I don't know how to title these things. But rest assured: it's sweaty here. And I couldn't love it more.
I think you know things are going well when it's your day off, you're still in your semi-jammies (see: the aforementioned bright yellow shorts which, I might add, were originally my father's and therefore probably at least 30 years old but far too hideous to be deemed "vintage") and drinking a pot of coffee and sitting on your back patio with your heat-exhausted dog and you realize you have "Summer of 69" in your head.
And you don't even like Bryan Adams.
So things are good. Things are preposterously good. And I have no idea how that happened but it is a welcome, welcome change.
Work at Ye Olde Censeless continues to trip by. I sit and count. I counted all the way to 1,000 the other day--not in one go, but cumulatively. This is definitely the highest I've ever counted. I suggested to my co-workers that we start counting like The Count from Sesame Street, and they all had a laugh and then probably secretly thought I was very, very weird.
Matthew commiserated with me on this while he was here; he works at the pink hospital where we were both born nigh on two and half decades ago. He's a surgical assistant or something like that--basically he holds people's guts and grosses all of us out because his dinner conversation consists of "So I was holding this colon today..." Anyway--apparently many, if not all, of Matthew's co-workers think he's weird. This is astounding to me, because my brother is probably the least weird person I know. But because he lives in Tulsa, and because he's 25 and not married with two children already, and he doesn't go to church or listen to country music or drive a pick-up (though he says he wants one), he is assuredly a minority. AKA a weirdo.
Which only tells me that I better stay where I am for a while, because if people think Matthew's weird--hoo boy, they're gonna institutionalize me. .
This is beginning to happen at my workplace. Like I've said before, the work is incredibly mundane, and once my coffee kicks in I start chattering. I chatter mainly about my dog, and how if I get another dog in the future I'm going to name it Potato, and how I think "Doctor" is a funny name for a dog, and how I might rename Pinto "Trotsky" because, well, he trots a lot. And also gets the trots. Not lately, thank god.
But I don't think of myself as odd, or at least no more odd than most of the folks I went to college with. It is kind of a reality slap when we're talking about books and I say I'm spending the summer reading Chandler and Chekov and Cheever, and the two-toothed lady with her gray hair piled on her head in a samurai top-knot with a cat sweatshirt on says, "Do you like James Patterson? I like that one lady--Janet Eva--Evan--"
"Evanovich."
"Yeah, her. She's great."
I haven't read a scrap of either of these authors, but I know their names because they're the brick paperbacks available beside the Orbit and Twizzlers in the check-out line at Wal-Mart.
But I am far too busy trying to keep the count in my head to have an existential meltdown about the futility of my chosen profession. (See above: the welcome, welcome change).
I did have a meltdown the other day, though, when I received some unhappy news during my lunch break, which I spend driving home, running Pinto around the block, delighting in his delight to see me, and then making a sandwich with guacamole that invariable spurts out and stains my dress as I'm eating it on the drive back (the lady at the gas station very kindly did not remark on the green glob of baby shit on my lapel, then handed me a paper towel to clean it up).
As it turns out, the landlord of the house I'm slated to move in to come August is not on board with having two big dogs living there--the first dog being Hank, the boxer, who loves nothing more than hugging and sleeping and very stoically allows my little Pinto to lick his jowls. The situation's still up in the air and I am crossing my fingers and quietly praying that I'll be able to keep Pinto, and I'm asking all of you to do the same. There's just no way I can find a new apartment, furnish it, and still afford to eat--and given all that's gone on this year, I'm not too keen on living alone.
Plus, this house! Pinto and I went on a walk in the neighborhood the other day, and good god, it's amazing. It's a house, for one. It's over 100 years old. It has a porch, and there are sidewalks and churches and big trees and a brick street, and it's within walking distance of the river and downtown and oh, lord, it's something to behold. And I've already dreamt of my room in that house, a room with only what I own (which is books and the stolen papasan chair only), and it's too accessible of a dream to just relinquish.
And I love my dog. I love my dog hideously. No one should adopt a dog because no creature has the right to monopolize somebody's heart like this. But I am extremely fortunate in that I have an immaculate family, and a brother who's visited and run with Pinto on the beach, and who's agreed to foster-uncle my mutt if worst comes to worst. And I've already run through the scenario in my head: if it happens, Pinto and I will have a glorious roadtrip to Oklahoma, and then I'll cry uncontrollably all the way back to the coast.
So all of you readers out there: pray or hope or knock on wood for me. I need to bank some karma on this one.
Two months ago, if I had found this out, it's guaranteed I would have been lying on the couch in a sweaty stupor thinking of escape plans and self-inflicted disasters. It would've undone me. But I don't know if it's the weather or my prescription or just a determined buoyancy in my soul, but I'm hopeful. I'm happy. I'm as much in love with my dog as I ever was.
We had an amazing, amazing day last weekend. We were out in the yard before his suppertime, before I went to see Iron Man 2 (which only confirmed what I already knew--I really love robots and guns and am therefore a 12 year old boy), and there were all these little children in the patio two gates down from me. They're squealing and pointing and saying "Look at the puppy, look at the puppy!" and Pinto's getting feisty and excited.
Next thing I know, Pinto is off his leash and running in circles and chasing sticks and basically exuding pure exuberance, and these little kids are all crowded around me and babbling nonstop and calling Pinto "Coco" and asking if I have any candy and pulling things out of my pockets and lassoing themselves around my legs when Pinto frolics after them. And it's absolutely amazing.
This is what I mean by joy. Everytime we go on a walk and I see someone drive by and smile, it makes me gladder than I could know. When we're downtown and some drunk frat boy bends down and proceeds to let Pinto slobber all over him, it makes me unabashedly happy. When we pass by the retarded woman who takes her staggering walks at the same time we do, her face lights up and Pinto's tail goes turbo and she slurs to me, "He's a good boy."
I've been accused in the past of being a sentimentalist. But I swear, my life makes me one.
So! If you want to see Pinto the Miracle Dog, and tell me if I look any different after losing 32.5 pounds (I KNOW RIGHT SHIT!), come see me. I'm here in this spacious apartment 'til August. Bring your swimsuit and some dollar bills for bars and your darling self, and we'll be all set.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Saga of Papers.
I am a terrible blogger!
But then: who's surprised?
I think I started this blog assuming my day-to-day life would conveniently lump itself into mini-essays, all coherent, all compelling, all, hopefully, comedic. I know I ended up keeping a journal not only to sharpen my memory, as I have a bizarre terror of forgetting, but to make my days meaningful. As if there's some report that needs to be turned in every night to God or your conscience or Obama or whoever, and then it gets approved: "Yes, today was a good day. You have not wasted your time." Then it's stamped and put in an Interdepartmental Envelope and filed off somewhere in the Almighty File Cabinet in the Sky.
And here's what I've learned: That's a really unhelpful way to exist.
Which is probably a roundabout way of saying I think my life has shrunk to very, very small sagas. Like, miniature sagas. Microscopic. Which might not make for very interesting posts.
But here's the other thing I've learned: Happiness is not a war. It's not the C ensus, this monumental decennial undertaking that I'm pretty sure has single-handedly deforested all of Argentina. It's not concentrated meditation and struggle and willpower.
It's not making every day Tolstoy. It's making every day Post-Its. That's all you need. Post-Its.
(I'll be honest, even I don't really know what I'm talking about but I think it's right).
Post-Its.
So what have I been doing, inquiring minds want to know! I've been working at the C ensus, where I shuffle and paperclip and holepunch papers. So. Many. Papers. I don't mind, however, because the work is a kindly mix of mind-numbing and challenging because it involves numbers, which, as I think I've indicated before, I am real, real bad at. So while I'm matching AA Listing 4388 with BINDER LABEL 4388 with MAP POUCH 4388 with BLOCK LISTING 4388, arranging them in a nice stack, and holepunching that fucker like it's my job (see what I did there--it is my job), I'm listening to my yearlong backlog of This American Life. Which is great. Except I've run out of them, and I've only been working a week. The hours are long, the walls are taupe, and the muscles in my neck and shoulders feel like a towel wrung dry by the end of the day, but the people are incredible.
You cannot make these people up, they are so genuinely bizarre and wacky and wonderful. Like the lady who shares my desk is a terrible fiddler and lived on a llama farm. And the guy down the hall who is enormous and has the loudest, nasalliest voice ever heard which sends me into hysterics whenever he comes by to shout "HOW WE DOING DOWN HERE GUYS?!" And the 70+ year old man who moves as if he's about 40 and wears snappy paisley shirts and I think has a young son but definitely has skin that is neon pink in all weather. And the undergraduate who calls me "Girl" all the time and wears pointy witch shoes that she always kicks off under her table. And! The best! The old dude who sits in the back and reads books and when I asked him what he was reading--because I am a weird flirt when I'm in my work clothes--he showed me the cover, something all spectral and stylized called "The Path of the Way of the Righteous World and Universe In the Light of Good Days" or something that I assumed was Christian literature.
"Oh," I said. "What's it about?"
And do you know what he said?!
"Shamanism."
And then he proceeded to show me his copy of The Idiot's Guide to Understanding Einstein.
Do you understand that this man is real!? I didn't make him up! He exists! His name is Richard!
So I kind of adore that side of things, the insane cast of miscreants and oddballs who are working, albeit temporarily, for the government.
Pinto and I went on a hike and got lost in a forest, which was grand. Then we went to a reading and he charmed everyone--or annoyed the hell out of them, I don't know and don't care, ha!--and I read, which went over real well. I've lost about 30 pounds. I'm slated to assume an Editor position for the litmag here, which is exciting. I made a big old thing of stir fry and will never understand why I prefer leftover cold stir fry to good, just-cooked stir fry.
But that's really the most of it. I've got a busy summer that'll be packed with paychecks, partyin', and my papasan chair that I totally scored while driving through the neighborhood (it was on the curb and yes I scrubbed it down before deeming it my throne). My folks are both coming to visit, and hopefully Matthew will be back for a return trip, and OH YEAH I FORGOT I AM GOING TO FLORIDA WITH RIGGS AND THE RIGGS TO RIDE ROLLER COASTERS. No, really, I did forget that. That's what's happening nowadays--I'm more excited to take Pinto on his morning walk (a sweaty, invigorating affair where I wear a pair of bright yellow shorts and look totally awesome) than I am about an actual vacation.
And that, friends, is not such a bad way to be.
But then: who's surprised?
I think I started this blog assuming my day-to-day life would conveniently lump itself into mini-essays, all coherent, all compelling, all, hopefully, comedic. I know I ended up keeping a journal not only to sharpen my memory, as I have a bizarre terror of forgetting, but to make my days meaningful. As if there's some report that needs to be turned in every night to God or your conscience or Obama or whoever, and then it gets approved: "Yes, today was a good day. You have not wasted your time." Then it's stamped and put in an Interdepartmental Envelope and filed off somewhere in the Almighty File Cabinet in the Sky.
And here's what I've learned: That's a really unhelpful way to exist.
Which is probably a roundabout way of saying I think my life has shrunk to very, very small sagas. Like, miniature sagas. Microscopic. Which might not make for very interesting posts.
But here's the other thing I've learned: Happiness is not a war. It's not the C ensus, this monumental decennial undertaking that I'm pretty sure has single-handedly deforested all of Argentina. It's not concentrated meditation and struggle and willpower.
It's not making every day Tolstoy. It's making every day Post-Its. That's all you need. Post-Its.
(I'll be honest, even I don't really know what I'm talking about but I think it's right).
Post-Its.
So what have I been doing, inquiring minds want to know! I've been working at the C ensus, where I shuffle and paperclip and holepunch papers. So. Many. Papers. I don't mind, however, because the work is a kindly mix of mind-numbing and challenging because it involves numbers, which, as I think I've indicated before, I am real, real bad at. So while I'm matching AA Listing 4388 with BINDER LABEL 4388 with MAP POUCH 4388 with BLOCK LISTING 4388, arranging them in a nice stack, and holepunching that fucker like it's my job (see what I did there--it is my job), I'm listening to my yearlong backlog of This American Life. Which is great. Except I've run out of them, and I've only been working a week. The hours are long, the walls are taupe, and the muscles in my neck and shoulders feel like a towel wrung dry by the end of the day, but the people are incredible.
You cannot make these people up, they are so genuinely bizarre and wacky and wonderful. Like the lady who shares my desk is a terrible fiddler and lived on a llama farm. And the guy down the hall who is enormous and has the loudest, nasalliest voice ever heard which sends me into hysterics whenever he comes by to shout "HOW WE DOING DOWN HERE GUYS?!" And the 70+ year old man who moves as if he's about 40 and wears snappy paisley shirts and I think has a young son but definitely has skin that is neon pink in all weather. And the undergraduate who calls me "Girl" all the time and wears pointy witch shoes that she always kicks off under her table. And! The best! The old dude who sits in the back and reads books and when I asked him what he was reading--because I am a weird flirt when I'm in my work clothes--he showed me the cover, something all spectral and stylized called "The Path of the Way of the Righteous World and Universe In the Light of Good Days" or something that I assumed was Christian literature.
"Oh," I said. "What's it about?"
And do you know what he said?!
"Shamanism."
And then he proceeded to show me his copy of The Idiot's Guide to Understanding Einstein.
Do you understand that this man is real!? I didn't make him up! He exists! His name is Richard!
So I kind of adore that side of things, the insane cast of miscreants and oddballs who are working, albeit temporarily, for the government.
Pinto and I went on a hike and got lost in a forest, which was grand. Then we went to a reading and he charmed everyone--or annoyed the hell out of them, I don't know and don't care, ha!--and I read, which went over real well. I've lost about 30 pounds. I'm slated to assume an Editor position for the litmag here, which is exciting. I made a big old thing of stir fry and will never understand why I prefer leftover cold stir fry to good, just-cooked stir fry.
But that's really the most of it. I've got a busy summer that'll be packed with paychecks, partyin', and my papasan chair that I totally scored while driving through the neighborhood (it was on the curb and yes I scrubbed it down before deeming it my throne). My folks are both coming to visit, and hopefully Matthew will be back for a return trip, and OH YEAH I FORGOT I AM GOING TO FLORIDA WITH RIGGS AND THE RIGGS TO RIDE ROLLER COASTERS. No, really, I did forget that. That's what's happening nowadays--I'm more excited to take Pinto on his morning walk (a sweaty, invigorating affair where I wear a pair of bright yellow shorts and look totally awesome) than I am about an actual vacation.
And that, friends, is not such a bad way to be.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Saga of D.
This belated blog post is brought to you entirely by the letter "D." D is a pretty lousy letter, and single-handedly put my college admission in jeopardy once upon a time--thanks, Calculus.
D is for dumped, which I got, and the less said about it the better. D is also for dates, which I'm looking forward to going on--even if they're abysmal, I don't care, so long as there is dinner and some drinking and some dancing and some driving, all of which, you'll notice, begin with D. The whole shitshow definitely ranks up there with other complete, life-recalibrating catastrophes (the car wreck, the cousin debacle of last summer, the whole grad school waiting game, basically anything downright shitty and miserable), but, like those other things, it's over. In the meantime, I've been
Drinking. Ha! And Decorating. Girly (read: shameful) as it is, the minute I found out I was single, I decided it was high time I made this apartment someplace I'll enjoy living in for the next few months. And it's pathetic but also amazing what a new set of curtains will do for you, especially when they are your favorite color and bought so cheaply at Ross (aka Heaven) and match the quilt you are so glad your mother sent with you. Beds are tricky things when it comes to break-ups. I recommend everyone get thee to a home decor store when you find yourself sleeping solo. Do not set fire to previous occupants' belongings--just cram them in the closet, far from sight, and sleep spread out and satisfied. Leave the windows open so you can see the blue sky, because this is North Carolina, after all, where the weather is, well, impeccable.
D is also for dog, as in mine, as in the best little fluffer nutter on the face of the earth. I am in love with my dog. I am in love with my dog to an extent that is somewhat bothersome to me. As in, I kissed my dog on the mouth the other day. I probably should not publicize this fact, but it was so bamboozling to me that I did it, then stood up, realized there was puppy snot all over my face, and said aloud, "I just kissed my dog on the mouth." There's something very childish and instinctual in me when it comes to animals--see also: when Matthew was here, there was a little black cat outside this party we were at, and I just grabbed its tail. I don't know why. Also, when we went to the Serpentarium and saw ALL THE SUPER DEADLY SNAKES, a macaw in the foyer squawked at me--so I squawked back, and then threw my hand over my mouth while Matthew insisted I was a baby. Or all the times at Hamilton when I carried stray cats around--and there were more than a few.
D is also for dogs, as in the rest of Wilmington's. Pinto and I go to the dog park maybe every other day because it's an easy way for him to burn off energy and it makes me happier than I can say. In Vienna, I often went and sat in dog parks though I had no dog (incidentally, I used to want to return to Vienna with the boy I fell in love with there; now I want Pinto and I to go to Vienna, to tromp through the Wienerwald and ride the Strassenbahns and walk everywhere together--and yes, I will probably be speaking to him like a person the whole time). Pinto made friends with a Great Dane the other day, and it was about the best thing I'd ever seen.
D is for diet, which I'm still on, and which Pinto's been helping with in his own little way. We walk a couple miles daily, run up and down the stairs, go on adventures to the ocean--stuff that makes my legs sore. I hadn't been to a meeting in about a month what with having visitors and reconfiguring my life and trying to sort out just about everything, so I had no idea what my progress was. And then, holy shit! I've lost 24 pounds since February! Goddamn! I got a ways to go still, but shit! That's Pinto's weight! I lost a dog!
D is for deactivate, which I did with this blog, and which I did with Facebook. It's pretty sad to me that taking an internet hiatus was such a big personal step, but I think it was a smart move. I missed this, though. Didn't miss my incessant facebook stalking, but I think I've got it under control. And, as Karli pointed out, how will people show me funny Youtube videos without Facebook? Noodles on my back, anyone?
D is also for done, as in me and my first year of graduate school. Yikes. What the damn? How did that happen?
D is also for darlings, my friends both here and away. Karlicakes came to see me, and though it was accidentally the worst-timed visit ever (shitty weather, shitty situation), we had a hell of a time. We went on our own pub crawl because you can do that in Wilmington and ate some fine Thai food and went and walked on the beach and she sang at me and then we drank Cheerwine. It was awesome, and it's gonna happen again! Matthew also visited, and I don't think I've laughed that hard in months, maybe years. We subsisted singularly on oysters and beer and a beef jerky baton that he kept poking me in the eye with while I was driving so I threw it out the window. We had an extended discussion about where we ate some soup. We made a lot of goofy faces at one another, and we took Pinto to the beach, and overall we had a damn fine time. And everybody here's been really good to me, especially forgiving when I say I'd like to come over at 1 in the morning and drink some beer, fixing strawberry shortcake and arranging picnics at the lake, basically putting up with me in the midst of all this. It's nicer than I can say, knowing I'm not really alone. Lonely, maybe, but that's familiar, that's a state of mind and not a state of being. These are things I'm learning.
And, last but not least, D is for depressed. Surprise! No, not at all. I think it's been about a decade in the making, but yes, friends, fellows, farmers and freeloaders, I'm certifiably melancholy. This does not mean I'm different; it does not mean I'm in danger. All it means is what I've suspected for a long, long time--that I am expert at making myself unhappy, that I think in patterns that are unhealthy, and that, most importantly, I'm doing something about it. It's a lot like weight loss--I developed a lot of bad habits when it comes to food, and now I'm working to fix them. Likewise, I developed a lot of mentally bad habits, and now I'm acknowledging them and taking steps to fix them. I'm not out the woods yet, nor do I think I ever will be, but at least it's something I know and can speak about openly, instead of hiding it all away and beating myself up about it. But it's also not something I'm going to advertise, haha. That's another aspect of my odd psychology--I arbitrarily want to keep things secret for no reason. Like the fact that I wrote a book, which I did, but you won't hear it from me--and it's not modesty or humility so much as irrational paranoia. Anyway. So here it is on the internet for all to see and behold and make their own conclusions out of. High five!
Pinto is asleep on the floor and the sun is shining and my job starts tomorrow. There's the news from my spot in the world, which I'm slowly starting to appreciate more and more.
D is for dumped, which I got, and the less said about it the better. D is also for dates, which I'm looking forward to going on--even if they're abysmal, I don't care, so long as there is dinner and some drinking and some dancing and some driving, all of which, you'll notice, begin with D. The whole shitshow definitely ranks up there with other complete, life-recalibrating catastrophes (the car wreck, the cousin debacle of last summer, the whole grad school waiting game, basically anything downright shitty and miserable), but, like those other things, it's over. In the meantime, I've been
Drinking. Ha! And Decorating. Girly (read: shameful) as it is, the minute I found out I was single, I decided it was high time I made this apartment someplace I'll enjoy living in for the next few months. And it's pathetic but also amazing what a new set of curtains will do for you, especially when they are your favorite color and bought so cheaply at Ross (aka Heaven) and match the quilt you are so glad your mother sent with you. Beds are tricky things when it comes to break-ups. I recommend everyone get thee to a home decor store when you find yourself sleeping solo. Do not set fire to previous occupants' belongings--just cram them in the closet, far from sight, and sleep spread out and satisfied. Leave the windows open so you can see the blue sky, because this is North Carolina, after all, where the weather is, well, impeccable.
D is also for dog, as in mine, as in the best little fluffer nutter on the face of the earth. I am in love with my dog. I am in love with my dog to an extent that is somewhat bothersome to me. As in, I kissed my dog on the mouth the other day. I probably should not publicize this fact, but it was so bamboozling to me that I did it, then stood up, realized there was puppy snot all over my face, and said aloud, "I just kissed my dog on the mouth." There's something very childish and instinctual in me when it comes to animals--see also: when Matthew was here, there was a little black cat outside this party we were at, and I just grabbed its tail. I don't know why. Also, when we went to the Serpentarium and saw ALL THE SUPER DEADLY SNAKES, a macaw in the foyer squawked at me--so I squawked back, and then threw my hand over my mouth while Matthew insisted I was a baby. Or all the times at Hamilton when I carried stray cats around--and there were more than a few.
D is also for dogs, as in the rest of Wilmington's. Pinto and I go to the dog park maybe every other day because it's an easy way for him to burn off energy and it makes me happier than I can say. In Vienna, I often went and sat in dog parks though I had no dog (incidentally, I used to want to return to Vienna with the boy I fell in love with there; now I want Pinto and I to go to Vienna, to tromp through the Wienerwald and ride the Strassenbahns and walk everywhere together--and yes, I will probably be speaking to him like a person the whole time). Pinto made friends with a Great Dane the other day, and it was about the best thing I'd ever seen.
D is for diet, which I'm still on, and which Pinto's been helping with in his own little way. We walk a couple miles daily, run up and down the stairs, go on adventures to the ocean--stuff that makes my legs sore. I hadn't been to a meeting in about a month what with having visitors and reconfiguring my life and trying to sort out just about everything, so I had no idea what my progress was. And then, holy shit! I've lost 24 pounds since February! Goddamn! I got a ways to go still, but shit! That's Pinto's weight! I lost a dog!
D is for deactivate, which I did with this blog, and which I did with Facebook. It's pretty sad to me that taking an internet hiatus was such a big personal step, but I think it was a smart move. I missed this, though. Didn't miss my incessant facebook stalking, but I think I've got it under control. And, as Karli pointed out, how will people show me funny Youtube videos without Facebook? Noodles on my back, anyone?
D is also for done, as in me and my first year of graduate school. Yikes. What the damn? How did that happen?
D is also for darlings, my friends both here and away. Karlicakes came to see me, and though it was accidentally the worst-timed visit ever (shitty weather, shitty situation), we had a hell of a time. We went on our own pub crawl because you can do that in Wilmington and ate some fine Thai food and went and walked on the beach and she sang at me and then we drank Cheerwine. It was awesome, and it's gonna happen again! Matthew also visited, and I don't think I've laughed that hard in months, maybe years. We subsisted singularly on oysters and beer and a beef jerky baton that he kept poking me in the eye with while I was driving so I threw it out the window. We had an extended discussion about where we ate some soup. We made a lot of goofy faces at one another, and we took Pinto to the beach, and overall we had a damn fine time. And everybody here's been really good to me, especially forgiving when I say I'd like to come over at 1 in the morning and drink some beer, fixing strawberry shortcake and arranging picnics at the lake, basically putting up with me in the midst of all this. It's nicer than I can say, knowing I'm not really alone. Lonely, maybe, but that's familiar, that's a state of mind and not a state of being. These are things I'm learning.
And, last but not least, D is for depressed. Surprise! No, not at all. I think it's been about a decade in the making, but yes, friends, fellows, farmers and freeloaders, I'm certifiably melancholy. This does not mean I'm different; it does not mean I'm in danger. All it means is what I've suspected for a long, long time--that I am expert at making myself unhappy, that I think in patterns that are unhealthy, and that, most importantly, I'm doing something about it. It's a lot like weight loss--I developed a lot of bad habits when it comes to food, and now I'm working to fix them. Likewise, I developed a lot of mentally bad habits, and now I'm acknowledging them and taking steps to fix them. I'm not out the woods yet, nor do I think I ever will be, but at least it's something I know and can speak about openly, instead of hiding it all away and beating myself up about it. But it's also not something I'm going to advertise, haha. That's another aspect of my odd psychology--I arbitrarily want to keep things secret for no reason. Like the fact that I wrote a book, which I did, but you won't hear it from me--and it's not modesty or humility so much as irrational paranoia. Anyway. So here it is on the internet for all to see and behold and make their own conclusions out of. High five!
Pinto is asleep on the floor and the sun is shining and my job starts tomorrow. There's the news from my spot in the world, which I'm slowly starting to appreciate more and more.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Saga of Pinto.
Will this blog be temporarily devoted to my new dog? Probably. I'm sure it'll lift, though, as soon as something more monumental than having a fussy, cuddly, insane little chow mutt living in my kitchen happens. See also: North Carolina springtime, which my bones tell me is imminent, or the gift of gainful employment descends, or one of my pieces gets accepted, or a hurricane hits or something.
As of thirty minutes from right now, Pinto will have been a part of our lives for one solid week.
And Jesus H, what a week.
When I decided I wanted a dog, really, I wanted a dog--I wanted Penny, my family dog in Tulsa, who loves nothing more than spending all morning on my lap while I am reading, who will expend what little energy she has left chasing the cat (needing no more than someone, usually my dad, going "BRRRAWWWWR" to make her run endless laps around the house), who dances for her dinner.
Pinto, however, is not Penny. He is also not a dog. He is a puppy.
More specifically, he is a little furry adorable hellbeast monster baby.
I think we have Pinto for all of two hours, spent mainly with him sleeping on our laps, when we decide to give him some alone time and he unleashes the scream. Really. It's a scream. It escalates from whimpers to a howl to this garbled yelp and finally, finally, there's the scream--it will make you jump. It will make you worry. It will make you paranoid that someone in the apartment complex will hear, and suspect, and call the cops because clearly a small child is being brutally tortured over in that couple's place, saying I never liked the looks of those two, anyway, he's so much taller than she is and they never seem to leave their house--I think they might be drug dealers or terrorists or graduate students or something dangerous like that.
At first, we laugh at the scream, because it is such a disproportionately hideous and enormous noise emitting from something so small and sweet-looking. We have brushed up on all the Dog Whisperer tactics, but still, we go to consult The Book of Cesar, and he tells us: Your puppy will whine. You must ignore it.
So we do. Or at least, we try to.
But it's three days later and we are low on sleep and energy and Pinto's adorableness is wearing off, or at least becoming familiar, and suddenly the scream starts up while we're not with him and keeps going and keeps going and keeps going and we both lose it and isolate ourselves and pretty much have ourselves a go-to-pieces.
I should add, though, that Pinto's healthy, and everyone I've consulted--Cesar Milan, Dog Godmother Katherine Owner of Hank, my parents, Rob's parents, every idiotic forum on the entirety of the internet--has agreed that puppy yowling is merely the dog's way of expressing simple fear and loneliness. And I hate to say it, but Pinto, buddy, we all get scared. We all get lonely. I know you're just a puppy, but I'm 23 and I feel like making that noise sometimes (instead I go to bars--if there were such a thing as a puppy bar, lord knows we'd take you).
Point being, I showed up to school with bags under my eyes and a whole host of puppy scratches lining my arms like self-mutilations, and everyone's asking, "How's Pinto? How's the puppy?" and I honestly can't hear them because the echoes of his little puppy hollers are still ringing in my ears.
But then!
The next day, we'd decided to ignore Pinto's morning yelps. These, to me, are excusable yelps--he's been in his crate all night, he probably needs to pee pretty badly--so we've been answering them, taking him outside at 6 in the morning, then spending a very bleary hour entertaining him in the kitchen so he will hopefully zonk out and allow us to get another hour of shut-eye. This hadn't been working too well, making both of us zombies, making Pinto feel neglected--so we'd decided, maybe he can hold it til 8. Then we can all be functioning human beings, or dogs, depending on who's who.
And what do you know, the little fucker did it. Rob goes downstairs when all is quiet, both of us resolutely cramming the pillows over our heads when he had his 4 a.m. round of whining, his 6 a.m. follow-up (the yelping only lasts 20 minutes at most, but still), and there is tiny sleepy Pinto, no accident, no aggression, ready to go.
Yes, it's been tough. Yes, my mother thinks we should rename her "grandpuppy" (don't get me started) Marley, in honor of that idiotic little book that was made into a shitty rom-com. Yes, I'm apprehensive, and yes, I don't sleep well at nights, not because I'm not exhausted, but because I'm terrified he's going to contract Parvo or choke on his bone or just be miserable, and that I'm not doing a very good job, and I'm pretty lousy at this, and well, hell, this has all just gone wrong, hasn't it.
But I remember that Pinto could still be in that field where he was found, shivering in the rain, or in the groddy foster house where we picked him up, or he could be starving or sick or homeless or dead. So being raised by two fairly incompetent twenty-somethings with short tempers but infinite affection to dish out might be bad, but it could be a lot worse. As Rob says, "I have to keep reminding myself--puppies don't hold grudges. Puppies don't hold grudges."
And it's been great for me, too--the past week I think has been the first where I haven't spent 80% of it feeling sorry for myself, or feeling itchy and discontent, or feeling generally out-of-sorts. I did have a spell the Day of the Perpetual Scream, but it passed pretty quick. Moreover, I've been more productive this week than I have all semester, because my time's suddenly become worthwhile--when Pinto's napping, fuck! It's time to do something! Quick, before he stirs! To the keyboard! To the drafts! To work!
So it's been up and down in turns, but puppy-having is finally settling into some form of constancy--he only fusses when we leave the room sometimes, not all the time. He sleeps the night through and will happily bed down in his crate. He still chews the shit out of my pants legs, but he hasn't attacked my arms in days. It's going to be a long, long journey, I know, but I have foretelling dreams starring me and a big yellow dog, where we are driving across the Midwest on an adventure, and we are throwing amazing Frisbees, and then Pinto talks to me and I realize I'm sleeping. I'm hopeful, to say the least, but damn, wow, this has been an experience.
And truthfully? After puppy-rearing--puppies who bite you, and destroy things, and who are an entirely different species and whose faces bear no expression whatsoever (he's a chow-mix, aka the most inscrutable dog in the universe), I'm pretty sure baby-having is going to be a cinch.
As of thirty minutes from right now, Pinto will have been a part of our lives for one solid week.
And Jesus H, what a week.
When I decided I wanted a dog, really, I wanted a dog--I wanted Penny, my family dog in Tulsa, who loves nothing more than spending all morning on my lap while I am reading, who will expend what little energy she has left chasing the cat (needing no more than someone, usually my dad, going "BRRRAWWWWR" to make her run endless laps around the house), who dances for her dinner.
Pinto, however, is not Penny. He is also not a dog. He is a puppy.
More specifically, he is a little furry adorable hellbeast monster baby.
I think we have Pinto for all of two hours, spent mainly with him sleeping on our laps, when we decide to give him some alone time and he unleashes the scream. Really. It's a scream. It escalates from whimpers to a howl to this garbled yelp and finally, finally, there's the scream--it will make you jump. It will make you worry. It will make you paranoid that someone in the apartment complex will hear, and suspect, and call the cops because clearly a small child is being brutally tortured over in that couple's place, saying I never liked the looks of those two, anyway, he's so much taller than she is and they never seem to leave their house--I think they might be drug dealers or terrorists or graduate students or something dangerous like that.
At first, we laugh at the scream, because it is such a disproportionately hideous and enormous noise emitting from something so small and sweet-looking. We have brushed up on all the Dog Whisperer tactics, but still, we go to consult The Book of Cesar, and he tells us: Your puppy will whine. You must ignore it.
So we do. Or at least, we try to.
But it's three days later and we are low on sleep and energy and Pinto's adorableness is wearing off, or at least becoming familiar, and suddenly the scream starts up while we're not with him and keeps going and keeps going and keeps going and we both lose it and isolate ourselves and pretty much have ourselves a go-to-pieces.
I should add, though, that Pinto's healthy, and everyone I've consulted--Cesar Milan, Dog Godmother Katherine Owner of Hank, my parents, Rob's parents, every idiotic forum on the entirety of the internet--has agreed that puppy yowling is merely the dog's way of expressing simple fear and loneliness. And I hate to say it, but Pinto, buddy, we all get scared. We all get lonely. I know you're just a puppy, but I'm 23 and I feel like making that noise sometimes (instead I go to bars--if there were such a thing as a puppy bar, lord knows we'd take you).
Point being, I showed up to school with bags under my eyes and a whole host of puppy scratches lining my arms like self-mutilations, and everyone's asking, "How's Pinto? How's the puppy?" and I honestly can't hear them because the echoes of his little puppy hollers are still ringing in my ears.
But then!
The next day, we'd decided to ignore Pinto's morning yelps. These, to me, are excusable yelps--he's been in his crate all night, he probably needs to pee pretty badly--so we've been answering them, taking him outside at 6 in the morning, then spending a very bleary hour entertaining him in the kitchen so he will hopefully zonk out and allow us to get another hour of shut-eye. This hadn't been working too well, making both of us zombies, making Pinto feel neglected--so we'd decided, maybe he can hold it til 8. Then we can all be functioning human beings, or dogs, depending on who's who.
And what do you know, the little fucker did it. Rob goes downstairs when all is quiet, both of us resolutely cramming the pillows over our heads when he had his 4 a.m. round of whining, his 6 a.m. follow-up (the yelping only lasts 20 minutes at most, but still), and there is tiny sleepy Pinto, no accident, no aggression, ready to go.
Yes, it's been tough. Yes, my mother thinks we should rename her "grandpuppy" (don't get me started) Marley, in honor of that idiotic little book that was made into a shitty rom-com. Yes, I'm apprehensive, and yes, I don't sleep well at nights, not because I'm not exhausted, but because I'm terrified he's going to contract Parvo or choke on his bone or just be miserable, and that I'm not doing a very good job, and I'm pretty lousy at this, and well, hell, this has all just gone wrong, hasn't it.
But I remember that Pinto could still be in that field where he was found, shivering in the rain, or in the groddy foster house where we picked him up, or he could be starving or sick or homeless or dead. So being raised by two fairly incompetent twenty-somethings with short tempers but infinite affection to dish out might be bad, but it could be a lot worse. As Rob says, "I have to keep reminding myself--puppies don't hold grudges. Puppies don't hold grudges."
And it's been great for me, too--the past week I think has been the first where I haven't spent 80% of it feeling sorry for myself, or feeling itchy and discontent, or feeling generally out-of-sorts. I did have a spell the Day of the Perpetual Scream, but it passed pretty quick. Moreover, I've been more productive this week than I have all semester, because my time's suddenly become worthwhile--when Pinto's napping, fuck! It's time to do something! Quick, before he stirs! To the keyboard! To the drafts! To work!
So it's been up and down in turns, but puppy-having is finally settling into some form of constancy--he only fusses when we leave the room sometimes, not all the time. He sleeps the night through and will happily bed down in his crate. He still chews the shit out of my pants legs, but he hasn't attacked my arms in days. It's going to be a long, long journey, I know, but I have foretelling dreams starring me and a big yellow dog, where we are driving across the Midwest on an adventure, and we are throwing amazing Frisbees, and then Pinto talks to me and I realize I'm sleeping. I'm hopeful, to say the least, but damn, wow, this has been an experience.
And truthfully? After puppy-rearing--puppies who bite you, and destroy things, and who are an entirely different species and whose faces bear no expression whatsoever (he's a chow-mix, aka the most inscrutable dog in the universe), I'm pretty sure baby-having is going to be a cinch.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Saga of I Love Puppies.
Here are a few things you should know to fully understand the contents of the following post:
1. I love dogs. And when I say "I love dogs" I don't mean I am a fan of dogs, I enjoy dogs, or I admire them from a distance. I mean I love dogs. If a dog is in the room--as has happened at a few parties here, the culprit primarily an overweight boxer in a scarf named Hank--I have trouble interacting with other people because I only want to hang out with the dog. If I see a dog pass by while brunching downtown on seafood omelets and fresh orange juice at a sidewalk cafe (that's right you wished you lived here admit it), I will stop eating and interrupt whatever Rob is saying to announce, "TINY DOG TINY DOG TINY DOG" or, as the case may be, "BEAR DOG BEAR DOG." Annie can vouch for this because that's pretty much all we did while in Vienna--that, and eat perplexing breakfasts. Vienna, by the way, is full of dogs. It might even be governed by dogs. The cruelty of it all is how you are not allowed to pet any of them because they are so austere. Like the rest of Vienna. Oh, those swanky, swanky Viennese and their breakfasts.
2. The month of February was, hands down, shit. Just shit. Plain, awful, sloppy shit. I tried to post about it probably a dozen times, but no amount of wisecracking could mask the truth of this fucking terrible month, and seeing the ugly facts of it gussied up by my meandering clauses only doubled the stress and depression--what you could call strepression (depressss?). Yes, my birthday was fabulous. Yes, I'm still doing that Coterie of Hungry Overweight Women (henceforth known as C.H.O.W.) business and it is equally uplifting (slow but steady progress aiming always for boots!) and intensely terrible (I can no longer indulge in my one true love of buffalo sauce).
Moreover, though, Rob lost his job, which he discusses at length in his own blizzog. There are details, but you won't find them here--all you need to know is it felt like a tornado had come through and tossed what we'd made of our life into some trees, inaccessible by any ladder. It was August all over again and not in a good way--the whole what are we doing here, how do I manage the guilt I feel for bringing you here, what should we do, what the hell are we going to do rigmarole in rerun. Fun fact: this kind of stress will eat an ulcer into any relationship, and it definitely did ours--a few new bruises, a few old sores reprodded. If you consider a relationship an apple, sometimes I think ours would be better off mashed into sauce. Which is not that brutal of a thing to say, considering applesauce is delicious and loved by Polish people as a condiment to pierogies as well as babies everywhere.
But this is cryptic Xanga-esque shit! We will leave it at this: February was bad, bad, bad. But there were some good points--I finished a story, won a little contest, we went to our first grown-up dinner party and ate venison for the first time, Rob got started writing again, I took a lot of baths and drank a lot of chai, we both watched inordinate amounts of The Twilight Zone and cooked some snappy dinners on the Goddamn Good George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine (the GGGFLMFRGM as my father calls it).
So that's the disclaimer. Now, this:
One Sunday, Rob and I decide that nothing will cure our respective liquor-hangovers (margarita for me, bourbon for him) like some fancy downtown brunch. This was, as a matter of fact, last Sunday. Less than a week ago--that's how rapid and exciting the following story is.
We have our paninis and omelets and soups and water, water, water, and then we go strolling because yet again it was 60 and sunny and charming and there's a river and benches and a big stone courthouse and some fat little palm trees and you get it, it's lovely.
Dogs are a staple of the downtown area. Frequently I'd try to go to the outdoor Saturday market in the warmer months not for some overpriced tomatoes, but because I was pretty sure I'd get to pet a dog, or at least ogle one and chant in my head tiny dog tiny dog tiny dog.
Well. As we are ambling along the riverside, what is there before us but a gaggle of children and two tiny adorable puppies. And us, being us (because Rob is also a dog lover though I think he has his infatuation a little more under control), stood there weirdly, watching these children heft these puppies around like living teddy bears, until this lady--presumably the owner of both the flock of children and the two puppies in question--snags both and walks over and says "I see you looking" and hands them to us.
And this is how my brain goes: JOY! RAPTURE! DELIGHT! OH MY GOD I LOVE PUPPIES SO MUCH
One of these puppies looks like an Ewok. Really. All fluff and nothing else. But the other puppy is shorter-haired and camel-colored and falling fast asleep against me and I think "Oh goddammit I'm in love." Too soon, one of the forty-six assembled children tugs on my hem and asks for the puppy back, and I let it go, knowing, as we've been saying to this lady the whole time we're holding these dogs, oh, we can't get a puppy, we have no money, we have no room, etc. etc. But at the same time I'm thinking this is about the most content I've felt in weeks, maybe months, maybe years, holding this little sleeping mutt, who was found under a piece of cardboard, alone with his siblings, in some terrible frigid field. That being said, he is outrageously mellow and happy to nap on a practical stranger.
I only forget about the puppy that day because we spend the entire afternoon driving around North Carolina--first we find the ocean, then we find a lake, and in between we find a lot of little highways. We have dinner, we watch a movie, we remark on what a wondrous day we've had, and then we fall asleep.
Monday I do something stupid. I have gone on a long walk and realized I want nothing more than to walk a dog, and that that dog will be named Pinto, and that if I word it right, I could put up a craigslist ad hunting for that same little yellow puppy I held yesterday, and he could be ours, and everything would be good in the world again.
Long story short: That's exactly what happened.
The ad is half missed-connection, half-imploring request, and I think it's foolish and impossible and I should probably take it down before someone attacks me with one of those "SAVE THESE SHELTER DOGS GIVE THEM LIFE YOU ALONE CAN BE THEIR CHANCE AT EXISTENCE" posts when through the wires of the internet, lo! A response. The puppies are being fostered by a local humane society, but yes, call this number, fill out this application, we'll see you on Thursday.
All week I fret. I fret that Pinto will not be as cute as I remember. I fret that he will be an enormous, unruly beast and he will eat the couch whole. I fret that he will chew a hole through our patio fence and choke on splinters and catch puppy cancer and die. I fret that he won't be happy, and that I'm making a huge mistake. A huge mistake, or maybe the best choice I've ever made.
See? That's how I feel about everything.
Then it's Thursday, and we're at the foster house, and the Ewok still looks like an Ewok, and there's our Pinto, and holy fuck how can anything be that cute and real at the same time, and he rides in my lap all the way home, and we walk him around on his little blue leash, and I just realized the level of love and detail in this post might be overtly weird to some of you reading this because I'm getting a little self-conscious but then, really, all you need to know is we now have Pinto and he's amazing.
So March is going to kick major ass for several reasons.
1) March is a verb and march is exactly what I'm going to do--to the future! To progress! To success and contentment! plus 2) KARLI RIGGS IS COMING TO VISIT ME!!!! and 3) I'm spending my entire spring break with my boyfriend and my bike and my dog. Because I have a dog now. And his name is Pinto and he's amazing. And if you are in Wilmington and this post has made you puppy-envious, Pinto's littermates are up for adoption on craigslist right now (all fostered by the Columbus Humane Society, the headings all list them as 7 week puppies).
Can a dog save your life?! Can this dog save mine?!
Yes, yes, yes, oh my god, yes.
1. I love dogs. And when I say "I love dogs" I don't mean I am a fan of dogs, I enjoy dogs, or I admire them from a distance. I mean I love dogs. If a dog is in the room--as has happened at a few parties here, the culprit primarily an overweight boxer in a scarf named Hank--I have trouble interacting with other people because I only want to hang out with the dog. If I see a dog pass by while brunching downtown on seafood omelets and fresh orange juice at a sidewalk cafe (that's right you wished you lived here admit it), I will stop eating and interrupt whatever Rob is saying to announce, "TINY DOG TINY DOG TINY DOG" or, as the case may be, "BEAR DOG BEAR DOG." Annie can vouch for this because that's pretty much all we did while in Vienna--that, and eat perplexing breakfasts. Vienna, by the way, is full of dogs. It might even be governed by dogs. The cruelty of it all is how you are not allowed to pet any of them because they are so austere. Like the rest of Vienna. Oh, those swanky, swanky Viennese and their breakfasts.
2. The month of February was, hands down, shit. Just shit. Plain, awful, sloppy shit. I tried to post about it probably a dozen times, but no amount of wisecracking could mask the truth of this fucking terrible month, and seeing the ugly facts of it gussied up by my meandering clauses only doubled the stress and depression--what you could call strepression (depressss?). Yes, my birthday was fabulous. Yes, I'm still doing that Coterie of Hungry Overweight Women (henceforth known as C.H.O.W.) business and it is equally uplifting (slow but steady progress aiming always for boots!) and intensely terrible (I can no longer indulge in my one true love of buffalo sauce).
Moreover, though, Rob lost his job, which he discusses at length in his own blizzog. There are details, but you won't find them here--all you need to know is it felt like a tornado had come through and tossed what we'd made of our life into some trees, inaccessible by any ladder. It was August all over again and not in a good way--the whole what are we doing here, how do I manage the guilt I feel for bringing you here, what should we do, what the hell are we going to do rigmarole in rerun. Fun fact: this kind of stress will eat an ulcer into any relationship, and it definitely did ours--a few new bruises, a few old sores reprodded. If you consider a relationship an apple, sometimes I think ours would be better off mashed into sauce. Which is not that brutal of a thing to say, considering applesauce is delicious and loved by Polish people as a condiment to pierogies as well as babies everywhere.
But this is cryptic Xanga-esque shit! We will leave it at this: February was bad, bad, bad. But there were some good points--I finished a story, won a little contest, we went to our first grown-up dinner party and ate venison for the first time, Rob got started writing again, I took a lot of baths and drank a lot of chai, we both watched inordinate amounts of The Twilight Zone and cooked some snappy dinners on the Goddamn Good George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine (the GGGFLMFRGM as my father calls it).
So that's the disclaimer. Now, this:
One Sunday, Rob and I decide that nothing will cure our respective liquor-hangovers (margarita for me, bourbon for him) like some fancy downtown brunch. This was, as a matter of fact, last Sunday. Less than a week ago--that's how rapid and exciting the following story is.
We have our paninis and omelets and soups and water, water, water, and then we go strolling because yet again it was 60 and sunny and charming and there's a river and benches and a big stone courthouse and some fat little palm trees and you get it, it's lovely.
Dogs are a staple of the downtown area. Frequently I'd try to go to the outdoor Saturday market in the warmer months not for some overpriced tomatoes, but because I was pretty sure I'd get to pet a dog, or at least ogle one and chant in my head tiny dog tiny dog tiny dog.
Well. As we are ambling along the riverside, what is there before us but a gaggle of children and two tiny adorable puppies. And us, being us (because Rob is also a dog lover though I think he has his infatuation a little more under control), stood there weirdly, watching these children heft these puppies around like living teddy bears, until this lady--presumably the owner of both the flock of children and the two puppies in question--snags both and walks over and says "I see you looking" and hands them to us.
And this is how my brain goes: JOY! RAPTURE! DELIGHT! OH MY GOD I LOVE PUPPIES SO MUCH
One of these puppies looks like an Ewok. Really. All fluff and nothing else. But the other puppy is shorter-haired and camel-colored and falling fast asleep against me and I think "Oh goddammit I'm in love." Too soon, one of the forty-six assembled children tugs on my hem and asks for the puppy back, and I let it go, knowing, as we've been saying to this lady the whole time we're holding these dogs, oh, we can't get a puppy, we have no money, we have no room, etc. etc. But at the same time I'm thinking this is about the most content I've felt in weeks, maybe months, maybe years, holding this little sleeping mutt, who was found under a piece of cardboard, alone with his siblings, in some terrible frigid field. That being said, he is outrageously mellow and happy to nap on a practical stranger.
I only forget about the puppy that day because we spend the entire afternoon driving around North Carolina--first we find the ocean, then we find a lake, and in between we find a lot of little highways. We have dinner, we watch a movie, we remark on what a wondrous day we've had, and then we fall asleep.
Monday I do something stupid. I have gone on a long walk and realized I want nothing more than to walk a dog, and that that dog will be named Pinto, and that if I word it right, I could put up a craigslist ad hunting for that same little yellow puppy I held yesterday, and he could be ours, and everything would be good in the world again.
Long story short: That's exactly what happened.
The ad is half missed-connection, half-imploring request, and I think it's foolish and impossible and I should probably take it down before someone attacks me with one of those "SAVE THESE SHELTER DOGS GIVE THEM LIFE YOU ALONE CAN BE THEIR CHANCE AT EXISTENCE" posts when through the wires of the internet, lo! A response. The puppies are being fostered by a local humane society, but yes, call this number, fill out this application, we'll see you on Thursday.
All week I fret. I fret that Pinto will not be as cute as I remember. I fret that he will be an enormous, unruly beast and he will eat the couch whole. I fret that he will chew a hole through our patio fence and choke on splinters and catch puppy cancer and die. I fret that he won't be happy, and that I'm making a huge mistake. A huge mistake, or maybe the best choice I've ever made.
See? That's how I feel about everything.
Then it's Thursday, and we're at the foster house, and the Ewok still looks like an Ewok, and there's our Pinto, and holy fuck how can anything be that cute and real at the same time, and he rides in my lap all the way home, and we walk him around on his little blue leash, and I just realized the level of love and detail in this post might be overtly weird to some of you reading this because I'm getting a little self-conscious but then, really, all you need to know is we now have Pinto and he's amazing.
So March is going to kick major ass for several reasons.
1) March is a verb and march is exactly what I'm going to do--to the future! To progress! To success and contentment! plus 2) KARLI RIGGS IS COMING TO VISIT ME!!!! and 3) I'm spending my entire spring break with my boyfriend and my bike and my dog. Because I have a dog now. And his name is Pinto and he's amazing. And if you are in Wilmington and this post has made you puppy-envious, Pinto's littermates are up for adoption on craigslist right now (all fostered by the Columbus Humane Society, the headings all list them as 7 week puppies).
Can a dog save your life?! Can this dog save mine?!
Yes, yes, yes, oh my god, yes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)