escape to the land of sweets

We hadn't heard from our tap-hearing, note-leaving, cop-calling neighbor since the late night police incident weeks ago, until yesterday. I came hobbling up the stairs while carrying three Target bags and trying to wrangle Ollie (I realize in hindsight that I'm a sacred vessel and that it was very likely that I could have tripped and that for Ivy's safety I really should have made two trips. Oops) and was greeted outside my door by our tap-hearing, note-leaving-cop-calling and now nightgown-wearing neighbor who said "Excuse me, I just had back surgery. Could you please get my mail?" I had hoped to never have another encounter with this woman, but since our apartments are adjacent I knew that probably wasn't possible. I will admit that I hoped our next run-in would include some sort of apology, like "Hey sorry that I let my delusions run wild and accused you of malicious wrong doing and then turned you into the law for a crime you didn't commit." Nope. Instead she acted like we had never met. That I hadn't knocked on her door and pled innocence just weeks ago. That she hadn't previously considered me Longmont's most wanted. Maybe she doesn't remember. Maybe the surgeon operated not only on her back, but her frontal lobe as well. I pondered this possibility as I retrieved her mail, then dropped it off at her apartment lit only by the lights on her flocked Christmas tree. She sat upright in her chair, examined the single letter that I handed her, and said "Is this it?". Hard to please, that one.

I'm not crying, it's just raining on my face

Our neighbor is a man of impressive stature. If I had to guess, I'd say he's 6'5 and 300 pounds. His gnarly hair, most often in a ponytail, reaches midback and is tied with one of his many bandanas. His beard is of equal length down his front side. If he's not wearing all leather, he's wearing Harley Davidson issued denim from head to toe.
He has two dogs. Guess what kind.
Pitbulls you say? Nope. Guess again.
German Shepherds? Wrong.
Pomeranians. Two tiny, yipy pomeranians.
When the three of them are out walking, it looks a lot like this:

I really should have pursued a career as an artist.

I wonder why he chose the canine companions that he did. Was he trying to be ironic? Is he a noncomformist? Did he inherit them from his mother? Was it simply love at first puppy sight?

I've thought about asking, but so far I've failed to think of a better question than "Hey big dude, why the small dogs?" I'm afraid because maybe he's trained the pomeranians to be killer attack dogs and if I ask my tactless question, I'll meet certain death. But now I'm just stereotyping, aren't I.



just a psychotic girl

My family stopped playing Monopoly with me a long time ago and Stephen stopped playing Monopoly with me just a few months into our marriage. Not because I'm so good, but because I'm so mean. Something about the color-coded board, the top hat and thimble, and the piles of money turns me into a real synonym for a female dog. Few things in life bring me greater joy than watching some poor sap land on my hoteled Boardwalk. I love watching them hand over every last bill to add to my collection of orange 500's, and I love watching them mortgage their sad little Oriental Avenue and Reading Railroad. I have a lot in common with this guy:

Potter for President.

On the other hand, nothing makes me angrier than being the poor sap who lands on someone else's hoteled Boardwalk. I cry injustice every time. I wail over every last bill I'm forced to hand over, and declare how unfair the mortgaging system is while I flip the cards for Oriental Avenue and Reading Railroad. I'm not a sore loser. I'm a wounded, bleeding, take me to the hospital I'm dying from this massive flesh-wound loser.

Win or lose, I'm pretty unbearable, and the number of willing opponents dwindles with every game. That's why it's become necessary to have children.

I wish I didn't know

Me: I would like a number 4 and also some onion rings.
Burger Supreme cashier: So you'd like onion rings instead of fries?
Me: No. Both.
Cashier: Oh...um....ok.

As long as I'm confessing bad habits, I guess now is as good a time as any to admit that I've started watching Gossip Girl. I would tell you not to judge me, but let's face it- I deserve to be judged. The show is pretty terrible. Every episode I ask myself the following questions:

1. Am I really supposed to believe that these people are 17? I believe that they've been 17 for ten years. So maybe they're vampires? But I thought that was a different CW show? Is CW the vampire network now?
2. Am I really supposed to believe that the age difference between the students and their parents is greater than five years? Because I don't. I'm almost positive that Rufus and his son Dan are the same age. Yes, the dude is named Rufus.
3. Am I really supposed to believe that every eating establishment in New York City serves alcohol to minors without question? Wouldn't there be serious consequences if they were caught doing so? Do laws not apply to the rich?
4. Am I supposed to find Chuck Bass attractive? He reminds me of Gopher from Winnie The Pooh, minus the charm.
5. Am I supposed to sypmathize with any character? I guess I feel bad that they all have to put up with each other.
6. Do rich kids really have a party every night? I'm told over and over how smart all of these kids are, and the entire first season I've seen one character doing homework one time. The same character whose story is published in The New Yorker. Because it's just that easy to get published in The New Yorker. PLEASE.
7. Do rich kids really buy a new outifit for every party every night? I remember buying a GAP turtle neck for a party in 7th grade. One of the two parties I attended that year. I really have no reason for sharing that anecdote.

It's a  ridiculous program. But I can't stop. Last night I watched two episodes in a row. Then I woke Stephen up just to tell him about the SHOCKING revelation at the end of episode 15.

XOXO, Gossip Girl's latest reluctant fan.

life's a happy song

Happy Thanksgiving week! Happier Muppet week!

it's an alpaca

Once a  week babycenter.com sends me updates on Ivy's progress. Like today I learned she's the size of a head of cabbage. So cute, right? Yeah. That's how they get you. Then every other day of the week they send you reminders of the ways you're already failing or will soon fail as a mother. I often get emails with subjects such as the following:

714 foods pregnant women should avoid over Thanksgiving.
That crib you bought was a bad choice.
You drank a Diet Coke? Might as well smoke a carton and throw back a case of beers.
Natural birth is the best thing you will ever do.
Natural birth killed me. I'm writing this from the crypt.
Will your baby become president or the crazy lady at the bus stop? Take our quiz to find out!
If you give your child a bottle it means you don't love her.
237 more products that you still need to buy.
Are you sure you can handle this?

Nope. Not sure. But even though the internet thinks I'm doomed, I'm still just STOKED to meet our little person.

T-10 weeks:

Whoa belly.

born and raised in a summer haze

Goodbyes are hard.

Yesterday came the time for Ollie to part with his beloved rag, a close companion since wee puppyhood.

It may look like a pile of fabric, but really it's a pile of memories.

It could be smelled from feet away and was becoming a health hazard. 

We explained to Ollie that he's getting older now, and that sometimes we have to grow up and part with the tokens of childhood.

He took it okay. I cried.

The long farewell.

We've both been listening to this song on repeat.