Best. Weekend. Ever.

Oh, Monday. I hate Monday. Monday is not my friend. Monday means working, being inside, going back to normal eating and, worst of all, the end to my perfect weekend. Seriously. This weekend was the best ever. This weekend totally kicks all other weekends’ ass this year. Really. Here’s a quick recap. I might be forgetting a few details, but this should give you an idea of how much my weekend rocked. Try not to be too jealous.

Thursday –
What I did -
Played hooky from work to give myself a four-day weekend and went floating. D actually had a float she could carry herself and decided she loves floating now. Shopped for BBQ food. Had relaxing evening watching a movie with her after my ballet taxi duties. Snuggled with dogs.

What I ate –
Café Yumm’s Smoky in a wrap with added jalapeno-sesame salsa. Yumm…..

What I drank –
Water. (weekend prep)

Friday –
What I did –
Woke up early to see D off for the weekend. Went to the lake with M for lots of sun. Used my new cooler. Killed annoying bee-fly things. Realized I love summer so much that I would totally marry it. Really, I love it that much. Went to first Friday with M and had free wine and free jello shots. Went to 900 Wall, flirted with boys and had free Manhattans.

What I ate –
Leftover peanut chicken and noodles, Doritos, an apple, jello shots, potato fritters at 900 Wall (which are nowhere near as good as the risotto fritters that Merenda had. Boo.), the cherries in my Manhattans.

What I drank –
Water, diet coke, white wine, red wine, Manhattans (three of them. I think.)


Saturday –
What I did –
Woke up hung-over. Went to the pet parade with J and squealed over cute dogs. Walked around the park squealing over more cute dogs while giving a recap of the night before. Went floating. Laughed my butt off. Realized I was having the Most Perfect Weekend Ever. Felt the need to tell strangers how great it was. Went with J to her new boy’s parents’ house. They are like a movie family – crazy, loud and totally fun. This was a real conversation there –

New Boy’s Dad: Would you like some wine?
Me: No thank you, I brought my own for later.
New Boy’s Dad: Do you want some wine?
Me: No thank you, not right now.
New Boy’s Dad: What kind of wine do you want?
Me: Really, I’m okay right now.
New Boy’s Dad: Do you want red or white?
Me: I’ll take white. (I love people who force alcohol on me!)

Played bocce ball. I swear these people said my name at least 50 times during the game and were not at all shy about forcing me to play. “Hey, it’s your turn.” “Come on muscles!” “It’s totally up to you. No pressure though.” I did at least get the award for Most Improved During the Game. Even if I had to award it to myself. Oh, and the grandma lady? I was informed that she is “Nana” to me. I want to adopt them. I freaking love these people and I want to be them when I grow up.

Went to M’s for BBQ. Went back to J’s new boy’s place to set off fireworks. Drove to watch the butte fireworks at the crazy family’s office. Snuggled with the new boy’s dog in the back of his BMW. (Yeah, the only action I got all weekend was with dogs. But I’m totally okay with that. Dogs rock.)

What I ate –
Crackers, cheese, salami, olives, artichoke dip, seven-layer dip, mango salsa (which I could have bathed in, it was so good!), chips, veggies, ribs, corn on the cob in a tortilla, grilled pineapple, homemade cherry pie and vanilla ice cream.

What I drank –
Caramel frappuccino, white wine, vanilla whiskey and diet coke, water and a sip of a V-8.

Sunday –
Slept in, read in bed. Felt guilty about leaving my dogs all weekend and stayed home to be with them for a bit and laid out in the sun with them. Went to the Sunday concert with both Jens, met the other one’s new boy. Felt slightly jealous over my friends’ happiness but know they both totally deserve it. Hoped some of it would rub off on me. Sweated like crazy, ended up burning my new skin that had peeled. Went to another BBQ that was not the funnest part of my weekend but gave me something to laugh about. J read her sickly sweet texts from her new boy to me. Ooh’d and ah’d and felt nauseous at the same time. Drank water, sat on my couch for the first time all weekend to watch a movie, snuggled with dogs.

What I ate –
Grapes, cherries, bread with artichoke dip, wasabi peas, “intense” almonds, hot dog, cheese, Greek salad, chicken kabob, a pickle slice and a cupcake.

What I drank -
Water, rose' wine, coconut rum and coke, spiced rum and coke, water.

There is no way that next year’s 4th of July weekend can be better than this, but I’ll sure try. I love everyone who was a part of it and it was the perfect kick-off to a real summer.

13 Candles

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

The Boston Bitch Party

Last night was my first get-together with other Bostons and their owners. I think it was a little short notice for some as we ended up with two humans and three dogs, plus me and my two beasts. I knew it would be a little unorganized to start with and dogs aren't always predictable so it was actually nice to start with a smaller group.

Lulu was the first to arrive, along with her brother Tank, but their mom was a little worried that he might be aggressive and left him in the car at first. Lulu is like a tiny gazelle, thin with long legs and skittish with dogs she doesn't know. That's okay, it's a lady's right to be choosy. Ruby takes this right of choice to extremes, however. She made it perfectly clear in no uncertain terms that Lulu was not welcome in her house, in her yard, around her brother, around her mom, around me or anywhere else on the planet. I knew she was a bitch. I didn't know that she's a Bitch. She was exiled to her crate, where through the open window I could hear her growling, whining and snorting her displeasure over the trespasser in her kingdom.

Remy was a perfect gentleman, as I knew he would be. Even with all of his excitement at having a guest and someone new to play with, he knew to take it easy with Miss Lulu. He bounced, he jumped, he barked "Let's play!" but always backed off if he got snapped at. His sensitive behavior was enough encouragement to give Tank a try at playing. Tank was not interested in playing for several minutes. His mission was to sniff every inch of the yard, showing his appreciation for certain spots by peeing on them. Remy's job at this point was to follow Tank around the yard, sniffing his butt and re-peeing over said spots.

Frank Sinatra arrived during the Pee Session. Frank is adorable. He turned out to be the oldest of the group, having just had his fourth birthday, and also the smallest. He is compact, wonderfully smushy-faced and can throw some dirty looks like I've never seen a dog do before. Especially when he's looking in the house and wondering why there is no doggy door like he has at his house. It was enough to shame me. Really.

It was about this time that Tank started to relax and play with Remy. Most of his play consisted of barking, growling and humping Remy's face, all of which seemed to embarrass his mom to no end. I am used to Remy being face-humped by Ruby so that didn't phase me but I did start to wonder if there's something about him that attracts face-humpers. Frank wasn't really interested in any of this, he wanted to play with the toys in the yard and that made Lulu unhappy and caused her to be sent to time-out in Mom's truck. Remy and Tank continued their odd, borderline sex play. When D came home Frank adopted her lap as his place to sit and contented himself there for most of the rest of the evening.

After Tank and Lulu said their goodbyes, Frank's dad said he'd like to meet Ruby. We decided it might be best to let the two of them try meeting without the distraction of Remy. She did better than I thought, although she tried a couple of times to make him believe she'd kill him. Such viciousness coming out of that 20 pound body! So unladylike. So unbecoming of a princess. Frank returned to the safety of D's lap and Ruby took out her frustrations on the nearest pine cone.

All in all, I think it was a successful evening. Remy was happy to have guests and earn the title of Best Dog for the evening and Ruby was happy to see them go and endured the title of Bitchy Bitch. I'm sure next time they'll do better. It's not always easy to make new friends and I suppose dogs are no exception.

And once in a while it's okay to be a Bitchy Bitch.

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times...

These are odd times right now. In some ways, they are the very best and it's hard to explain that to anyone. There seems to be this expectation from people that L and I are at each other's throats and miserable every minute. That isn't the case for the majority of the time. I definitely have my meltdown moments and those are hard to get through. Sunday was one of those days. Packing and separating our belongings seemed to suddenly make it all too real and final and by the end of the day I just lost it. I cried until I couldn't breathe anymore. I cried until I threw up. Until my eyes were virtually swollen shut. I looked pretty the next day, let me tell you.

But then there are the lazy float days and the evenings by the fire and my birthday and I'm surprised to find that we somehow feel closer than before. It's as if I'm falling in love with him for real for the first time, rediscovering who he is. This seems cruelly unfair, given the circumstances, but at the same time I am so grateful to have this experience.

I know there are more crying days ahead. Seeing the house finally empty and those first nights alone are the ones that I dread the most. Somehow, though, these latest special moments help reaffirm that this is what is best for us. That we are on the right path. Wherever it may lead us.

Unraveling

I hesitate to let this out yet, to make public something so personal to me. I know the questions will come though, and I don't have the mindset right now to deal with them directly. Instead I'll spill the pieces of my heartbreak into the vast regions of cyberspace, in the hope that my words will filter into smaller bytes, reduced to the smallest electrical current that a fly wouldn't feel, much less my heart.

Last week L and I made a decision. He'd probably say that I made it and, in the interest of self preservation, I suppose I did. We are going our separate ways. I won't speak for him or disclose information he may consider private and, as much as I want to blame him so that I have someone to be angry with, I can't. It just turns out to be an impossible situation. What I want isn't what he needs so it's time to let go. It just hurts. A lot.

There are those few peaceful seconds between sleeping and waking before I feel the clutch of my heart and lose my breath and realize nothing will be the same again. My stomach remains knotted throughout the day. I want to cry until there's nothing left, as if the tears could wash away any and all memory. Alternately, I'd like to be drunk every day, blissfully, numbingly intoxicated, until one day I wake up to a different life. I have the luxury of neither.

My mind is filled with eight years of happy memories, all of the things I will miss. Sure there were bad times, quite a few and some of them were just Ugly. I choose not to define our relationship that way, knowing there is a reason we lasted eight years. I won't miss those bad times, but I will miss our trips out of town, bread and cheese and wine nights, playing cards, holidays and being with someone who can always make me laugh and always knows when to hold me. I will miss being a family, the one thing I value most in life. The loss is overwhelming, no wonder I can't breathe.

I know I will be alright. I hear my mom's voice in my head over and over - "Everything happens for a reason." Throw in any other tired old cliche here you'd like. They're cliche because they're true. My heart just isn't listening right now.

"I think my heart chose this for me..."

My daughter is 12 today. My Lovebug, Stinkbug, Bugabooga. I always feel a little melancholy on her birthday, looking back at how she's changed over the years, how she's grown. The time gets longer, the changes more dramatic.

I have never been more in love with anyone than I was with that child the minute she was born. It wasn't an easy birth either. She wasn't ready to be born and fought it for 52 hours. It was exhausting and at one point I was ready to agree with her and postpone it, if only to get a few hours of sleep. Sleep now, have baby another day. And then there she was - this miraculous, wondrous, tiny little creature. I would have cried had there been any amount of moisture left in my body with which to create a tear or two. She cried for both of us, although she really meant it as a complaint at being pushed out into the brightness of the outside world.

I couldn't get enough of her. When we were home, I placed her gently in her crib, with the chosen Winnie the Pooh blankets to soften her slumber. That lasted all of two minutes. I couldn't stand to have her in another room, away from me. It might as well have been another planet, that distance from her bedroom to the living room. So out she came, back into my arms, only so I could look at her for hours at a time. I was completely and utterly smitten.

It's not like I have grown less in love with her as she's grown. It's more like my love has had to accommodate itself to fit the person she is becoming. She's a lot like me, which has its good and bad points. I find that the things that I don't like in myself I abhor in her. Our likenesses cause us to clash, much in the way that like ends of a magnet will repel each other. Sometimes the pod is too close for the comfort of the two peas trying to exist in it.

I thought she would never learn to walk, which was actually okay with me at the time. When she did start standing and walking, she would never just fall on her bottom when she started to topple. No, my stubborn little child would fight to hold on until the very end, keeping her back straight so that she always landed flat and on the back of her head. I didn't want to be one of those moms that always ran to their crying child. She's a girl and I'm very conscious of the feeling that she needs to be tougher than a little teardrop to make it in the world. So she cried the first few times, figured out that wouldn't get her anywhere, and then got up and started over again.

Some of these lessons have backfired as she now fights to the end for everything with me. She has gotten to be quite adept at negotiating. This must work better on her father, sometimes dads can be easy that way. I can't blame her for trying though. I'd be so proud of her if only she would use this skill for good and not her own evil desires.

And now I feel like we have entered the Milestone years. Elementary school has come and gone. Middle school and every frightening thing that entails has started. She got braces last fall. I have glimpses of the beginnings of hormones with eye rolls and heavy sighs. Her good grades didn't come as easy this year as social activities took prevalence over being a "good girl." It seemed easier when I only had to worry about her falling on her head. The fall now is so much farther and potentially so much more painful, for both of us.

I sometimes forget how much fun she is, which breaks my heart every time I think that. Yesterday was a good day. We went to Portland to get her feet fitted for her first pair of pointe shoes. As she stood at the bar on the tips of her toes in her little dancer pose, the muscles in her legs trembling, I was surprised to find a tear had escaped and was slipping down my cheek. I forget sometimes too, how much pride I take in her achievements. She was absolutely glowing all day, gazing lovingly at her silky pink shoes.

Afterwards, we went to lunch to celebrate. She decided to try the snow crab legs, which isn't a surprise as her tastes lean towards the more expensive end of the menu. Corn dogs? Grilled cheese? No thank you. But steak, salmon, sushi or calamari she will eat any day of the week. She learns how to crack open the shells to find the sweet, tender crab meat inside. Some people find this process too laborious and not worth it. Not my daughter. As she's cracking the last leg she says, "I think my heart chose this for me because it knew I would like it." Why yes, my little epicurean apprentice, some foods do feed our hearts and souls as well as our stomachs. My heart and my stomach both were full on the drive home.

So on this, your 12th birthday, my darling, loving, exasperating, frustrating, silly child, I don't think I could have said it better than that. I think that my heart chose you for me because it knew I would love you.

Happy Birthday.

Yo Momma!

I must share this precious gem of a blog with you. Pure genius.

On behalf of Bob Barker...

I took my little Ruby Tuesday in to be spayed today. She's 16 months old and I meant to have it done sooner, but I'm a bad mom. She has now been through two heats which makes her untouchable and unlovable to everyone but me and a virtual prisoner in her crate for two weeks plus. It makes her a very sad panda.

I was nervous dropping her off this morning. Yes, it's routine, but it's still surgery. I spared no expense - yes, do the blood work and physical beforehand. Yes, do the catheter. Whatever makes it easier and safer for her. Nothing is too good for my Pretty Pretty Princess Puppy.

The vet called twice. The first time she started off saying how cute little Ruby is, to which I responded with an unapologetic "I know." I mean, Duh. Anyone can see that. Of course now I realize she was just softening the blow of telling me that she needed two teeth pulled, baby teeth that hadn't come out on their own. Yes, yes, whatever my princess needs.

The second call was to tell me that surgery went well, but that her uterus and one of her ovaries was extremely larger than normal, most likely infected. She mentioned something about a pyometra, some condition that could possibly kill her if she was permitted to go into another heat. It's a little unsettling when your vet repeats "I'm so glad you brought her in when you did." I promptly looked up pyometra when I got back to the office (this link describes the condition fairly graphically - click at your own risk.) I cannot describe to you the depths of my mommy guilt now.

Oh, and remember the "no expenses spared"? Oh yes, one tooth pulled, one spay, one x-ray, one microchip, one catheter, one physical exam, one IV, two prescriptions and $476 later..... Pretty Pretty Princess Puppy indeed!

The moral of the story, boys and girls? "Help control the pet population; have your pet spayed or neutered." Good old Bob.

¿Dónde está el baño?

As a woman, I spend much of my time in the restroom and always like to know where to find the closest, cleanest toilet. When I was pregnant, I was frequenting the ladies' room so often I could map out every one in town as well as along any route to Portland, including Washington Square.

Now, notice I said I like to find the 'cleanest.' This isn't always easy and there is a wide variety of hygienic standards, ranging across the board from gas station grossness to the posh powder room with rows of perfumes and the lady who sits there all day waiting to turn on the faucet for you. Personally, those are my least favorite. Knowing there's someone out there listening to me pee and then treating me like an invalid when I'm done. I can't look her in the eye, but that somehow makes me feel like an elitist old hag. And do I tip because she did something I'm perfectly capable of doing for myself? It's just uncomfortable all over the place for me.

Now, sometimes the restroom stereotype doesn't always hold true. Take, for example, the gas station we rolled into on our last trip to Victoria, somewhere in Washington. It was around 4 a.m. and the prospect of using a gas station restroom at that time wasn't exactly appealing. However, such a pleasant surprise awaited us. Clean! A lovely, burning scented candle! Pretty pictures! Bible verses on the mirror? On second thought.....

And then there are the places that one would expect much from only to be sorely disappointed. One restaurant in town, which shall remain nameless (just think of the place with notoriously bad service - aka snotty waiters), graced me with one of my worst experiences ever. It was a wine-tasting night out for the girls. Lovely evening - wine, cheese, chocolate. When we were done, of course a trip to the ladies' room was in order. The restroom, unfortunately, was out of order. Really out of order. The floor was flooded, the guilty toilet filled to the rim. We had to skip that one. I walked to my car in the cold, dreaming of my nice, warm, dry bathroom at home.

Finally, there is the Spoon. I am not a fan of the Spoon. Recently my girlfriends and I went to High Tides for lunch. A bottle of wine, some Thai soup, luxury on a Friday! Until I needed to use the restroom. With the key. Hanging on a spoon. Non-gender specific. I somehow don't feel clean carrying around the Spoon. Just because I wash my hands afterward and use a paper towel to open the door doesn't mean everyone else does. And the spoon negates any handwashing because who knows who had it before you? Yeah, not a fan.

Restaurants, please take notice. You are being judged on the quality of your restrooms. Please clean them. Make them smell pretty. And please, I beg of you. Eliminate the Spoon.

A Simple Request

I'm not antisocial and I'm not a hermit. I'm just not a fan of the spontaneous drop-by. I don't think it's so much to ask that someone call before they come over. Please, people. I'm giving you fair warning now - I won't answer the door if you just show up unannounced.

It's social etiquette, really. I might not have makeup on or have my hair done or don't feel like putting on my bra. If I'm not getting dressed to see people, I don't want to be seen by you at my front door. I might be in the middle of making dinner, which I don't want to have to let sit and get cold and dry because you have bad timing and don't observe normal dinner hours. I might be having a really bad day and don't feel like having to be unexpectedly cordial. I might be in the middle of a really great movie, or a much needed nap or yelling at my kid or having sex. It is my house, after all. And it's very rude to stand outside my door, ringing my doorbell multiple times because you hear my dogs barking and see my car outside. It's presumptuous to think that I'm going to drop whatever I'm doing because you want to insert yourself into my day.

So please. Heed my simple request. I appreciate the thought, but call first.

The Tale of the Perfect Meal

Once upon a time there was a beautiful young woman who had her dining experience ruined by the evil waitress serving her. Okay, so I'm the beautiful young woman (because I am. Really!) and the woman wasn't evil so much as extremely inattentive.

You see, it was my friend J's birthday. Now, birthdays aren't as fun for us as they used to be. It's that slow climb towards middle age that sometimes feels like it's happening at the speed of light, mostly when an unwanted gray hair pops up out of seemingly nowhere. She chose Staccato for her birthday dinner, the benefit of being older that you can afford to treat yourself when you want. We'd been there before, both for dinner and just for drinks or happy hour. L happens to think that their chicken pesto pizza is just about the Best Thing In Town while I am particularly fond of the Wiseguy cocktail. I highly recommend it if you are one who can handle your alcohol. It is instant happiness in a glass. On all of these occasions, we had perfectly pleasant experiences. The food is very good with excellent presentation and I'd never had a single complaint. Until the evening in question.

As I said, it was J's birthday. Now, we didn't mention this when making the reservation because we had no reason to expect that we'd enjoy our evening any less than we had on previous visits. How wrong we were. First, we were seated at the very first table behind the hostess station. Not the best place, rather disappointing, but someone has to sit there and it turned out to be us that night. We grumbled a little bit while we waited for our first drink.

Our server, who will be known hereafter as Ms. Ignore-the-Table-in-the-Corner, seemed nice enough at first. She came to take our drink order and took our appetizer order when she brought our drinks. And that was the end of that. She brought our appetizer and proceeded to ignore us for the rest of our meal. She didn't take our dinner order until we had eaten all of our appetizer. This made for a very long wait between courses. She neglected to let us know what the specials were, we had to ask. She was very slow in asking if we'd like a second drink and never asked if we'd like a third. She never came to check on us or ask if we needed anything else. There was a young girl who brought us water and we ended up asking her if she could bring our check and box our leftovers as she was more attentive to us than Ms. Ignore-the-Table-in-the-Corner.

Something you should know about me is that I might complain to my dinner companions about the service we receive but I truly do try to give someone the benefit of the doubt. There is a reason that waiting tables isn't my job. Maybe she was having a bad day/her dog was sick/her boyfriend just left her. But we watched her and every other table got her prompt attention. She walked past us dozens of times while serving them and completely ignored us. Wouldn't even look at us. It was like we were invisible to her. Or else a really dirty pile of laundry in the corner that she'd rather not deal with.

Needless to say, her poor service and inattentiveness ruined our dinner experience. J was especially unhappy since it was her birthday and this was supposed to be a treat to make her feel better. We had planned on splurging on dessert even, but by the time our dinner finally arrived we only wanted to leave and it couldn't happen fast enough.

And here we come to the part of the story where I did something I've never done before. I wrote a complaint to the restaurant. I have friends who have complained very publicly about poor service and rude restaurant staff. Some of you may be familiar with the Kanpai Incident from a couple of years ago. I never felt that any experience warranted that much attention. And I didn't this time either. After thinking about it, the real reason I wrote to Staccato is because I really like it there. I had enjoyed all of my visits up until this one and I thought that if that evening had been my first visit, I would never have gone back. And I didn't want someone else to feel this way about 'my' restaurant. It actually mattered to me, odd as that sounds.

So I sat down with my friend the laptop and sent off a quick email to Staccato Management. I really didn't expect a reply. I suppose I'm used to the attitude that people don't care anymore. "So what." "Who cares about you." "We have a full house tonight so you must be wrong." I certainly didn't expect the response I got. Susan Pasquetti, co-owner of Staccato, wrote me back personally and quickly. She sincerely apologized, and seemed honestly surprised by Ms. Ignore-the-Table-in-the-Corner's service as she was one of the original staff members and apparently had the reputation of being "extremely attentive to every detail." It was a surprisingly heartfelt and much appreciated response.

Fast forward three months to last night. A rare night out with L. An actual Date Night. I decided to give Staccato another try. As much as L loves the pizza, he'd never actually been there for dinner and, although aware of my previous bad experience, had no expectations of his own. It turned out to be one of the Absolute Best Dinners Ever.

We were seated at a cozy table in front of the fireplace. Our server this time was Amy. She introduced herself to us right away and took our drink order. Throughout the entire meal she was prompt, courteous and attentive. She answered questions about the food knowledgeably and complimented my choice of entree. (I don't know why I get such a kick out of it when they do that. I just do.) She brought us more bread to dip in the delicious tomato broth that the clams and mussels came in. She brought L more coffee. She boxed our leftovers neatly. She was absolutely perfect.

The surprise of the evening came when Susan Pasquetti herself brought my entree out personally to meet me. She is a lovely woman. And before you say anything, Amy asked at the end of our meal if I know Susan. I replied that we had just met, having the impression that Amy wasn't aware of my complaint letter. I believe her wonderful service was indicative of how she treats all of her customers.

And now I must take a moment to tell you about our meal because it was that good. I'm not a restaurant critic, I just like good food and this was exceptional. We started with the clams and mussels. I told you that Amy brought extra bread to go with it. This is because the tomato broth is so good I wanted to soak up every last little drop of it. The bread is also worth mentioning. Crispy, crunchy crust with a soft, pillowy inside. I am somewhat of a bread connoisseur and this is really excellent bread. If I had to choose only one type of food to eat for the rest of my life it would probably be bread and cheese. See? I'm really a simple girl.

Next, I knew I wanted the Caesar Roulade salad. Similar to the traditional Caesar, it is served as a heart of romaine with goat cheese stuffed inside the leaves. I happen to have an obsession with goat cheese lately so I really just love this salad. L chose the same and was also pleased.

For my entree I had a bit of a debate with myself. I've had the Mock Beef Tender before and loved it. Bread, cheese, meat - simple girl, remember? No comments from the peanut gallery necessary. But then Amy came to inform us of the evening's specials. Staccato has a risotto special every night. I've seen other people order it before and while the presentation was beautiful, I was only briefly tempted to try it. Last night's risotto consisted of duck, roasted red pepper, a goat cheese mousse and shaved truffles. Then she told us about the mahi mahi with two kinds of sauces and an apple-crab salad on top. Darn. Steak? Duck? Mahi mahi? I normally go with what I know, but threw caution to the wind last night and went with the risotto. When duck is done right, there's not much that beats it. And this was certainly done right. I expected a few pieces of duck with mostly rice. I got a moist, delicious duck morsel in every bite. And the risotto? Just the perfect amount of cheese, not overwhelmingly rich, like the kind of rich where you have two bites and you're done. I wanted to eat all of it but after the clams and mussels, extra bread and salad I just couldn't do it. Which just means I have a delicious little lunch waiting for me today.

L went with the Mock Beef per my recommendation. This comes as beef medallions with the most delicious goat cheese gratin (obsesssion, remember?) and beautiful, flowery stems of broccolini. He loved it. Described the steak as "melt in your mouth." And it did. I stole a couple of bites. Little bites of heaven.

Last night being Date Night, and having such success so far, we went for it and ordered dessert. I was very disappointed to learn that they had run out of the creme brulee trio but L spotted the pumpkin cheesecake right away so I settled for that. Settled does not turn out to be the right description. I'm not even a big pumpkin fan, but this was as close to the perfect cheesecake as I have ever had. Topped with just the right amount of whipped cream, swirls of caramel on the plate and the prettiest and most delicious piece of pumpkin seed brittle on top. More bites of heaven. Four to be exact because I was absolutely stuffed. The cheesecake also ended up in a little box and is in the fridge waiting to be fought over later.

It was, in the end, The Perfect Meal. Impeccable service, exquisite food and the company? A Date Night to beat all date nights. I couldn't have been happier.

The moral of the story dear readers? Not everyone deserves second chances. Not what you thought I'd say? It's true. But anyone who honestly and sincerely tries to do their absolute best for you does deserve another chance. Susan Pasquetti and Staccato fit this category to a T. Thank you Susan, Amy and the Unseen Chef for an incredible meal and a truly remarkable evening! My love affair with Staccato will continue.

Don't pee on your sister!

A few months ago I couldn't imagine why I would say this particular phrase. Now I say it all the time.

I have two dogs, which would normally require two leashes. But I'm a genius and got a double doggie harness, which hooks one leash to both of their harnesses. Now they are the ones fighting if they get tangled up instead of me wrestling with two leashes, switching hands, undoing the mess they get themselves in. Brilliant! Except for one thing.

Remy loves to stop and pee on every bush, tree and rock every 10 feet. Daddy encourages this behavior, probably because peeing outdoors is one of the few ways in which he can actually bond with said dog. Mommy thinks it's gross and says so. And little Ruby? Well, the poor little girl is often in Remy's line of fire even if she's not actually a target. He's somehow managed to miss her so far. Until today.

I decide it's a beautiful day, nice enough to go for a nice, long walk by the river. No stress, right? Wrong. Because here we are, strolling along, until I get stopped short by Remy sniffing a tree, a rock, a bush, a pine needle. And more often than not, Ruby is smack in the middle of Remy and his desired pee target. So I tug on the leash and say "Don't pee on your sister." We go on our merry way.

Until It happens. I don't catch him in time. He stops, sees a tree, doesn't even give the warning sniff. He just lifts his leg and marks his spot. His spot ends up being his sister's neck, because she is standing in the unfortunate location of Between Remy and the Tree. And it's the white part of her neck, so there's a nice yellow pee stain for the remainder of our walk. And I'm yelling at my dog, "I told you not to pee on your sister!!" like some crazy person.

Ruby is recovered now, even if I'm not. I got her all cleaned up and sprayed her with pretty puppy perfume for good measure. I sprayed Remy too, just because it scared him. That'll show him!

If I could spin a cocoon....

I would wrap one tightly, securely, insistently around my daughter. Just like a caterpillar she is undergoing a transformation. Sometimes dramatic, other times more subtle, always mesmerizing, amazing and frightening at the same time. I'm not always sure what my role should be or what to expect at the end, so I'd like to cocoon her and tuck her away in a safe place until she emerges miraculously as the butterfly she is meant to become.

I've said this before to any poor soul who will listen to me, but I really hate that middle school starts at 6th grade here. I don't think she's ready. She's still so small, the 8th grade boys tower over her. She is only just barely beginning to develop but insists on wearing a bra because she has to undress in the locker room and needs that tiny little undergarment for security.

And it's not just the physical differences that I am on the constant lookout for. She's much more focused on her social life this year. She's had a cell phone for the last year, but I've had to take it away twice in the last month for excessive use. If I gave her free reign, she'd rack up more minutes the rest of us combined. She's even more boy-crazy than before and unabashedly so. It's very disconcerting for a parent. I'm choosing my battles, and so far I think I'm winning more than I'm losing, but I just may be losing my sanity in the process.

Her social ambitions are now being reflected in her grades. In elementary school, she was used to being the queen bee. She garnered the attentions of both her classmates and her teachers effortlessly. This affection, and lack of having to work for it, was reflected in her school performance. She was able to focus more on schoolwork and was rewarded handsomely by her teachers. She basically only needed to show up, smile, pay a modicum amount of attention and she coasted her way through the introductory phase of her education.

Now she is realizing the harsh reality of having to work to reach goals. There have been a few disappointing test scores and quiz results. The notion of actually studying in order to do well is a jarring wake up call. To both of us, really. I've always taken for granted the fact that she is intelligent and I didn't expect that would ever change. I guess I hadn't thought to factor in the hormonal impacts of puberty. The fact that, for her, a math quiz just isn't as exciting as the upcoming dance or that being able to spell "occurrence" correctly isn't as satisfying as having That Boy talk to you.

Puberty. What an ugly word. It's turning my child into an almost unrecognizable being. Not to say she's been perfect to this point. This little person has always had her own ideas, her own agenda about her life and is always pushing the boundaries of her small existence. If this translates into her ability to stand up for herself and her beliefs and not take "no" for an answer, then I will be very proud indeed. But when I am the one saying "no", it's a somewhat bitter pill to swallow. Asking her to fold the laundry results in an eye roll, denying her request to spend the night at a friend's house turns into a 10 minute attempt at negotiation to get her way. It's exhausting sometimes.

I have to admit this isn't my favorite part of parenting. I'm not fully prepared for this phase. It's a little like that dream I have where it's finals time and I haven't studied all semester so I have to go in and just wing it. I wing it a lot these days. I guess she is too. She's just trying to find her way in the world and I need to step back and give her some room to grow. She's actually a really cool kid and I have to trust that at least that won't change about her.

It would just be so much easier to wrap her up and hide her away until I'm ready to let her fly out into the world on her own.

The Internet is THIS big....

There are days that I am so in love with the internet I can't tell you! Today is one of those days. Yes, me and WWW are having ourselves an Affair!! I'm pre-planning for Halloween. (And those of you who have been to our parties, THIS year is going to be a doozy!) So I'm looking for a costume and a mask (party-goers, stay tuned. Ya'll will be filled in soon enough). The combinations I am finding are limitless. I can't choose just one! The colors, the textures - I am on sensory overload!! Even if it is only my visual sense. Shush, I'm in some kind of trance right now...

On the other hand, this World Wide Web thing terrifies me. Because I am a parent. Of a girl-child. When I was a child, my parents had to worry only about our neighbors, maybe a teacher once in a while, and a random stranger driving down our street. Today the Radius of Danger is so much larger. My daughter now plays on-line games. Made for kids. Should be safe, right? I'm not so sure. She has admitted to 'pretending' to be 15 to boys she has 'met' online. She is 11. She's not 15. What are the chances that these 'boys' are 15?

I'm torn on this issue. I may be an 'old woman' now, but I remember those days. I remember wearing extra makeup in the hopes I might score a margarita in the local Mexican restaurant. I succeeded, by the way. At 16. I remember the pangs of puberty. I may not have known exactly what I wanted or how to get it, but I knew there was a goal in there somewhere. So I can't completely blame my daughter. She's having the same feelings, the same thoughts, that girls have had forever. Blame it on the hormones. I'm going to.

My dilemma is this -
I don't have to worry only about the next door neighbor, or her math teacher, or her tennis coach. I have to worry about the random 42-year-old man who lives in Poughkeepsie. The one who has an interest in my child that, if I knew what it was and who he was, I would, without a doubt, without hesitation, pull his testicles through his throat. What I'm saying is, our children are exposed to a hundred thousand times the dangers that we were. I'm often accused of exaggerating this point, but I don't think I am. When I was a child, the people that could hurt me were limited to maybe a 10 mile radius. The people that can hurt my daughter are limited by their internet access. This is the entire world. Leaving out the third world countries only. Maybe.

What's the solution? I don't know. Open communication? Web Nanny? I don't know. I don't have all the answers. This is new territory for me. I don't think I'm alone in this. I will be over-vigilant. I will be nosy. I will probably, unfortunately, spy on my child. In the name of safety. I hope it's enough. If anyone has a suggestion, I'm open.

In the meantime, WWW and I have some more dresses to look at. And shoes. Maybe some gloves. The night is young and I'm feeling frisky....

Crazy Dog Lady

Yes, I am THAT crazy dog lady. Sir Rembrandt owns no less than two sweaters, three collars, sunglasses and a bathrobe. He also recognizes me as That Crazy Dog Lady and refuses to wear the sunglasses and insists on looking humiliated when required to wear his bathrobe. He does, however, absolutely adore his black Rock Star t-shirt. I swear he'd wear it every day if I let him. He knows that it makes him Cool.

After tomorrow I will be even Crazier. I am going to pick up the newest addition to our little fur family. Her name is Ruby and she is 12 weeks old. She is beautiful, she is adorable, she is the Future Diva.

Since I was already at Target buying the obviously-needed supply of carpet cleaner, I checked out their Doggy section. I was quite disappointed, as it seemed bare compared to the usual supply of designer duds, toys and bowls they usually carry. Although they did have the most precious pink velvet collar I've ever seen. I also purchased a rubber chewy shaped like a diamond ring. Pink of course. I was very tempted to buy the eyelet lace dress, but as I don't know her exact size yet, I had to pass it up. Fear not, she will own her first Diva dress in a matter of days.

Next I stopped at Petsmart since Target was so low in their selection of leashes. I selected a pink harness with rhinestones and matching leash. This girl will be in style, let me tell you. I also picked up a cute little stuffed dog for her to cuddle with, perfectly soft and snuggly.

I am a little concerned that Remy will feel Less Than and Forgotten About but I know if he does, it won't last long. He's very intelligent and I think he already understands. He assumes that all stuffed animals belong to him, as they should, but he's really not interested in the one I brought home today. I think he will make the best big brother around and love his little Ruby almost as much as I will.

The thought of the two of them snuggled together in front of the fireplace just warms my Crazy Dog Lady heart.