Some days I feel somewhat intelligent. You know, like I have my moments. Someone will be talking about something I know about, say dachshund breeders or OPI nail polish colors, and I can sound—and I don’t mean to brag here—but pretty much like a genius.
But then there are the other moments. The moments that seem to come all too frequently. The moments where I do something that makes my entire face turn bright red and makes me bury my face in my pillow groaning when I recall them in those seconds before sleep at night.
The other day, such a moment occurred. It wasn’t necessarily a red face/bury head in pillow moment because I was with a close friend who has known me long enough to not exactly anticipate genius at all times, but it wasn’t my proudest time.
We were out doing some Christmas shopping, walking through the mall and she was sharing a story with me about an event she’d attended where kids had been singing holiday music. It had been multicultural, with all of the holidays of the season being celebrated.
“… so yeah, they sang Christmas carols and secular carols—“
I snorted. “Secular carols? What’s that? Like ‘We don’t believe in God, fa la la…bells…good cheer….’” (Imagine an extremely out of tune singing voice rambling on here)
“No. Like Jingle Bells. And Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.”
Oh. Right.
The thing is, this wouldn’t be all that bad, except that this morning, for some reason, as I sat at a stoplight alone in my car on my drive to work, I remembered the moment. And I started to laugh, alone in my car. And then I looked in the car next to me where staring at me as if I’d totally lost my mind was a guy from my condo complex. I snapped my mouth shut, but it was too late. The damage had been done. I looked like a crazy person.
This is the problem with these moments. They compound themselves. And that’s probably how crazy people happen. If I’m correct about that, then I’m well on my way to insane.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Fairytale Ending
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. ~ Shakespeare
These two were able to look past age differences, height differences, breed differences and even fairly distinct smell differences to find true love. I can only hope we're all so lucky.
Friday, December 14, 2007
I've Got Mail
I have a bit of a problem with simply ignoring things I wish didn’t exist. This can come in rather handy in some parts of life. Dachshund barking obnoxiously for hours? I barely notice it. That hole in the elbow of my favorite shirt? Might as well not be there. The fact that Chick-fil-a sandwiches probably can’t be considered a healthy daily diet? Mere details not worth my consideration.
The problem is, I do this with other stuff too. Stuff like credit card bills, emails I should respond to and well, picking up my mail. I don’t know why I don’t like picking up my mail. I mean, multiple times a day I walk Rosie right past my mailbox, but for some reason, I don’t enjoy taking the time to open the box, take out the mail and then go through it upon my return to my condo. And so, rather than acting as a normal person and just sucking it up and doing it, I went for at least three weeks last month without getting my mail.
I didn’t even realize it had been so long until I went to my mailbox looking for something that was due to arrive. I’d left my digital camera in a coat pocket on my brother’s coat over Thanksgiving. He had then packed the coat when he flew back to Iowa (where he lives – yes, I know, crazy. People really live in Iowa). So, after some persuasion—apparently making the trip to the post office to return my much-missed camera wasn’t at the top of his priorities—he finally called me to let me know it was on it’s way. So I went to check the box. And was completely dismayed to find that there was nothing in it. Nothing. Not even one of those notes saying like “Hey, you idiot. You didn’t pick up your mail for three weeks. Now you should come to this place and we’ll give it to you.”
So, unsure of how to handle this situation, I decided to leave a note for my postman in the box. I returned to my condo and wrote in large capital letters on a pink post it “WHERE ARE YOU MAIL?” I then put the post-it in the box.
Two days later I’d had no response. I decided probably there was a more orthodox way to find out where my mail was than cryptic messages left in a box that likely wasn’t being checked. So I removed the note and called the US Postal Service. Not having any idea which local post office was my post office, I needed to at least find that out. Apparently though, there’s an entire system behind filing complaints with the post office.
Unfortunately, I had to make the call during work hours and so even as I tried to be quiet at my desk, there was much background laughter from my co-workers as I awkwardly tried to explain that yes, I simply hadn’t checked my mail for three weeks. No, I hadn’t been out of town. No, I wasn’t immobile. Yes, I know that I should check my mail daily. Finally, I was told that my complaint would be filed and I should here a response within 24 hours.
The next day, like a little miracle, my mail just started again. I was thrilled. However, there was a serious gap period left unaccounted for. A gap period that included my beloved camera. But then, the following day, I got a call from my local post office. There was a message on my phone after lunch saying I should call back Nataline at the post office.
When I called, I was actually very surprised at the efficiency that ensued. I was immediately directed to Nataline who then told me I needed to speak to Xavier, my carrier. Being that it was 2 in the afternoon, I thought (apparently incorrectly) that my carrier might be, oh say, delivering mail. However, after some scuffling noises eventually Xavier came to the phone.
“Girl, I thought you were dead.”
“Nope, still alive.”
“Well, are you going to start picking up your mail now?”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
I couldn’t believe I was being scolded by my postman. This is why you should do things like picking up your mail. Eventually Xavier told me, much to my delight, that all of me mail including a box marked priority (my camera!) was at the post office and I just needed to come by and claim it. I was thrilled.
That evening, around ten o’clock, I headed to the mailbox for the day’s mail. I’d noticed since actually starting to collect it that it was delivered quite late. Now, knowing Xavier like I did, it was clear that he spent his daytime hours hanging around the post office and apparently preferred to do his delivering late night. As I walked around the corner, there he was, stuffing the mailboxes.
“Are you Xavier?” I asked.
“Are you Sarah Crosland?” he asked.
And so began what I can only hope blossoms into a warm relationship with my mailman. He’s good to have around if for no other reason than to assuage my fear that I will one day die alone and be eaten by Rosie before anyone notices I’m gone. I have a feeling now that Xavier might notice.
The problem is, I do this with other stuff too. Stuff like credit card bills, emails I should respond to and well, picking up my mail. I don’t know why I don’t like picking up my mail. I mean, multiple times a day I walk Rosie right past my mailbox, but for some reason, I don’t enjoy taking the time to open the box, take out the mail and then go through it upon my return to my condo. And so, rather than acting as a normal person and just sucking it up and doing it, I went for at least three weeks last month without getting my mail.
I didn’t even realize it had been so long until I went to my mailbox looking for something that was due to arrive. I’d left my digital camera in a coat pocket on my brother’s coat over Thanksgiving. He had then packed the coat when he flew back to Iowa (where he lives – yes, I know, crazy. People really live in Iowa). So, after some persuasion—apparently making the trip to the post office to return my much-missed camera wasn’t at the top of his priorities—he finally called me to let me know it was on it’s way. So I went to check the box. And was completely dismayed to find that there was nothing in it. Nothing. Not even one of those notes saying like “Hey, you idiot. You didn’t pick up your mail for three weeks. Now you should come to this place and we’ll give it to you.”
So, unsure of how to handle this situation, I decided to leave a note for my postman in the box. I returned to my condo and wrote in large capital letters on a pink post it “WHERE ARE YOU MAIL?” I then put the post-it in the box.
Two days later I’d had no response. I decided probably there was a more orthodox way to find out where my mail was than cryptic messages left in a box that likely wasn’t being checked. So I removed the note and called the US Postal Service. Not having any idea which local post office was my post office, I needed to at least find that out. Apparently though, there’s an entire system behind filing complaints with the post office.
Unfortunately, I had to make the call during work hours and so even as I tried to be quiet at my desk, there was much background laughter from my co-workers as I awkwardly tried to explain that yes, I simply hadn’t checked my mail for three weeks. No, I hadn’t been out of town. No, I wasn’t immobile. Yes, I know that I should check my mail daily. Finally, I was told that my complaint would be filed and I should here a response within 24 hours.
The next day, like a little miracle, my mail just started again. I was thrilled. However, there was a serious gap period left unaccounted for. A gap period that included my beloved camera. But then, the following day, I got a call from my local post office. There was a message on my phone after lunch saying I should call back Nataline at the post office.
When I called, I was actually very surprised at the efficiency that ensued. I was immediately directed to Nataline who then told me I needed to speak to Xavier, my carrier. Being that it was 2 in the afternoon, I thought (apparently incorrectly) that my carrier might be, oh say, delivering mail. However, after some scuffling noises eventually Xavier came to the phone.
“Girl, I thought you were dead.”
“Nope, still alive.”
“Well, are you going to start picking up your mail now?”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
I couldn’t believe I was being scolded by my postman. This is why you should do things like picking up your mail. Eventually Xavier told me, much to my delight, that all of me mail including a box marked priority (my camera!) was at the post office and I just needed to come by and claim it. I was thrilled.
That evening, around ten o’clock, I headed to the mailbox for the day’s mail. I’d noticed since actually starting to collect it that it was delivered quite late. Now, knowing Xavier like I did, it was clear that he spent his daytime hours hanging around the post office and apparently preferred to do his delivering late night. As I walked around the corner, there he was, stuffing the mailboxes.
“Are you Xavier?” I asked.
“Are you Sarah Crosland?” he asked.
And so began what I can only hope blossoms into a warm relationship with my mailman. He’s good to have around if for no other reason than to assuage my fear that I will one day die alone and be eaten by Rosie before anyone notices I’m gone. I have a feeling now that Xavier might notice.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Waify
I hate dieting. Hate it. It is a miserable, terrible thing to do to oneself. Two months ago, just as the weather was cooling down, I noticed that my jeans, which I hadn’t put on in several months (a year and a half), were feeling a little snug (impossible to button). So I decided to diet.
I had been considering it for a while, but then a friend mentioned that she wanted to as well, so we decided to do it together. In fact, we spent an entire afternoon concocting the most ridiculous plan/points system ever created. It involved weigh ins, calorie counting and scheduled exercise. We called it “The Waif Diet” (don’t try to steal that ingenious name) because we wanted to look like waifs. Think Kate Moss, Oliver Twist and other hungry looking people. That plan lasted about six days.
The thing about trying to lose weight is that it is a full out effort from every side. You’re telling your body, who, until this moment, was perfectly happy with its current state of a nice and steady low heart rate, that it’s time for a change. And that change involves taking away cheese, fried chicken and pasta, and adding lettuce, apples and carrots. That’s just mean. Who takes away cheese?
There are two other side effects to losing weight that are tricky. One is the exercise. Now, I can get into exercising. It does take me a few days, but eventually I’m a bit of a sucker for endorphins and, despite some red face and heavy breathing issues, I enjoy a good run as much as the next person. However, since beginning this most recent regimen, I’ve realized something. I’m old.
It’s been a bit of a shock to discover. Somehow, during my first several weeks of running I managed to injure my right hip. Now, I walk around like an 80 year old, holding my hip and throwing my back out. Sometimes it literally hurts so badly I wake up in the night with it aching. That sounds like a prime nursing home candidate if I’ve ever heard of one. So I’ve slowed on the running because I think it might be awkward if I’m using a walker on my 26th birthday due to overzealous exercising.
The other tough side effect is cutting out drinking. Now, I’m not a big drinker, but I do love a sweet margarita from time to time. And a good gin and tonic. And a nice glass of wine. But those are calories that could be much better spent on cheese. So it’s kind of tricky on a Saturday night when your hip is aching and you’re starving and you’re just watching your friends sip away while you suck down a diet coke like there’s no tomorrow.
That’s why I hate diets. And that’s probably why after I hit the point that the jeans would button again, I hit a plateau in the weight loss. That, and a little holiday I like to call Thanksgiving—which could just as easily be called “Day destined to wreak havoc on the self control of any normal person.” I’m a little surprised the Pilgrims and Indians (am I supposed to say Native Americans here?) didn’t just call it that.
Tomorrow I’m going back on the treadmill again after my weeklong preemptive nursing home avoidance break from running. I’m dreading the red face, heavy breathing and general threat of a heart attack I know will result. But that’s the thing I hate most about diets, you do them long enough and suddenly you’ve convinced your body it’s not supposed to be happy with pasta and a low heart rate. And that’s just crazy talk. What’s next? Convincing yourself that cheese really isn’t the most delicious thing ever created? Crazy.
I had been considering it for a while, but then a friend mentioned that she wanted to as well, so we decided to do it together. In fact, we spent an entire afternoon concocting the most ridiculous plan/points system ever created. It involved weigh ins, calorie counting and scheduled exercise. We called it “The Waif Diet” (don’t try to steal that ingenious name) because we wanted to look like waifs. Think Kate Moss, Oliver Twist and other hungry looking people. That plan lasted about six days.
The thing about trying to lose weight is that it is a full out effort from every side. You’re telling your body, who, until this moment, was perfectly happy with its current state of a nice and steady low heart rate, that it’s time for a change. And that change involves taking away cheese, fried chicken and pasta, and adding lettuce, apples and carrots. That’s just mean. Who takes away cheese?
There are two other side effects to losing weight that are tricky. One is the exercise. Now, I can get into exercising. It does take me a few days, but eventually I’m a bit of a sucker for endorphins and, despite some red face and heavy breathing issues, I enjoy a good run as much as the next person. However, since beginning this most recent regimen, I’ve realized something. I’m old.
It’s been a bit of a shock to discover. Somehow, during my first several weeks of running I managed to injure my right hip. Now, I walk around like an 80 year old, holding my hip and throwing my back out. Sometimes it literally hurts so badly I wake up in the night with it aching. That sounds like a prime nursing home candidate if I’ve ever heard of one. So I’ve slowed on the running because I think it might be awkward if I’m using a walker on my 26th birthday due to overzealous exercising.
The other tough side effect is cutting out drinking. Now, I’m not a big drinker, but I do love a sweet margarita from time to time. And a good gin and tonic. And a nice glass of wine. But those are calories that could be much better spent on cheese. So it’s kind of tricky on a Saturday night when your hip is aching and you’re starving and you’re just watching your friends sip away while you suck down a diet coke like there’s no tomorrow.
That’s why I hate diets. And that’s probably why after I hit the point that the jeans would button again, I hit a plateau in the weight loss. That, and a little holiday I like to call Thanksgiving—which could just as easily be called “Day destined to wreak havoc on the self control of any normal person.” I’m a little surprised the Pilgrims and Indians (am I supposed to say Native Americans here?) didn’t just call it that.
Tomorrow I’m going back on the treadmill again after my weeklong preemptive nursing home avoidance break from running. I’m dreading the red face, heavy breathing and general threat of a heart attack I know will result. But that’s the thing I hate most about diets, you do them long enough and suddenly you’ve convinced your body it’s not supposed to be happy with pasta and a low heart rate. And that’s just crazy talk. What’s next? Convincing yourself that cheese really isn’t the most delicious thing ever created? Crazy.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Soulja What?
I can’t remember the first time I heard Soulja Boy, but I do remember not liking it. The first time it really entered my consciousness was several months ago when it had just ended on the radio and the two people on the station’s morning show were discussing how the song had just been on an episode of Entourage and how “those folks on Entourage know what they’re doing ‘cause this song is gonna be big.” Unfortunately, as I don’t have HBO, I don’t see Entourage until it hits DVD. However, I disagreed with the morning personalities. I couldn’t see how this song by some random 17-year-old was going to be big. It was horrible. Too much saying the same thing over and over and nothing in it made any sense to me.
I was obviously wrong. For anyone who keeps up with pop culture, you know that Soulja Boy has done ridiculously well. In fact, you could have spent the last six months under a rock and know that. Except for my father. He wouldn’t know. Last night I was in the middle of a story and made a reference to Beyonce. Then I paused. “You know who Beyonce is right?” I asked. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Does she date Mick Jagger?”
Probably not. If she does, Jay-Z is probably going to be pretty pissed about it.
Anyway, I digress. Soulja Boy has done well. Everyone from frat boys at Virginia Tech (watch this youtube video if you haven’t yet) to 6 year old kindergarteners are cranking that soulja boy. It’s ridiculous.
The thing is though, it’s totally grown on me. I can’t understand why. I mean, the main thing I like about any hip hop music is the cleverness of the lyrics. There is nothing remotely clever in these lyrics. The thing I hate about hip hop is how dirty it can be. Not only are these lyrics dirty, but he does it in a sneaky way. A way that has kindergartners saying things they definitely shouldn’t be saying.
But there’s something about it. I used to change the channel when it came on. Not anymore. Now, sometimes, I even find myself, in my car, with my wrists twitching. Cranking that soulja boy. I hate him a little for that.
The beauty of living in Atlanta, the capital of the hip hop world, is that we get songs earlier than anyone else. So, if a song does well, we hear it for what seems like forever. I guess this means I’m going to be cranking that soulja boy for awhile. Maybe I should just go ahead and download that “Soulja Boy Tell Em” video and learn how it’s done. Or maybe not.
I was obviously wrong. For anyone who keeps up with pop culture, you know that Soulja Boy has done ridiculously well. In fact, you could have spent the last six months under a rock and know that. Except for my father. He wouldn’t know. Last night I was in the middle of a story and made a reference to Beyonce. Then I paused. “You know who Beyonce is right?” I asked. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Does she date Mick Jagger?”
Probably not. If she does, Jay-Z is probably going to be pretty pissed about it.
Anyway, I digress. Soulja Boy has done well. Everyone from frat boys at Virginia Tech (watch this youtube video if you haven’t yet) to 6 year old kindergarteners are cranking that soulja boy. It’s ridiculous.
The thing is though, it’s totally grown on me. I can’t understand why. I mean, the main thing I like about any hip hop music is the cleverness of the lyrics. There is nothing remotely clever in these lyrics. The thing I hate about hip hop is how dirty it can be. Not only are these lyrics dirty, but he does it in a sneaky way. A way that has kindergartners saying things they definitely shouldn’t be saying.
But there’s something about it. I used to change the channel when it came on. Not anymore. Now, sometimes, I even find myself, in my car, with my wrists twitching. Cranking that soulja boy. I hate him a little for that.
The beauty of living in Atlanta, the capital of the hip hop world, is that we get songs earlier than anyone else. So, if a song does well, we hear it for what seems like forever. I guess this means I’m going to be cranking that soulja boy for awhile. Maybe I should just go ahead and download that “Soulja Boy Tell Em” video and learn how it’s done. Or maybe not.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Just call me Crazy Dachshund Lady
Today I found this blog:
http://dailydachshund.blogspot.com
And well, I'm not sure if I've ever come across a website I've enjoyed so much. I mean, there are videos on dachshunds (like clips from a Miller Light commercial featuring speedy dachshunds), helpful news information on dachshunds (like a story about a dachshund chewing off a child's genitals), random historical information (like a dachshund being indirectly involved in the JFK assassination) and dachshund celebrity news (Brooke Astor's dachshunds, Boysie and Girlsie were just given new homes).
I highly recommend it. If for no other reason than to find out about Bandit, a dachshund who is competing for "The Biggest Loser" in the pet category in Tarrant County, Texas. Apparently, he's done quite well now that the residents in the nursing home where he lives have stopped sneaking him so much food and have even started a pool, betting on his end-of-contest weight.
http://dailydachshund.blogspot.com
And well, I'm not sure if I've ever come across a website I've enjoyed so much. I mean, there are videos on dachshunds (like clips from a Miller Light commercial featuring speedy dachshunds), helpful news information on dachshunds (like a story about a dachshund chewing off a child's genitals), random historical information (like a dachshund being indirectly involved in the JFK assassination) and dachshund celebrity news (Brooke Astor's dachshunds, Boysie and Girlsie were just given new homes).
I highly recommend it. If for no other reason than to find out about Bandit, a dachshund who is competing for "The Biggest Loser" in the pet category in Tarrant County, Texas. Apparently, he's done quite well now that the residents in the nursing home where he lives have stopped sneaking him so much food and have even started a pool, betting on his end-of-contest weight.
Monday, November 26, 2007
It's the Most Wonderful Time
Over the Thanksgiving holiday I went home to North Carolina to be with my family. The day after Thanksgiving, as is often our tradition, we all piled into my dad’s pick up and headed for the mountains to track down the perfect Christmas tree. This year, for the second year in a row, Rosie, my dachshund and the love of my life, accompanied us.
It was actually my grandmother, my brother, my parents, Rosie and myself in the truck, so, as you might imagine, it was fairly cozy. My brother kept hitting Rosie because he didn’t like that she was licking the window. And I kept hitting him for hitting Rosie. At one point on the trip, my father was discussing my brother’s diet with him, suggesting that he should eat more fruit. I added my two cents, saying that in recent weeks I’d been eating a healthier diet and that Rosie had lost two pounds already. For some reason this seemed to push my brother over the edge (he’s not such a fan of Rosie) and he told me I needed to quit spending so much time with my dachshund and date someone. I think I hit him again.
Once we finally made it to the Christmas tree farm it was quite nice. Rosie sprinted through the pines as she and I went on a search for our tree and my parents and brother went looking for the family tree. I hadn’t been completely certain I’d even wanted a tree until we’d arrived at the farm. Last year, four days after I spent an entire evening decorating my house for Christmas, I went on an unexpected five-day trip to Martinique and never even had the chance to enjoy the décor. Not that I’d ever complain about a trip to the Caribbean, but the whole ordeal left me with a bad taste regarding festive decorating. Besides, it’s just Rosie and me now, so decorations seem a little frivolous. But, it occurred to me that, well, it’s just Rosie and me indefinitely. Why postpone my happiness?
So I carted my tree back to Atlanta and set it in a bucket of water on my porch last night, excited to decorate it tonight after work. It was a particularly tedious and long day at work, but all day, I was very excited about my plans for Target Christmas décor shopping, followed by evening of decorating with my dachshund. (I can only imagine what my brother’s response to that sentence would be.)
So, after I purchased my necessary Christmas décor including a tree skirt I’d kind of splurged on, I came home to begin my work. I’d even had the forethought to purchase Rosie a new toy to play with while I decorated. I turned up the Christmas music, made a cup of apple cider, lit a candle that smells like cinnamon and started pulling out ornaments.
And this is where the tricky part of decorating with a dachshund comes in. Halfway through my process Rosie had completely ripped her new toy to shreds, leaving bits of cotton and rope all over my condo. She’d become bored with it and quickly took a liking to other Christmas paraphernalia. While I put the tree in its stand, Rosie chewed through a strand of lights. While I hung ornaments, Rosie ran off with her stocking. (I found it later, thoroughly chewed under my bed.) As soon as I poured water into the tree stand, Rosie drank every last drop of it as if she hadn’t had water for months. Of course, this incredible feat of hydration resulted in Rosie promptly peeing on the brand new expensive tree skirt. Once I was finally finished (and, by the way, it looks awesome), I headed to the gym for a bit. When I returned, I found Rosie gnawing on the bottom branch of the tree. Amazing, really. She’s only ten pounds; you wouldn’t think she could cause quite this much damage.
The thing is though, I really wouldn’t have had it any other way. Rosie is my own little crazy family here in Atlanta. While my tree may have a slightly chewed lower branch and be lacking much in the way of water, Rosie’s ridiculous antics around it have already made me laugh. And I’m glad I didn’t postpone that.
It was actually my grandmother, my brother, my parents, Rosie and myself in the truck, so, as you might imagine, it was fairly cozy. My brother kept hitting Rosie because he didn’t like that she was licking the window. And I kept hitting him for hitting Rosie. At one point on the trip, my father was discussing my brother’s diet with him, suggesting that he should eat more fruit. I added my two cents, saying that in recent weeks I’d been eating a healthier diet and that Rosie had lost two pounds already. For some reason this seemed to push my brother over the edge (he’s not such a fan of Rosie) and he told me I needed to quit spending so much time with my dachshund and date someone. I think I hit him again.
Once we finally made it to the Christmas tree farm it was quite nice. Rosie sprinted through the pines as she and I went on a search for our tree and my parents and brother went looking for the family tree. I hadn’t been completely certain I’d even wanted a tree until we’d arrived at the farm. Last year, four days after I spent an entire evening decorating my house for Christmas, I went on an unexpected five-day trip to Martinique and never even had the chance to enjoy the décor. Not that I’d ever complain about a trip to the Caribbean, but the whole ordeal left me with a bad taste regarding festive decorating. Besides, it’s just Rosie and me now, so decorations seem a little frivolous. But, it occurred to me that, well, it’s just Rosie and me indefinitely. Why postpone my happiness?
So I carted my tree back to Atlanta and set it in a bucket of water on my porch last night, excited to decorate it tonight after work. It was a particularly tedious and long day at work, but all day, I was very excited about my plans for Target Christmas décor shopping, followed by evening of decorating with my dachshund. (I can only imagine what my brother’s response to that sentence would be.)
So, after I purchased my necessary Christmas décor including a tree skirt I’d kind of splurged on, I came home to begin my work. I’d even had the forethought to purchase Rosie a new toy to play with while I decorated. I turned up the Christmas music, made a cup of apple cider, lit a candle that smells like cinnamon and started pulling out ornaments.
And this is where the tricky part of decorating with a dachshund comes in. Halfway through my process Rosie had completely ripped her new toy to shreds, leaving bits of cotton and rope all over my condo. She’d become bored with it and quickly took a liking to other Christmas paraphernalia. While I put the tree in its stand, Rosie chewed through a strand of lights. While I hung ornaments, Rosie ran off with her stocking. (I found it later, thoroughly chewed under my bed.) As soon as I poured water into the tree stand, Rosie drank every last drop of it as if she hadn’t had water for months. Of course, this incredible feat of hydration resulted in Rosie promptly peeing on the brand new expensive tree skirt. Once I was finally finished (and, by the way, it looks awesome), I headed to the gym for a bit. When I returned, I found Rosie gnawing on the bottom branch of the tree. Amazing, really. She’s only ten pounds; you wouldn’t think she could cause quite this much damage.
The thing is though, I really wouldn’t have had it any other way. Rosie is my own little crazy family here in Atlanta. While my tree may have a slightly chewed lower branch and be lacking much in the way of water, Rosie’s ridiculous antics around it have already made me laugh. And I’m glad I didn’t postpone that.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Tambourines and such
I used to stand in the hallway of my house and stare at photos of myself with friends and family. There were between fifteen and twenty of them. I had hung them in a hallway just outside my bedroom. It was an old house with plaster walls and the nails hung loosely in the plaster so that the frames all seemed precariously tilted—as if they might come crashing down at any moment.
I would find myself passing them—on the way from the shower to my room, as I walked to the den, or on my way back from the kitchen. And often I would stop. Sometimes for as long as an hour. And stare. I would look at them intently. I was trying so hard to see if when I looked at the photos, I could read what was going on behind my eyes. So many of the pictures had been taken when I was hurting and messy and heavy inside. I wanted to see if I could see that behind the crinkles of smile lines and the big daughter-of-a-dentist grin.
And so I would stare. I would turn my head to the side, slump on the floor and lean in close. It was a habit I didn’t even realize I’d had until I moved out of the house. At the time, I thought I did it because I was fascinated by the idea of being able to cover that kind of pain. Now I think I did it because I was hoping maybe someone would notice the intense hurt that still hid behind loud laughs and wide smiles.
I don’t look at photographs like that anymore. Now, I feel a joy that I know comes completely from a Savior who comforted me so consistently for so long that one day the smiles were real and behind the eyes was exactly what was in them: laughter.
In that same hall, across from my wall of photos, there was a closet. We used it for linens and a vacuum and our shared full-length mirror. The mirror was hung on the inside of the door and was my roommate’s. Scrawled across its top was a verse from Jeremiah 3: Again you will take up your tambourines and go out to dance with the joyful. For months, while I stared at those photos, leaning against the closet door, God’s promise of new hope and happiness was just on the other side.
My life’s not perfect now. I can’t say I don’t even occasionally pause over photographs. But my God has changed many things for me. And these days, I’d say I’m dancing with the joyful.
I would find myself passing them—on the way from the shower to my room, as I walked to the den, or on my way back from the kitchen. And often I would stop. Sometimes for as long as an hour. And stare. I would look at them intently. I was trying so hard to see if when I looked at the photos, I could read what was going on behind my eyes. So many of the pictures had been taken when I was hurting and messy and heavy inside. I wanted to see if I could see that behind the crinkles of smile lines and the big daughter-of-a-dentist grin.
And so I would stare. I would turn my head to the side, slump on the floor and lean in close. It was a habit I didn’t even realize I’d had until I moved out of the house. At the time, I thought I did it because I was fascinated by the idea of being able to cover that kind of pain. Now I think I did it because I was hoping maybe someone would notice the intense hurt that still hid behind loud laughs and wide smiles.
I don’t look at photographs like that anymore. Now, I feel a joy that I know comes completely from a Savior who comforted me so consistently for so long that one day the smiles were real and behind the eyes was exactly what was in them: laughter.
In that same hall, across from my wall of photos, there was a closet. We used it for linens and a vacuum and our shared full-length mirror. The mirror was hung on the inside of the door and was my roommate’s. Scrawled across its top was a verse from Jeremiah 3: Again you will take up your tambourines and go out to dance with the joyful. For months, while I stared at those photos, leaning against the closet door, God’s promise of new hope and happiness was just on the other side.
My life’s not perfect now. I can’t say I don’t even occasionally pause over photographs. But my God has changed many things for me. And these days, I’d say I’m dancing with the joyful.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
It's that Good
I get stuck on things. I guess I’ve always done this. If I like something, then I over do it way past the point of normalcy. Like, if I find a song I enjoy, then chances are, I play the song somewhere close to 4567889 times before I move on to another. People constantly tell me a song reminds them of me because they heard it so many times in my car or my house. Other people tell me to turn off that f’ing song I’ve been playing over and over again. The response varies.
But I really can’t stop being this way. I like spaghetti with meat sauce lean cuisines and I’d say I’ve eaten close to 150 of them in the last year. Maybe more. I enjoy orbitz gum and well, I’m chewing it right now. And will be tomorrow. And the day after that. You get the point. Some people would call this obsessive compulsive. It could go hand in hand with my love of vacuuming and my need for there to be no wrinkles in my bedspread. But I think I just know a good thing when I see it and I don’t see any point and moving on until I’ve enjoyed the heck out of it.
So, several weeks ago I discovered a new obsession. I was interviewing a potential intern for my office and had said that we should “grab coffee” together to talk. Mind you, I don’t really drink coffee. I just thought it sounded like the right thing to do. You know, it’s what people do. So, when we went down to the coffee shop, I ordered a latte. And whoa. It blew my mind. I cannot express how deliciously sweet this latte was. I wanted another immediately,but due to me still trying to be cool with the whole “grabbing a coffee” thing, I restrained myself.
However, the next day, I eagerly made the trip back down to the coffee shop for another latte. Imagine my surprise when the woman who works there told me that she didn’t know how to make lattes and her sister (who does know how) had already left for the day. I felt dejected.
That was a Friday. So I waited all weekend until the following Monday, and again, I returned to the shop, ready for my latte. This time I was told that her sister only works certain hours on Fridays and Mondays and I was too late. I almost cried.
However, that Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I happily purchased and enjoyed my lattes. I was gone Friday and had to live without the latte. Then Monday came and again, I was back at the coffee shop. (See, I told you, I get a little obsessive.) I knew that Mondays were tricky days as far as hours of lattes, so I purposefully went early.
Now, by this point, everyone in my office had begun to notice my frequent trips. Also, I’m not one to keep quiet about food so I’d been really talking up the lattes and making sure my pain was known by everyone when they weren’t there. In fact, one of my co-workers had even told me that she thought I might be intimidating the small Asian sisters who run the coffee shop. She insinuated that they were probably a little afraid of the hulking, tall blond woman who came in daily, demanding her lattes.
When I got there, I decided my coworker might be right. The girl looked very nervous. And a little panicky. She explained that her sister had already left for the day and then she gave me a free large coffee. I felt a little bad. I also felt a little embarrassed to return to the office with my free coffee and my knowledge that I had managed to intimidate the coffee shop owners. But I figure by this point, I’ve given them enough business to make up for the free coffee. And this morning I was back again for my latte.
I suppose I’ll keep going back for at least another few weeks. Or until I realize that lattes are exactly health foods. Or maybe until someone points out to me that I’m supposed to be working at “work,” not stalking creamy coffee drinks and their makers.
But I really can’t stop being this way. I like spaghetti with meat sauce lean cuisines and I’d say I’ve eaten close to 150 of them in the last year. Maybe more. I enjoy orbitz gum and well, I’m chewing it right now. And will be tomorrow. And the day after that. You get the point. Some people would call this obsessive compulsive. It could go hand in hand with my love of vacuuming and my need for there to be no wrinkles in my bedspread. But I think I just know a good thing when I see it and I don’t see any point and moving on until I’ve enjoyed the heck out of it.
So, several weeks ago I discovered a new obsession. I was interviewing a potential intern for my office and had said that we should “grab coffee” together to talk. Mind you, I don’t really drink coffee. I just thought it sounded like the right thing to do. You know, it’s what people do. So, when we went down to the coffee shop, I ordered a latte. And whoa. It blew my mind. I cannot express how deliciously sweet this latte was. I wanted another immediately,but due to me still trying to be cool with the whole “grabbing a coffee” thing, I restrained myself.
However, the next day, I eagerly made the trip back down to the coffee shop for another latte. Imagine my surprise when the woman who works there told me that she didn’t know how to make lattes and her sister (who does know how) had already left for the day. I felt dejected.
That was a Friday. So I waited all weekend until the following Monday, and again, I returned to the shop, ready for my latte. This time I was told that her sister only works certain hours on Fridays and Mondays and I was too late. I almost cried.
However, that Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I happily purchased and enjoyed my lattes. I was gone Friday and had to live without the latte. Then Monday came and again, I was back at the coffee shop. (See, I told you, I get a little obsessive.) I knew that Mondays were tricky days as far as hours of lattes, so I purposefully went early.
Now, by this point, everyone in my office had begun to notice my frequent trips. Also, I’m not one to keep quiet about food so I’d been really talking up the lattes and making sure my pain was known by everyone when they weren’t there. In fact, one of my co-workers had even told me that she thought I might be intimidating the small Asian sisters who run the coffee shop. She insinuated that they were probably a little afraid of the hulking, tall blond woman who came in daily, demanding her lattes.
When I got there, I decided my coworker might be right. The girl looked very nervous. And a little panicky. She explained that her sister had already left for the day and then she gave me a free large coffee. I felt a little bad. I also felt a little embarrassed to return to the office with my free coffee and my knowledge that I had managed to intimidate the coffee shop owners. But I figure by this point, I’ve given them enough business to make up for the free coffee. And this morning I was back again for my latte.
I suppose I’ll keep going back for at least another few weeks. Or until I realize that lattes are exactly health foods. Or maybe until someone points out to me that I’m supposed to be working at “work,” not stalking creamy coffee drinks and their makers.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Udders?
Rosie has noticably large breasts. There. I said it. I am officially a very weird person for acknowledging the size of my dog's breasts, but they are impossible to ignore. Mostly because people point them out all of the time. And it is so awkward.
Today, some friends from work stopped by my condo with me at lunch time to let Rosie out. Staring at Rosie, their first question was "Why does it look like she has udders?"
Tonight my small group from church came over. Rosie was playing on the rug with her bone and as I was fixing coffee in the kitchen, I hear them discussing the size of her breasts. "Is that normal?" "Do all dogs have nipples that large?"
Now, with friends, I play this off with the old "Oh, you know, runs in the family." But lately, people have been stopping me in the park to ask if she is pregnant or just had puppies. What am I supposed to say then? No, I'm sorry, ma'am and small child. My dog just has a really nice rack.
I mean, it is seriously awkward. For me, and I'd imagine for Rosie too. Although, she seems pretty oblivious and even like a little bit of an exhibitionist to be honest. I've thought about asking her vet about it. But I really don't even know where to start. I mean, my thoughts here are that maybe dogs are just like people. Some are more well endowed than others. Rosie's just been blessed with a hot, dachshund body. And asking the vet if it's possible that my dog is just genetically blessed seems like a conversation destined to turn my face bright red.
So, for now, I'll have to keep playing off the questions. And consider getting Rosie a bra. Or eight.
Today, some friends from work stopped by my condo with me at lunch time to let Rosie out. Staring at Rosie, their first question was "Why does it look like she has udders?"
Tonight my small group from church came over. Rosie was playing on the rug with her bone and as I was fixing coffee in the kitchen, I hear them discussing the size of her breasts. "Is that normal?" "Do all dogs have nipples that large?"
Now, with friends, I play this off with the old "Oh, you know, runs in the family." But lately, people have been stopping me in the park to ask if she is pregnant or just had puppies. What am I supposed to say then? No, I'm sorry, ma'am and small child. My dog just has a really nice rack.
I mean, it is seriously awkward. For me, and I'd imagine for Rosie too. Although, she seems pretty oblivious and even like a little bit of an exhibitionist to be honest. I've thought about asking her vet about it. But I really don't even know where to start. I mean, my thoughts here are that maybe dogs are just like people. Some are more well endowed than others. Rosie's just been blessed with a hot, dachshund body. And asking the vet if it's possible that my dog is just genetically blessed seems like a conversation destined to turn my face bright red.
So, for now, I'll have to keep playing off the questions. And consider getting Rosie a bra. Or eight.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
A Friday
So yesterday I got to go visit the Ron Clark Academy and it was awesome. If you've never heard of Ron Clark, I'd suggest a quick google search. The man is amazing. And I don't mean that in the obligatory you-have-to-say-he's-amazing-cause-he-helps-little-kids way. Because I am close friends with people who help little kids. And, truth be told, they're pretty amazing too. But, he's amazing because he's actually different from anyone I've ever seen. He brings an energy to any situation (and especially to a classroom) that I've really never seen anything else like.
After I went to the school I was very excited about it. So I called my parents to share. That conversation went something like this:
Me: So today we got to do something really inspiring at work. We went to the Ron Clark Academy.
My Dad: You went to the Alarm Clock Academy?
Me: Yeah, we went to the Alarm Clock Academy. It's the place that trains the people who make alarm clocks. I was totally inspired.
Eventually we got back on track after that, but then somehow things got confusing again.
Me: Yeah, they made a movie about him and Matthew Perry played him.
My Dad: Oh, so of course you watched that since he's one of your Friends.
Me: Well, yeah, obviously. So anyway, the school is south of Atlanta, but the children are brought in from all of the city. Most of them are minorities and they're all different levels as far as abilities.
My Mom: Is Ron Clark black?
Me: Yeah, he is. They had Matthew Perry play a black man. Which was a little confusing at times, and probably kind of insulting to some people, but it worked out fine.
My Mom: Really?
Me: No.
So, after some confusion, I was able to express how impressed I had been with this school. I think it is the stuff like this-getting to see something like this school-that makes me love my job. There are days when I think I'm going to go crazy if I have to write one more article about socialites and ludicrously expensive clothing, but then I get the opportunity to be inspired on a random Friday afternoon. And that's pretty cool.
After I went to the school I was very excited about it. So I called my parents to share. That conversation went something like this:
Me: So today we got to do something really inspiring at work. We went to the Ron Clark Academy.
My Dad: You went to the Alarm Clock Academy?
Me: Yeah, we went to the Alarm Clock Academy. It's the place that trains the people who make alarm clocks. I was totally inspired.
Eventually we got back on track after that, but then somehow things got confusing again.
Me: Yeah, they made a movie about him and Matthew Perry played him.
My Dad: Oh, so of course you watched that since he's one of your Friends.
Me: Well, yeah, obviously. So anyway, the school is south of Atlanta, but the children are brought in from all of the city. Most of them are minorities and they're all different levels as far as abilities.
My Mom: Is Ron Clark black?
Me: Yeah, he is. They had Matthew Perry play a black man. Which was a little confusing at times, and probably kind of insulting to some people, but it worked out fine.
My Mom: Really?
Me: No.
So, after some confusion, I was able to express how impressed I had been with this school. I think it is the stuff like this-getting to see something like this school-that makes me love my job. There are days when I think I'm going to go crazy if I have to write one more article about socialites and ludicrously expensive clothing, but then I get the opportunity to be inspired on a random Friday afternoon. And that's pretty cool.
Monday, October 29, 2007
CraZy
You know, the whole Blue tooth cell phone head device thing has really blurred the line between normal people who talk on their phone in public and crazy people who talk to themselves in public. It's like, now, I feel the need to question it every time I see someone just chatting into open air. Are they talking to their mom on the phone? Or to the purple unicorn they see standing on the sidewalk? Who knows?
Today, I was driving to my grandparents' house and stopped at a stop sign. Across the intersection from me a guy had his head thrown back completely in a wide mouth, show-me-every-single-molar kind of laugh. And he was talking. There was no one in the car with him. So, I wondered... crazy? Considering he was driving a Jaguar and wearing a business suit, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. His laugh was probably less of an evil plan Count Dracula laugh and more of a "Oh haha, dear, don't be silly, of course we're not going on holiday to St. Tropez. You know we always go to St. Barts," or a "Haha, you're so funny Tom, with your talk of flying commercial." At least, that's what I'd be laughing about if I was a business man in a Jag. So yeah, he probably had a little ear piece hidden under his overgrown frat boy shaggy hair cut.
However, it's hard to say. A few days ago I was in the produce section at the grocery store, innocently trying to decide if there really was any merit to that whole "apple a day" thing when I hear the woman to my left begin speaking. It was one of those things where I initially thought she was talking to me so I looked at her, but she was totally focused on the fruit in front of her. She looked pretty normal so I assumed it was the ear piece trick again. Then I focused on what she was saying: "You are so pretty and plump." That didn't sound right. Maybe she was talking to someone who didn't mind being called plump? Seemed odd. And then she went on "You are going to be so sweet and delicious." Oh yeah. She was talking to a grapefruit. She picked it up and stared at it. I decided it was time to move on to the cheese department which is exactly where I should have been in the first place. You don't see crazy people in the cheese section. Just happy people.
Today, I was driving to my grandparents' house and stopped at a stop sign. Across the intersection from me a guy had his head thrown back completely in a wide mouth, show-me-every-single-molar kind of laugh. And he was talking. There was no one in the car with him. So, I wondered... crazy? Considering he was driving a Jaguar and wearing a business suit, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. His laugh was probably less of an evil plan Count Dracula laugh and more of a "Oh haha, dear, don't be silly, of course we're not going on holiday to St. Tropez. You know we always go to St. Barts," or a "Haha, you're so funny Tom, with your talk of flying commercial." At least, that's what I'd be laughing about if I was a business man in a Jag. So yeah, he probably had a little ear piece hidden under his overgrown frat boy shaggy hair cut.
However, it's hard to say. A few days ago I was in the produce section at the grocery store, innocently trying to decide if there really was any merit to that whole "apple a day" thing when I hear the woman to my left begin speaking. It was one of those things where I initially thought she was talking to me so I looked at her, but she was totally focused on the fruit in front of her. She looked pretty normal so I assumed it was the ear piece trick again. Then I focused on what she was saying: "You are so pretty and plump." That didn't sound right. Maybe she was talking to someone who didn't mind being called plump? Seemed odd. And then she went on "You are going to be so sweet and delicious." Oh yeah. She was talking to a grapefruit. She picked it up and stared at it. I decided it was time to move on to the cheese department which is exactly where I should have been in the first place. You don't see crazy people in the cheese section. Just happy people.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
3rd Place Weiner!
Yesterday Rosie took third place in the condo complex -wide pet Halloween costume contest. And frankly, I can't remember ever being so proud. She was dressed as a hot dog. It was actually an old costume - not what she'll be dressing as on Halloween, but it's always a hit.
I felt little bit guilty about enforcing the weiner dog stereotype. I read a book last year called The Hallo-wiener (I strongly recommend it) and in it was a dachshund named Oscar who is incessantly teased because he's a "weiner dog" and then is humiliated when he's to wear a hot dog costume on Halloween. After reading that I wondered if maybe Rosie felt similarly to Oscar. I'd never asked. But then, one day earlier this fall, I was taking Rosie for a walk and we were returning to my condo from the park when an SUV comes flying by and some teenager has his body half way out the front window as he screams "WEINER DOG" at Rosie. She ran barking after him. I figured that was my answer. She doesn't appreciate the stereotype. So I've tried to be sensitive. But, this was a big contest and I knew the hot dog costume was our best chance for winning.
So, she came in behind the poodle dressed as Snow White and the yellow lab in a swimsuit and goggles. Part of that could have been because a cocker spaniel pulled the buns off of Rosie and ran off with them halfway through the constest. I guess those are the risks that come with competing. However, third prize was a box of bones that supposedly taste like turkey. Rosie has been very pleased with them so far. So I think some important lessons were learned. 1) Sometimes stereotypes can be funny and not offensive. 2) Rosie is a hot commodity when it comes to competing for bones. 3) Avoid cocker spaniels when you're wearing stuffed hot dog buns on your back.
*the photo is one taken in 2006 of Rosie wearing the costume - not from yesterday's competition
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Premiering
So I decided to blog (again). Incidentally, I hate the word "blog" so from now on I'll be making my best effort not to use it. So, another thing I'm not all that fond of is the initial posting in a blog. It is during this posting that I'm supposed to be telling you who I am, why I want to post things about myself for all of the online world to see, and then I should probably make some self deprecating remark about how this blog won't be all that exciting. I think I will do all of these things, but I'm going to try a different approach. We'll pretend you (my reader) and me (the writer) have just run into each other and I am telling you that I'm starting a blog. Oh, and also, I'm telling you about me. And maybe I'll toss in something self deprecating.
Let's say that this meeting takes place at Chick-fil-A. This isn't a farfetched idea. I go to Chick-fil-A pretty much every other day. Let's also say I'm eating a chicken biscuit. This is more for my benefit than yours because I'm enjoying imagining eating a chicken biscuit. (Let me just pause briefly here and say that if you, my reader, have never had the chance to enjoy a chicken biscuit from Chick-fil-A, I'd recommend that you shut out of this screen, get off the internet, walk out of your door and go get one. Unless it's after 10:30 a.m. or Sunday. Then, go ahead and finish reading and go get one later.) Ok, I digress. So, we're in Chick-Fil-A. I'm sitting at a table and you approach.
You: Hey Sarah! I thought that was you! Wow! Why do you have 27 chicken biscuits on your table?
Me: Oh hey you! How's it going? Oh, these biscuits are just for some friends. (Fact #1 and #2 about me: I love food and I will occasionally avoid the truth in order to cover up things like an obsession with chicken biscuits.)
You: I'm good. What are you up to these days?
Me: Well, let's see. I work for a magazine. I live in Atlanta. I write a lot. I go to a lot of parties for my job. My miniature dachshund is the apple of my eye. (I think you can figure out what the facts are here)
You: Oh, that's nice. (Probably you wouldn't really say this if I said those things. Probably you would think I was a crazy dachshund lady who eats 27 biscuits. But, for the purpose of this entry, we're going to pretend.) So, are you doing anything new? (Again, we're pretending.)
Me: Well, funny you should ask that. I just decided today to start one of those online web logs. You know, I think kids these days are calling them blogs.
You: Really? Why would you want to do that?
Me: Well, I can't really say. Maybe it's partly because I write so much for work that sometimes I like the idea of just writing for fun. Or maybe it's because it's something I used to do and I miss it. Or it could be something deeper, like I feel some deep humanistic need to chronicle my brief days on earth. But I think mostly it's because sometimes my dachshund doesn't get all of the stories I tell, so I like the idea of sharing them with people. Just for a change.
Now, in this story, realistically, you would probably smile, nod and turn around and leave. Never to return to listen to any more crazy talk from the biscuit lady. Hopefully you won't do that in regards to this blog though. Because I promise, the first entry is always the worst.
Let's say that this meeting takes place at Chick-fil-A. This isn't a farfetched idea. I go to Chick-fil-A pretty much every other day. Let's also say I'm eating a chicken biscuit. This is more for my benefit than yours because I'm enjoying imagining eating a chicken biscuit. (Let me just pause briefly here and say that if you, my reader, have never had the chance to enjoy a chicken biscuit from Chick-fil-A, I'd recommend that you shut out of this screen, get off the internet, walk out of your door and go get one. Unless it's after 10:30 a.m. or Sunday. Then, go ahead and finish reading and go get one later.) Ok, I digress. So, we're in Chick-Fil-A. I'm sitting at a table and you approach.
You: Hey Sarah! I thought that was you! Wow! Why do you have 27 chicken biscuits on your table?
Me: Oh hey you! How's it going? Oh, these biscuits are just for some friends. (Fact #1 and #2 about me: I love food and I will occasionally avoid the truth in order to cover up things like an obsession with chicken biscuits.)
You: I'm good. What are you up to these days?
Me: Well, let's see. I work for a magazine. I live in Atlanta. I write a lot. I go to a lot of parties for my job. My miniature dachshund is the apple of my eye. (I think you can figure out what the facts are here)
You: Oh, that's nice. (Probably you wouldn't really say this if I said those things. Probably you would think I was a crazy dachshund lady who eats 27 biscuits. But, for the purpose of this entry, we're going to pretend.) So, are you doing anything new? (Again, we're pretending.)
Me: Well, funny you should ask that. I just decided today to start one of those online web logs. You know, I think kids these days are calling them blogs.
You: Really? Why would you want to do that?
Me: Well, I can't really say. Maybe it's partly because I write so much for work that sometimes I like the idea of just writing for fun. Or maybe it's because it's something I used to do and I miss it. Or it could be something deeper, like I feel some deep humanistic need to chronicle my brief days on earth. But I think mostly it's because sometimes my dachshund doesn't get all of the stories I tell, so I like the idea of sharing them with people. Just for a change.
Now, in this story, realistically, you would probably smile, nod and turn around and leave. Never to return to listen to any more crazy talk from the biscuit lady. Hopefully you won't do that in regards to this blog though. Because I promise, the first entry is always the worst.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)