suspect she knew very well the limitations of her physical body and didn't want to take the risk of her body failing her while behind the wheel.
My grandfather did the best he could to take care of her. He did it until his own body failed him in the task. As she got older, she started falling down a lot. She was quite heavy too, as she mostly sat around eating and watching TV all day. He still took her with him to the grocery store and on errands in an attempt to get her out into the world a bit. Until one day she fell and, for the first time, he wasn't able to carry her back to the car and home again. He had to admit she needed more help than he could give her and finally acquiesced to the nursing home that my mom and aunts had been pleading for. My mom made the trip to help him with the task and returned home saying his heart was broken.
My grandmother died a few years ago. This time I made the trip with my mom for the funeral. At the viewing my mom complained endlessly in hushed whispers that they hadn't made her look right. Her hair was wrong. What did they think they were doing with her face? I almost expected her to find the mortician and read him out over his poor hair and makeup job. I wasn't sure why it mattered, it wouldn't bring her back, but she wasn't my mom. And truthfully, I never thought of my grandmother as especially pretty. Handsome, in her way, but not very feminine or even cute. Then my grandfather walked into the room. He looked at her with tears in his eyes and exclaimed, "Isn't she beautiful? She's just so beautiful!" He was looking past the mortician's poor makeup job, past the limitations of her body all of those years, to the person that he had loved most of his life. Really loved. With all that he could give her. His heart was broken once again.
No, their life wasn't hearts and roses, champagne and bubble baths. I wonder if they ever had even a day of romance in 50 plus years. And, honestly, I think they were cheated out of a lot. My grandmother was very ill for 30 years of their marriage. I'm sure nobody thinks they're signing up for that when signing a marriage license.
What they did have was dedication and commitment to each other and to their family. In the end, after all the hardships, illness, their children's divorces, family crisis, they had love. I saw true love in my grandfather's eyes that day. He believed she was beautiful.
If I could have half of what I saw that day I would have everything I need. I would be very fortunate indeed.
I don't think my grandparents had a great romance. I don't know the story of how they met, but I don't imagine it had a fairy-tale quality. Life was more practical in those days - one got married and had children because that was Life. Theirs wasn't an easy one, either. My grandfather fought in World War II and I don't know any more than that because he never talked about it. To anyone. They had six kids and my grandpa worked in the oil fields to provide for them. They were so poor at one point that my grandmother had to sell her wedding ring to be able to feed her children.
When I was around six, my grandmother suffered a major aneurysm. I remember visiting her in the hospital with my mom, watching her drool and pull on my mom's earring in the way that an infant would. She literally had to learn how to talk again, how to walk again. She was never the energetic, independent woman I remembered from before. My grandfather was there every day. When she got quite a bit better he bought her a car, hoping it would motivate her to drive again. She refused. Her mind was still good, she remembered everything, like my love for Cheerios when I was five, and made sure to have them in the house every time I visited. (Even after I had outgrown them at the age of 21.) I suspect she knew very well the limitations of her physical body and didn't want to take the risk of her body failing her while behind the wheel.
My grandfather did the best he could to take care of her. He did it until his own body failed him in the task. As she got older, she started falling down a lot. She was quite heavy too, as she mostly sat around eating and watching TV all day. He still took her with him to the grocery store and on errands in an attempt to get her out into the world a bit. Until one day she fell and, for the first time, he wasn't able to carry her back to the car and home again. He had to admit she needed more help than he could give her and finally acquiesced to the nursing home that my mom and aunts had been pleading for. My mom made the trip to help him with the task and returned home saying his heart was broken.
My grandmother died a few years ago. This time I made the trip with my mom for the funeral. At the viewing my mom complained endlessly in hushed whispers that they hadn't made her look right. Her hair was wrong. What did they think they were doing with her face? I almost expected her to find the mortician and read him out over his poor hair and makeup job. I wasn't sure why it mattered, it wouldn't bring her back, but she wasn't my mom. And truthfully, I never thought of my grandmother as especially pretty. Handsome, in her way, but not very feminine or even cute. Then my grandfather walked into the room. He looked at her with tears in his eyes and exclaimed, "Isn't she beautiful? She's just so beautiful!" He was looking past the mortician's poor makeup job, past the limitations of her body all of those years, to the person that he had loved most of his life. Really loved. With all that he could give her. His heart was broken once again.
No, their life wasn't hearts and roses, champagne and bubble baths. I wonder if they ever had even a day of romance in 50 plus years. And, honestly, I think they were cheated out of a lot. My grandmother was very ill for 30 years of their marriage. I'm sure nobody thinks they're signing up for that when signing a marriage license.
What they did have was dedication and commitment to each other and to their family. In the end, after all the hardships, illness, their children's divorces, family crisis, they had love. I saw true love in my grandfather's eyes that day. He believed she was beautiful.
If I could have half of what I saw that day I would have everything I need. I would be very fortunate indeed.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Men Vs. Women
There are a couple of guys at work in a contest to lose weight. Each week the loser (of the least amount of weight) buys the winner a sandwich. I think it’s funny that food is the reward in a weight loss contest, but they’re getting the low-fat sandwiches from Subway so maybe that’s not so bad. The thing that really cracks me up is they bring in a scale and weigh themselves right there together, at one of their desks. This I something women would never do. I will tell you how much I’ve lost, I’ll whine about how much I’ve gained, but I will never tell you how much I weigh.
Can you even imagine? I have to weigh myself completely naked in the morning before I’ve had an ounce to eat so that I’m sure I am at my absolute “real” weight. It’s even better after a night of drinking. That dehydration really takes off the pounds! So to weigh myself in front of another human being in the middle of the day after eating and drinking, with five pounds of clothing and heavy snow boots – far too much for my fragile little ego to handle. No thank you.
For the record, I’ve lost 10 pounds. Where’s my sandwich?
Can you even imagine? I have to weigh myself completely naked in the morning before I’ve had an ounce to eat so that I’m sure I am at my absolute “real” weight. It’s even better after a night of drinking. That dehydration really takes off the pounds! So to weigh myself in front of another human being in the middle of the day after eating and drinking, with five pounds of clothing and heavy snow boots – far too much for my fragile little ego to handle. No thank you.
For the record, I’ve lost 10 pounds. Where’s my sandwich?
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Things You Don't Know and I Don't Forget
He cleaned up my daughter's puke. He cleaned up my friend's puke. I didn't ask.
He built me a village. Twice.
We read books to each other on car trips. Of my choosing.
He always drove when I was tired.
He sang to the dogs.
He could give me a back rub without the usual male expectation of getting something in return.
We shopped until we dropped and he never complained.
He's one of the best dads I have ever met.
He traded his food with me when I didn't like mine.
He's easy to travel with and always let me choose the itinerary.
He makes the best tuna melts.
He picks up his underwear.
He always did the dishes after I cooked.
He fixed my Tinkerbell ornament.
He put up with my dad. Not an easy task.
He always helped me make the bed.
He made me laugh more than anyone.
He built me a village. Twice.
We read books to each other on car trips. Of my choosing.
He always drove when I was tired.
He sang to the dogs.
He could give me a back rub without the usual male expectation of getting something in return.
We shopped until we dropped and he never complained.
He's one of the best dads I have ever met.
He traded his food with me when I didn't like mine.
He's easy to travel with and always let me choose the itinerary.
He makes the best tuna melts.
He picks up his underwear.
He always did the dishes after I cooked.
He fixed my Tinkerbell ornament.
He put up with my dad. Not an easy task.
He always helped me make the bed.
He made me laugh more than anyone.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Girl Power and Other Lessons in Growing Up
I've been working on building friendships with other women the last few months. It has been very helpful and I've appreciated it more than I can ever tell them. There's not a better cure for a day of sitting on the couch, pajama-clad and feeling hopeless than an evening of drinks with the girls or a cold, brisk walk up the butte with a friend. Laughter sometimes is the best medicine and it comes easily when I can share how many times I had to change clothes just to leave the house or make fun of the guy that won't get a clue or how my dog wouldn't stop farting the day before.
Most of my new friends have been going through similar experiences as I have, which is most likely the reason I felt so connected to them in such a short time. We've been able to offer each other a sympathetic ear and support we may not have gotten elsewhere. Lately I have realized how I've missed this kind of support. It surprises me how we, as women, really abandon each other at times. I have to admit that I am just as guilty.
My sister married an older man last year. Older as in a 20+ year difference, old enough to be her father. Only he looks more like her grandfather standing next to her. Nobody has been happy about her choice. My parents were beside themselves in the beginning, my mom even accused him of "stealing her youth." I refused to attend the wedding for several reasons, the cost of going to Mississippi for a weekend being one of them, not knowing if she would actually go through with it another. I also knew that I wouldn't be able to bite my tongue to keep from saying something nasty to her elderly groom, a man I don't even know but have a strong opinion about. This wouldn't have been fair to her, not on a day that was supposed to be about her and what she thought would be making her happy.
In the end though, this is her choice. It shouldn't matter what I think, or what my parents or my brother think. It doesn't matter. We don't know how she feels or what it is about him that she is drawn to. We can laugh and joke and say it's a daddy complex. Maybe it is. Maybe it's real. But it's her choice and ultimately it's up to the rest of us to simply respect it as such and let her have happiness where she finds it.
I don't know how it got so easy for us to judge one another. Why do we think that tearing one person down builds up another? It doesn't. Does it make us feel safer in our own poor choices? Justified when we're right and relationships fall apart? "I told you so." What does that even mean? "I told you that you're an idiot and not competent enough to trust your own judgment." Is that what we want to tell each other? Are we so selfish that we'd rather be right when our girlfriend stumbles and falls, rather than just hold her hand and say, "I know. I understand."
We all have our own journeys, our own paths to walk, our individual lessons to learn. We don't get there at the same time, some learn quicker than others, some need to be hit over the head with the same hard lesson repeatedly before they finally get it and move on. Our jobs as women, as people, should be to support each other through the process, keep our opinions to a minimum and simply allow our friends to find happiness wherever and however they find it.
To my new friends and old friends, I am grateful for your support. I know that you care and want me to be happy and that your intentions are well meaning. Hold my hand when it gets hard, but please leave the catty remarks to yourselves and let me make my journey. I will do the same for you.
Most of my new friends have been going through similar experiences as I have, which is most likely the reason I felt so connected to them in such a short time. We've been able to offer each other a sympathetic ear and support we may not have gotten elsewhere. Lately I have realized how I've missed this kind of support. It surprises me how we, as women, really abandon each other at times. I have to admit that I am just as guilty.
My sister married an older man last year. Older as in a 20+ year difference, old enough to be her father. Only he looks more like her grandfather standing next to her. Nobody has been happy about her choice. My parents were beside themselves in the beginning, my mom even accused him of "stealing her youth." I refused to attend the wedding for several reasons, the cost of going to Mississippi for a weekend being one of them, not knowing if she would actually go through with it another. I also knew that I wouldn't be able to bite my tongue to keep from saying something nasty to her elderly groom, a man I don't even know but have a strong opinion about. This wouldn't have been fair to her, not on a day that was supposed to be about her and what she thought would be making her happy.
In the end though, this is her choice. It shouldn't matter what I think, or what my parents or my brother think. It doesn't matter. We don't know how she feels or what it is about him that she is drawn to. We can laugh and joke and say it's a daddy complex. Maybe it is. Maybe it's real. But it's her choice and ultimately it's up to the rest of us to simply respect it as such and let her have happiness where she finds it.
I don't know how it got so easy for us to judge one another. Why do we think that tearing one person down builds up another? It doesn't. Does it make us feel safer in our own poor choices? Justified when we're right and relationships fall apart? "I told you so." What does that even mean? "I told you that you're an idiot and not competent enough to trust your own judgment." Is that what we want to tell each other? Are we so selfish that we'd rather be right when our girlfriend stumbles and falls, rather than just hold her hand and say, "I know. I understand."
We all have our own journeys, our own paths to walk, our individual lessons to learn. We don't get there at the same time, some learn quicker than others, some need to be hit over the head with the same hard lesson repeatedly before they finally get it and move on. Our jobs as women, as people, should be to support each other through the process, keep our opinions to a minimum and simply allow our friends to find happiness wherever and however they find it.
To my new friends and old friends, I am grateful for your support. I know that you care and want me to be happy and that your intentions are well meaning. Hold my hand when it gets hard, but please leave the catty remarks to yourselves and let me make my journey. I will do the same for you.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Going on a Lion Hunt
When I was a little girl in Blue Birds, we used to sing this song about going on a lion hunt. First we encountered a gate, then tall grass, sticky mud, a big river and finally a dark cave. Each obstacle included the phrase, "Can't go over it, can't go under it, can't go around it, gotta go through it!" At the end we found the lion, screamed, and went back through the cave, the wide river, the mud, the tall grass and the gate to return home and declare that tomorrow we would go on a lion hunt and catch a big one.
That phrase has gone through my mind many times over the last few months. Gotta go through it. There are things, feelings, situations I would like to avoid. I'd like to stay home, tucked safely in bed, declaring each day that tomorrow is the day for the big hunt. I've ventured out a bit, made it through the gate, the tall grass, got stuck in the mud a couple of times. But each time I've found myself scurrying back home and diving under those familiar covers. Unfortunately, I think the time has come to strap on my boots and really go look for that lion. There's no way over it, under it or around it. I have to go through it. Through the pain, the messy thoughts, through the darkness. The only way out is through.
Yep. I'm going on a lion hunt. Gonna catch me a big one.
That phrase has gone through my mind many times over the last few months. Gotta go through it. There are things, feelings, situations I would like to avoid. I'd like to stay home, tucked safely in bed, declaring each day that tomorrow is the day for the big hunt. I've ventured out a bit, made it through the gate, the tall grass, got stuck in the mud a couple of times. But each time I've found myself scurrying back home and diving under those familiar covers. Unfortunately, I think the time has come to strap on my boots and really go look for that lion. There's no way over it, under it or around it. I have to go through it. Through the pain, the messy thoughts, through the darkness. The only way out is through.
Yep. I'm going on a lion hunt. Gonna catch me a big one.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Reflections
It is always interesting to find out how people see me. Others' views don't often match my own. Last night at a party I was asked how long I've been married. When I replied that I'm not, the response was one of surprise with the comment "But you seem so connected." Connected? Connected is the last thing I feel right now. Most of the time I feel like I'm just wandering aimlessly, unsure of where to land or how to sit and just be.
I'm not sure what I should be connected to, but I'm starting to reconnect with myself and that's a nice feeling. Last night is a good example. Social situations in the past have been a source of some anxiety - needing to know the other people invited and absolutely requiring someone to go with. Go to a party by myself? No thank you! But I got the invite for this one earlier in the week and accepted without hesitation. I did know most of the people attending, so it wasn't a giant step outside my comfort zone, but a step nonetheless. I arrived with pumpkin dip and a bottle of wine in hand and proceeded to have a really good time. I drank, I mingled, I ate, I laughed at jokes, I told stories, I even learned some German and some sign language. I went home a happy girl, realizing that I hadn't once felt awkward not having a party date with me.
I think I've always felt pressured to have all of the answers Now. That I'm supposed to know who I am and where my life is taking me and that not knowing makes me Less Than somehow. The truth is I've never had an answer to the 5 year question. Hell, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I do envy the people that have gotten there, the ones that seem to have it all together. Especially if they're also wearing the perfect pair of shoes with the perfect hairstyle.
I'm learning to be okay with not knowing, that I'll get there someday. It's something to be discovered, like a new martini or a really good book. And it's a bit exciting, this not knowing, because the possibilities are greater. I don't have my route mapped out, I may take a few more detours, but I'll get there. Until then, I do have some really nice shoes and even a really good hair day once in a while.
I'm not sure what I should be connected to, but I'm starting to reconnect with myself and that's a nice feeling. Last night is a good example. Social situations in the past have been a source of some anxiety - needing to know the other people invited and absolutely requiring someone to go with. Go to a party by myself? No thank you! But I got the invite for this one earlier in the week and accepted without hesitation. I did know most of the people attending, so it wasn't a giant step outside my comfort zone, but a step nonetheless. I arrived with pumpkin dip and a bottle of wine in hand and proceeded to have a really good time. I drank, I mingled, I ate, I laughed at jokes, I told stories, I even learned some German and some sign language. I went home a happy girl, realizing that I hadn't once felt awkward not having a party date with me.
I think I've always felt pressured to have all of the answers Now. That I'm supposed to know who I am and where my life is taking me and that not knowing makes me Less Than somehow. The truth is I've never had an answer to the 5 year question. Hell, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I do envy the people that have gotten there, the ones that seem to have it all together. Especially if they're also wearing the perfect pair of shoes with the perfect hairstyle.
I'm learning to be okay with not knowing, that I'll get there someday. It's something to be discovered, like a new martini or a really good book. And it's a bit exciting, this not knowing, because the possibilities are greater. I don't have my route mapped out, I may take a few more detours, but I'll get there. Until then, I do have some really nice shoes and even a really good hair day once in a while.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
It's Not Just Puppy Love
It's not just puppy love because they're not just puppies. To me, my dogs are so much more than pets. They're little children who walk on all fours, eat whatever I give them and gaze at me with complete and utter adoration. Adoration that I think I mostly don't deserve. I've been a bad mommy lately.
My little chubby, round Ruby with the googly eyes. I've noticed her collar getting a little tighter lately so I took it off the other night to see if it would expand any further. It didn't, it was as large as it will go, which means I know what Santa needs to bring now. The guilt set in when I saw that all of the hair had been rubbed off of the part of her neck covered by the latch on the collar and there was a small red, raw spot growing in the middle of it. That had to be very uncomfortable and yet she never complained. Not a whimper, not a sigh.
Remy took a trip to the vet yesterday. His ear has been smelling a bit off lately and over the weekend he started scratching it and shaking his head frequently. Monday night he would yelp when scratching. Yelp and then come bouncing over to me with his regular enthusiasm and zest.
I wasn't looking forward to going to the vet, hadn't anticipated that expense this month, and am currently broke like the rest of America. But he's my little boy, he was in pain so I bundled him up in his nicest coat and off we went. My boy was so proud to be looking so handsome and to be taking a ride that didn't have to be shared with his little sister. Little sisters can be so annoying.
The vet took one look into his ear and declared that yes, it did look very bad. She took a couple of swabs and discussed our options. Her preferred choice was to let it culture at the lab, which would tell her exactly what bacteria was present, but this alone would cost $100. The second option was to start him on a treatment that sometimes has a side effect of liver damage and requires a blood test to determine if it can even be given. Neither choice sounded great, so I was relieved when she told me they could start with a stain that would show if any bacteria was actually present and then do further testing if needed. I went with that one and we were sent back out to the waiting room.
While sitting there, an elderly couple came in. Her shoulders were shaking from crying, his hand was on her back. Neither spoke and the vet tech came quickly to get them and take them back. It was clear that they were losing someone they loved very much. I looked at my Remy, he looked at me and I was grateful to be there for only an ear infection. I know the day will come when I have a much more difficult decision to make, but not today. Thank God it's not today.
Our vet came out to tell us that there was definitely bacteria present and we were given an antibiotic along with an ointment to help with the pain. If he's not greatly improved by Monday, he will have to be sedated so that his ear can be flushed out. Keeping fingers crossed that the medicine works quickly and is all he needs.
I brought Remy back to work with me as it was the end of the day and I wanted to avoid making another trip home before I finished what I needed for an hour or so. This delighted him beyond words. A new place, with new smells and people crowding around lavishing attention on him? Any time he gets to be treated like the the rock star that he truly is makes his day. At my desk, he laid down next to me and received compliments on what a Good Boy he is. I was actually astounded that he was so well behaved, but I pretended that he is always like that. Remy? Oh yes, he is a Very Good Boy. He never jumps spastically, never licks uncontrollably or uninvited, never makes a peep. Wink, wink.
I am completely, ridiculously in love with my dogs. They are an endless source of comfort to me now. I ask next to nothing of them. Going potty outside and staying off the couch isn't too much to ask, is it? All they ask from me is to be allowed to snuggle, cover me in kisses and if I wouldn't mind sharing a bite of meat or cheese now and then. It's really the most uncomplicated relationship and the most rewarding. I think it's also the most unequal as they give me far more than I give them. I will never be deserving of the sheer joy with which I am greeted or the deep, deep love I see in their eyes.
So I will make the trips to the vet. Clean the dog hairs off of my clothes, my sheets, the floor. I will pay for medicine. I will pay for vaccines. I will clean up "accidents." Because it is a privilege being in their lives, an honor to be so loved and so trusted. Because it's the least I can do. Because the day will come when I can't and I will have to say goodbye.
My little chubby, round Ruby with the googly eyes. I've noticed her collar getting a little tighter lately so I took it off the other night to see if it would expand any further. It didn't, it was as large as it will go, which means I know what Santa needs to bring now. The guilt set in when I saw that all of the hair had been rubbed off of the part of her neck covered by the latch on the collar and there was a small red, raw spot growing in the middle of it. That had to be very uncomfortable and yet she never complained. Not a whimper, not a sigh.
Remy took a trip to the vet yesterday. His ear has been smelling a bit off lately and over the weekend he started scratching it and shaking his head frequently. Monday night he would yelp when scratching. Yelp and then come bouncing over to me with his regular enthusiasm and zest.
I wasn't looking forward to going to the vet, hadn't anticipated that expense this month, and am currently broke like the rest of America. But he's my little boy, he was in pain so I bundled him up in his nicest coat and off we went. My boy was so proud to be looking so handsome and to be taking a ride that didn't have to be shared with his little sister. Little sisters can be so annoying.
The vet took one look into his ear and declared that yes, it did look very bad. She took a couple of swabs and discussed our options. Her preferred choice was to let it culture at the lab, which would tell her exactly what bacteria was present, but this alone would cost $100. The second option was to start him on a treatment that sometimes has a side effect of liver damage and requires a blood test to determine if it can even be given. Neither choice sounded great, so I was relieved when she told me they could start with a stain that would show if any bacteria was actually present and then do further testing if needed. I went with that one and we were sent back out to the waiting room.
While sitting there, an elderly couple came in. Her shoulders were shaking from crying, his hand was on her back. Neither spoke and the vet tech came quickly to get them and take them back. It was clear that they were losing someone they loved very much. I looked at my Remy, he looked at me and I was grateful to be there for only an ear infection. I know the day will come when I have a much more difficult decision to make, but not today. Thank God it's not today.
Our vet came out to tell us that there was definitely bacteria present and we were given an antibiotic along with an ointment to help with the pain. If he's not greatly improved by Monday, he will have to be sedated so that his ear can be flushed out. Keeping fingers crossed that the medicine works quickly and is all he needs.
I brought Remy back to work with me as it was the end of the day and I wanted to avoid making another trip home before I finished what I needed for an hour or so. This delighted him beyond words. A new place, with new smells and people crowding around lavishing attention on him? Any time he gets to be treated like the the rock star that he truly is makes his day. At my desk, he laid down next to me and received compliments on what a Good Boy he is. I was actually astounded that he was so well behaved, but I pretended that he is always like that. Remy? Oh yes, he is a Very Good Boy. He never jumps spastically, never licks uncontrollably or uninvited, never makes a peep. Wink, wink.
I am completely, ridiculously in love with my dogs. They are an endless source of comfort to me now. I ask next to nothing of them. Going potty outside and staying off the couch isn't too much to ask, is it? All they ask from me is to be allowed to snuggle, cover me in kisses and if I wouldn't mind sharing a bite of meat or cheese now and then. It's really the most uncomplicated relationship and the most rewarding. I think it's also the most unequal as they give me far more than I give them. I will never be deserving of the sheer joy with which I am greeted or the deep, deep love I see in their eyes.
So I will make the trips to the vet. Clean the dog hairs off of my clothes, my sheets, the floor. I will pay for medicine. I will pay for vaccines. I will clean up "accidents." Because it is a privilege being in their lives, an honor to be so loved and so trusted. Because it's the least I can do. Because the day will come when I can't and I will have to say goodbye.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sifting
The dust is finally starting to settle. The pieces float slowly to the floor around me. I begin to examine them now. The memories, images, conversations. The judgments, accusations, the unfinished sentences. Laughter and tears. Shame and kindness.
I feel the need to organize it all somehow. If I can put it all into little compartments with proper labels then maybe it will make sense to me. But how? Which are real, the truth, authentic? What is false and what has fooled me? What stays in my heart and what should be discarded forever?
I wonder if it matters. Sometimes I think it never did. And I wish it didn't, but it matters to me. It matters a lot.
I feel the need to organize it all somehow. If I can put it all into little compartments with proper labels then maybe it will make sense to me. But how? Which are real, the truth, authentic? What is false and what has fooled me? What stays in my heart and what should be discarded forever?
I wonder if it matters. Sometimes I think it never did. And I wish it didn't, but it matters to me. It matters a lot.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Visions of Sugar Plums
We have arrived at the culmination of the dance year - The Nutcracker. This is D's seventh year in ballet and seventh performance. It is easy to see her progression through the other dancers, from the tiny mice to the waltzing flower she has become to the Sugar Plum Fairy she aspires to be. There are also the many hairstyles I have had to learn - who knew I was required to have hairdresser skills? The soldier bun covered by the hat was the easiest. The ringlets of the polka girls were the worst, I finally got them right for the last performance. This year I am sneaking by with the french braid, although I do wish I had practiced more with my Barbies as a kid.
Oh, yes. So many memories. Waiting each season to see what role she will get (she handled the disappointment of not getting Clara much better than I did), the gift-buying for her fellow dancers, the hours of rehearsal, the backstage dramas, the excitement of performing and the huge letdown she feels each year after the last performance. There are the tangible items too - the souvenir playbills I tuck away each year, always taking an extra copy for her. She also receives every year from me a ballerina ornament, knowing someday she will take this collection with her to hang on her own tree. I imagine her as a young adult, unwrapping and hanging them in first a small apartment and then later, sharing them with her own daughter.
I went to watch her evening performance. It is an odd sensation watching your child do something that you cannot. Where does her grace come from? Her sense of self? I spill food on myself regularly, trip and bump into objects I can see clearly. Am terrified to get up in front of a group of people, let alone move in a coordinated fashion across a stage. My child though, floats among the other dancers with a smile of utter serenity and confidence. This is her spot in the sun and I can only share in it by being an observer.
When I dropped her off for warm-ups in the afternoon I repeated the phrase I often tell her before practice, "Dance your heart out!" I usually say it as sort of a joke but this time it was through choked back tears because I knew that she would. And that someday she will dance away from me into her own life.
Oh, yes. So many memories. Waiting each season to see what role she will get (she handled the disappointment of not getting Clara much better than I did), the gift-buying for her fellow dancers, the hours of rehearsal, the backstage dramas, the excitement of performing and the huge letdown she feels each year after the last performance. There are the tangible items too - the souvenir playbills I tuck away each year, always taking an extra copy for her. She also receives every year from me a ballerina ornament, knowing someday she will take this collection with her to hang on her own tree. I imagine her as a young adult, unwrapping and hanging them in first a small apartment and then later, sharing them with her own daughter.
I went to watch her evening performance. It is an odd sensation watching your child do something that you cannot. Where does her grace come from? Her sense of self? I spill food on myself regularly, trip and bump into objects I can see clearly. Am terrified to get up in front of a group of people, let alone move in a coordinated fashion across a stage. My child though, floats among the other dancers with a smile of utter serenity and confidence. This is her spot in the sun and I can only share in it by being an observer.
When I dropped her off for warm-ups in the afternoon I repeated the phrase I often tell her before practice, "Dance your heart out!" I usually say it as sort of a joke but this time it was through choked back tears because I knew that she would. And that someday she will dance away from me into her own life.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Signs
This news article caught my eye today. I was on my honeymoon on Maui, lying on the beach, when my then-newlywed husband informed me that he lost his wedding ring. He had just applied sunscreen and then went out for a swim in the ocean and when he got out he realized that his ring was gone. It had simply slipped off his finger without his notice. I panicked, I cried, I was completely distraught. A nice man tried to console me while my groom put on his goggles and fruitlessly searched the ocean floor for the symbol of our pledged love. I all but bit the nice man's head off in my hysteria. I feared it was a sign that we weren't meant to be together.
We are no longer married.
Maybe I should pay attention to signs more often.
We are no longer married.
Maybe I should pay attention to signs more often.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Halloween Happiness
Just a quick update here, Daddy Dearest is in town so I have obligations this weekend. But I did want to mention what Halloween is like when you actually go OUT. I can't believe I've never been out on Halloween before (well, there was that one time in Santa Barbara when I ditched the blind people but I was underage so it doesn't count) and it was a Friday, I found myself free for the evening, why the hell not?
I don't know if it was because it was a Friday, or if it's always like this but this town was full of some of the best costumes I have ever seen. I wish I could have hit all the goings-on, there just isn't enough time in one evening. And I never say that about Bend. Here are a few of my favorite costumes -
Clockwork Orange guy
the syringe.
GEICO caveman tennis player - loved him!!
fat Geisha
Guy with the baby - costume wasn't much, but the creepy fake baby was totally cool!
Reno 911 guy - nice dancing too, dude.
And note to the ladybug who threw dirty looks at me for an hour- you're cute, blond and skinny. No reason to be a ladybitch.
Next year Halloween is on a Saturday. If I go out, I am going to have to be a little more creative than I have in the past. Thanks everyone for being so entertaining this year!!
I don't know if it was because it was a Friday, or if it's always like this but this town was full of some of the best costumes I have ever seen. I wish I could have hit all the goings-on, there just isn't enough time in one evening. And I never say that about Bend. Here are a few of my favorite costumes -
Clockwork Orange guy
the syringe.
GEICO caveman tennis player - loved him!!
fat Geisha
Guy with the baby - costume wasn't much, but the creepy fake baby was totally cool!
Reno 911 guy - nice dancing too, dude.
And note to the ladybug who threw dirty looks at me for an hour- you're cute, blond and skinny. No reason to be a ladybitch.
Next year Halloween is on a Saturday. If I go out, I am going to have to be a little more creative than I have in the past. Thanks everyone for being so entertaining this year!!
Friday, October 31, 2008
Sleepless Nights
I haven't been sleeping well at all the past week. It appears the "homeless" don't rest so easily. During these nights there must be an hour or two at least where I do sleep because I have the most bizarre, vivid dreams. The following are some images from these dreams. Analyze all you want, but I've already reached the conclusion that I am insane. Certifiably so.
Going on a "field trip" with coworkers to some type of aquarium. I pet sting rays with enormous black eyes that jumped out of their pool to get to me.
Cardboard lockers to use for one day.
Trying to get to someone at midnight but it was already daylight so I feared I wouldn't make it in time.
A yard full of dogs I had to find homes for.
The home of my best friend in elementary school. She didn't live there anymore, but I walked in to take a look, met the new owner and thought about how much it had changed. The new owner had added a pool. In the same dream I saw the mother of my other best friend.
On another note I believe the break-up diet may finally have hit, considering I threw up my leftover Thai food last night. Goody for me.
Going on a "field trip" with coworkers to some type of aquarium. I pet sting rays with enormous black eyes that jumped out of their pool to get to me.
Cardboard lockers to use for one day.
Trying to get to someone at midnight but it was already daylight so I feared I wouldn't make it in time.
A yard full of dogs I had to find homes for.
The home of my best friend in elementary school. She didn't live there anymore, but I walked in to take a look, met the new owner and thought about how much it had changed. The new owner had added a pool. In the same dream I saw the mother of my other best friend.
On another note I believe the break-up diet may finally have hit, considering I threw up my leftover Thai food last night. Goody for me.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Beached Boston
I can deny it no longer. Not after yesterday. My pretty pretty princess puppy has become a porky plump piggy puppy. She beached herself on the console between my car seats trying to get from the backseat to the front. By beached, I mean she landed on the console and couldn't move herself off of it. She wiggled and shimmied a bit and then just gave up, her girth doubled, spreading out between the seats. She looked up at me with her big, round brown eyes, and I was a bad mommy. I laughed. I couldn't help it, and I can't describe it well enough that you, the listener (or reader, if you're picky), would laugh with the same gusto that I did. I laughed until I cried. My funny little clown puppy.
It's diet time. I already bought weight loss food, and have increased our walks. I've seen a big difference in Remy, he is quite slim now. It seems that females of other species have as much trouble losing weight as their human counterparts. I'm not too hopeful that she'll make much progress before winter hits and I begin to hibernate. At least I'll have some comic relief when the weather is bringing me down.
It's diet time. I already bought weight loss food, and have increased our walks. I've seen a big difference in Remy, he is quite slim now. It seems that females of other species have as much trouble losing weight as their human counterparts. I'm not too hopeful that she'll make much progress before winter hits and I begin to hibernate. At least I'll have some comic relief when the weather is bringing me down.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Things I Believe
I've been thinking a lot lately about what I believe in and what I should believe in. The world in general as of late seems turned upside down so often and my own world particularly so. I suppose I want to make sense of the things I don't understand. I want to find a foundation that isn't continuously shifting underneath my feet. So I made a list. I like lists. It's my list and I don't expect everyone to agree with it, but these are the things that make sense and mean something to me. They're also not overly serious as there is enough seriousness going on lately. Finally, I should also note that just because I believe that something can happen, doesn't mean I believe it will happen to me. Obviously, at my age, being married for 50 years is out of the question. Unless there really is a fountain of youth, but I don't believe there is.
Anyway, this is My List. In no particular order.
Kids change your life and sometimes who you are.
People who don't like dogs can't be trusted.
People who don't want kids are also questionable.
True love exists.
Bad kissers aren't worth it.
Miracles happen.
It's okay to cry.
Christmas is a good time to fall in love.
Santa Claus is real.
A hug can change your day.
Watching movies on the couch all day is time well spent.
It is possible to be married for 50 years.
Reading is one of life's greatest luxuries.
Music is essential.
Fruity drinks are for wimps.
Animals have feelings. And opinions.
Some things can only be explained by the existence of evil.
Everyone should see the ocean at least once in life.
The right pair of shoes can bring joy.
Food is love.
Southern hospitality is underrated.
A man dedicated to his family is always the sexiest man in the room. Hands down.
Affection is absolutely necessary.
Writing is a gift.
Theater, concerts, dance and art are fundamental to the soul.
Photographs tell a story.
A kiss that leaves you breathless should be a daily occurrence.
Bread and cheese is a meal. A good one.
True friendship is rare and should be treasured.
Wishes do come true.
Memories fade too quickly and sometimes not quickly enough.
Disneyland is the happiest place on earth.
High school is not the best years of your life.
Hearts can literally break.
Wine is an experience.
Everything is temporary.
Anyway, this is My List. In no particular order.
Kids change your life and sometimes who you are.
People who don't like dogs can't be trusted.
People who don't want kids are also questionable.
True love exists.
Bad kissers aren't worth it.
Miracles happen.
It's okay to cry.
Christmas is a good time to fall in love.
Santa Claus is real.
A hug can change your day.
Watching movies on the couch all day is time well spent.
It is possible to be married for 50 years.
Reading is one of life's greatest luxuries.
Music is essential.
Fruity drinks are for wimps.
Animals have feelings. And opinions.
Some things can only be explained by the existence of evil.
Everyone should see the ocean at least once in life.
The right pair of shoes can bring joy.
Food is love.
Southern hospitality is underrated.
A man dedicated to his family is always the sexiest man in the room. Hands down.
Affection is absolutely necessary.
Writing is a gift.
Theater, concerts, dance and art are fundamental to the soul.
Photographs tell a story.
A kiss that leaves you breathless should be a daily occurrence.
Bread and cheese is a meal. A good one.
True friendship is rare and should be treasured.
Wishes do come true.
Memories fade too quickly and sometimes not quickly enough.
Disneyland is the happiest place on earth.
High school is not the best years of your life.
Hearts can literally break.
Wine is an experience.
Everything is temporary.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Homeless
That’s how I feel lately. Sure, I live in a house, I’m not actually out on the street. But it’s really just a building, a shelter from the elements, a place to put my Stuff. It doesn’t feel like Home, even with all of my Stuff. Even with D. Even with the dogs. Because D isn’t always there and there are still a couple of people missing from the equation.
When I was in Portland for a conference last week, I was suddenly hit with feeling homesick. Being hit is exactly what it feels like too. It’s not just a little emotion, or a distant longing. It’s a physical, near-tangible feeling, as if someone dropped a coat of sadness on me and I can’t take it off. I sat for a few minutes wondering where it came from. I wasn’t alone, I was with people. I was even having fun. At first I thought maybe it was because I couldn’t completely be myself. I was with coworkers and my boss and, even though we were in a relaxed setting and not talking business, there’s still a level of professionalism to maintain.
After I got back to my hotel room, I realized that what I was and am missing is a home base. A place where people wait for me, where I’m missed. A place that wraps me in comfort and love, like a favorite, well-worn blanket the moment I step in the door. That is what home is to me, a place filled with people to love and be loved by.
Now when I have “guests” there is a level of formality and awkward politeness. It makes me uneasy, the absence of familiarity. Families don’t play host to each other. Families just are.
Tonight I’ll return to my house. It needs to be cleaned and dinner needs to be made. The dogs need to be fed. There are plenty of domestic chores to perform and take up my time. I will hug D when I arrive and again at bedtime. I can pretend it feels like home for a few minutes, especially for D, but I know I’m not really there yet.
Until then it feels like I’m just drifting, waiting for a place to land.
When I was in Portland for a conference last week, I was suddenly hit with feeling homesick. Being hit is exactly what it feels like too. It’s not just a little emotion, or a distant longing. It’s a physical, near-tangible feeling, as if someone dropped a coat of sadness on me and I can’t take it off. I sat for a few minutes wondering where it came from. I wasn’t alone, I was with people. I was even having fun. At first I thought maybe it was because I couldn’t completely be myself. I was with coworkers and my boss and, even though we were in a relaxed setting and not talking business, there’s still a level of professionalism to maintain.
After I got back to my hotel room, I realized that what I was and am missing is a home base. A place where people wait for me, where I’m missed. A place that wraps me in comfort and love, like a favorite, well-worn blanket the moment I step in the door. That is what home is to me, a place filled with people to love and be loved by.
Now when I have “guests” there is a level of formality and awkward politeness. It makes me uneasy, the absence of familiarity. Families don’t play host to each other. Families just are.
Tonight I’ll return to my house. It needs to be cleaned and dinner needs to be made. The dogs need to be fed. There are plenty of domestic chores to perform and take up my time. I will hug D when I arrive and again at bedtime. I can pretend it feels like home for a few minutes, especially for D, but I know I’m not really there yet.
Until then it feels like I’m just drifting, waiting for a place to land.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sushi, a Skeleton and Crazy People
D and I went to Seattle this weekend. It was a trip that I planned after L and I told her we were separating. Her little heart broke right in front of us to I wanted to give her something to look forward to. We haven't talked much about how she feels once we moved, she has seemed her usual cheerful self. When I asked her on the drive up if she misses the boys she said she does and that she is "a lot sad" on the weekends when we would have our pizza/movie nights. Yeah. I have holes in some of my days like that. It also seems my little bugaboo has developed her own coping mechanisms. She kept commenting that she could now push all of the elevator buttons and didn't have to share the backseat or any part of the hotel room with The Boy. When I asked "But don't you have fun going places with him?" she replied, "Yes. That's why I have to think of reasons to be happy he's not here." I do that too. I can order whatever pizza I want now but it's not quite the same.
So we filled our weekend with food, walking, more food, and more walking. We saw quite a few homeless crazy people which D was really disturbed by. They were her reason for deciding that she wouldn't like to live in Seattle. I guess I can't blame her. One poor man was lying twisted and unconscious on the sidewalk in the middle of the day. I'm still not sure he wasn't dead. Yikes.
We started Friday night at Wasabi Bistro for sushi. We ordered too much food because it all sounded so good and it was delicious. We couldn't eat half of it and then lamented the fact that there was no refrigerator in our room. Wasted sushi? That's a crime. D would have gladly eaten it for breakfast the next day. There's no such thing as breakfast food, anything will do.
Saturday we were off to the dollhouse miniature show. Never having gone before, I wasn't sure what to expect but I was silly-excited about it. It wasn't as big as I expected and I wish there were more completed dollhouse displays, but it was really cool. And quite overwhelming for a beginner such as myself. There were tiny teddy bears, tiny plants, teeny tiny cookies and cakes, teensy boxes of band aids and toilet paper, dolls, dresses, working lamps, dishes and quilts. And I do mean tiny. My back was sore from bending down to examine the teeny tiny, teensy weensy, itty bitty cereal boxes and bags of dog food. Anything you might find in your house was there in miniature form.
What, out of two conference rooms of this tiny merchandise, did I choose to purchase? Not what I thought I would. It was overwhelming and I couldn't think of what my as-yet-unfinished house would need. A plate of cookies for the table? A painting for the wall? A cat curled up on the bed? Nothing was quite special enough. And then I saw her. A skeleton. She wore a black evening gown, her hair upswept, cigarette holder in hand, tiny little bony fingernails painted red, diamond earrings attached to her skull. The nice lady at the booth informed me that this was Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany's. Holly Golightly as a skeleton? How could I not have brought her home? She's too wonderful. She won't go in a dollhouse, I decided she will have her own roombox, most likely made from a pumpkin. D and I have already planned our trip to Michael's to purchase any accessories she might require. Our next weekend together will be a "crafty" one.
After my treasure find it was off to Pike Place. We watched the fish get thrown around, smelled the huge flower bouquets, ate crab pizza and shopped until we dropped. We also ran into two of the cutest Boston Terriers - one black, one brown. Two is definitely enough for me, but if I ever came across a brown one to adopt, I think my little family would have to grow to three. Of course we had to stop and visit and get the puppy kisses that we were missing from our own. They were more than happy to oblige too - the black one was typically Boston-exuberant as he bruised my lip when he jumped up to reach me. Assaulted by a Boston. I couldn't really complain.
Dinner was at McCormick and Schmick's on the Lake Union Harbor. We dined on calamari, salmon and halibut in a mushroom cream sauce while choosing which yacht we would like to take out for a spin. Of course I'll buy a better one when I win the lottery.
Saturday night was the experience of The Phantom of the Opera. D has been in love with the movie for several months so this was the real reason for our weekend trip. Unfortunately, our seats were in the very back but that was the only drawback. The Paramount Theater is gorgeous, I've never seen anything like it - elaborately carved walls, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling - it's like going back in time. And it was the perfect setting for the Phantom. I had never seen it before, not the play or the movie. It was everything that everyone said it would be. Definitely worth the drive and the encounters with crazy homeless people and even the $60 I paid to park everywhere we went.
Sunday morning we visited the Space Needle, whose elevator reminds me of the glass elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Luckily, our elevator ride stopped after 41 seconds and we didn't go crashing through the ceiling to fly over the city. We were very fortunate to have clear, blue skies and could see for miles and miles. In fact, we were told that the view of Mt. Baker is something they get only 60 days a year.
After our safe descent back to solid ground we decided we'd had enough adventures for one weekend and it was time to head home. We made a couple of pit stops for frappuccinos and tacos and a brief visit to Ikea to purchase the Audrey Hepburn print I have been coveting for the last three months. She is now hanging happily over my bed. We got our fill of puppy kisses from our own bouncing Bostons, each forced ourselves to do our homework like good girls and then it was off to bed, exhausted but happy. Happily planning our next trip!
So we filled our weekend with food, walking, more food, and more walking. We saw quite a few homeless crazy people which D was really disturbed by. They were her reason for deciding that she wouldn't like to live in Seattle. I guess I can't blame her. One poor man was lying twisted and unconscious on the sidewalk in the middle of the day. I'm still not sure he wasn't dead. Yikes.
We started Friday night at Wasabi Bistro for sushi. We ordered too much food because it all sounded so good and it was delicious. We couldn't eat half of it and then lamented the fact that there was no refrigerator in our room. Wasted sushi? That's a crime. D would have gladly eaten it for breakfast the next day. There's no such thing as breakfast food, anything will do.
Saturday we were off to the dollhouse miniature show. Never having gone before, I wasn't sure what to expect but I was silly-excited about it. It wasn't as big as I expected and I wish there were more completed dollhouse displays, but it was really cool. And quite overwhelming for a beginner such as myself. There were tiny teddy bears, tiny plants, teeny tiny cookies and cakes, teensy boxes of band aids and toilet paper, dolls, dresses, working lamps, dishes and quilts. And I do mean tiny. My back was sore from bending down to examine the teeny tiny, teensy weensy, itty bitty cereal boxes and bags of dog food. Anything you might find in your house was there in miniature form.
What, out of two conference rooms of this tiny merchandise, did I choose to purchase? Not what I thought I would. It was overwhelming and I couldn't think of what my as-yet-unfinished house would need. A plate of cookies for the table? A painting for the wall? A cat curled up on the bed? Nothing was quite special enough. And then I saw her. A skeleton. She wore a black evening gown, her hair upswept, cigarette holder in hand, tiny little bony fingernails painted red, diamond earrings attached to her skull. The nice lady at the booth informed me that this was Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany's. Holly Golightly as a skeleton? How could I not have brought her home? She's too wonderful. She won't go in a dollhouse, I decided she will have her own roombox, most likely made from a pumpkin. D and I have already planned our trip to Michael's to purchase any accessories she might require. Our next weekend together will be a "crafty" one.
After my treasure find it was off to Pike Place. We watched the fish get thrown around, smelled the huge flower bouquets, ate crab pizza and shopped until we dropped. We also ran into two of the cutest Boston Terriers - one black, one brown. Two is definitely enough for me, but if I ever came across a brown one to adopt, I think my little family would have to grow to three. Of course we had to stop and visit and get the puppy kisses that we were missing from our own. They were more than happy to oblige too - the black one was typically Boston-exuberant as he bruised my lip when he jumped up to reach me. Assaulted by a Boston. I couldn't really complain.
Dinner was at McCormick and Schmick's on the Lake Union Harbor. We dined on calamari, salmon and halibut in a mushroom cream sauce while choosing which yacht we would like to take out for a spin. Of course I'll buy a better one when I win the lottery.
Saturday night was the experience of The Phantom of the Opera. D has been in love with the movie for several months so this was the real reason for our weekend trip. Unfortunately, our seats were in the very back but that was the only drawback. The Paramount Theater is gorgeous, I've never seen anything like it - elaborately carved walls, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling - it's like going back in time. And it was the perfect setting for the Phantom. I had never seen it before, not the play or the movie. It was everything that everyone said it would be. Definitely worth the drive and the encounters with crazy homeless people and even the $60 I paid to park everywhere we went.
Sunday morning we visited the Space Needle, whose elevator reminds me of the glass elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Luckily, our elevator ride stopped after 41 seconds and we didn't go crashing through the ceiling to fly over the city. We were very fortunate to have clear, blue skies and could see for miles and miles. In fact, we were told that the view of Mt. Baker is something they get only 60 days a year.
After our safe descent back to solid ground we decided we'd had enough adventures for one weekend and it was time to head home. We made a couple of pit stops for frappuccinos and tacos and a brief visit to Ikea to purchase the Audrey Hepburn print I have been coveting for the last three months. She is now hanging happily over my bed. We got our fill of puppy kisses from our own bouncing Bostons, each forced ourselves to do our homework like good girls and then it was off to bed, exhausted but happy. Happily planning our next trip!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)