An Ode to Guy Clark

guyclark

Oh Guy Clark.

You wordsmith.

You craftsman.

You Texan.

A few years ago I went to a show at the Country Music Hall of Fame. They have an “artist in residence” series in the Ford Theater there. The place seats like 200 people and these amazing people play there once a week for a month….it’s one of the ways that Nashville IS Music City. One of the first people to be the “artist in residence” was Guy Clark.

I hate to admit it, but for most of my life I’ve taken Guy Clark for granted. His music has been a constant for me, and I didn’t even know it. So many hours on road trips listening to Jerry Jeff Walker cassettes with my dad and I didn’t even know how those words were permeating my being, let alone who wrote so many of them. I knew I liked any song that talked about vanilla wafers, but didn’t know of my fondness for the man who wrote them.

Upon getting immersed into the world of “Alt-country” or “Americana” or whatever you want to call it, Guy Clark is like one of the apostles.  While standing in the Georgia Theater in Athens GA selling CDs for a band I loved, “Desperadoes Waiting for a Train” came on and I just started singing it. I don’t recall hearing the song before, but I knew it and it knew me. The headliner of the show that night was from Texas and he happened to walk by while I was singing. He nodded at me and said “Ain’t nothing better then Guy Clark!” I nodded in agreement and made a mental note to find some more Guy Clark music ASAP.

A couple years after that fateful night I was in the Ford Theater. I have only fleeting memories of that evening because it was all simply TOO GOOD to take in. I know that Rodney Crowell performed (always a good thing) and that Guy called Vince Gill out of the crowd to join him onstage (also a good thing!). But the clearest memory I have is the feeling in my stomach when I heard him sing the opening lines to “Dublin Blues.”

I wish I was in Austin
In the Chili Parlour Bar
Drinkin’ Mad Dog Margaritas
And not carin’ where you are

My stomach dropped, in that horrible yet wonderful way it does when you are on a roller coaster.  Those 21 words encapsulated my general feelings that day more then any I could have come up with myself.  I looked at this man who is 15 days older then my father and fell madly in love. I’d heard the song countless times, but that night, sitting in that room, it was all different.

I have since seen Guy play a few different times and a few different places. I love to hear his stories about his home here in Nashville during the ’70s, which sounds like my dream scenario of a “Home for Wayward Musicians.” I love hearing the way he talks about his wife Susanna.  I long to own one of his handmade guitars because I am sure that it is built in such a way that even I could make beautiful music with it.

The life that Guy Clark writes about isn’t always easy and isn’t always fun, but it’s always good and it’s always the way it should be, whether we like it or not. His song “The Cape” in my opinion, distills his general theories on life in the following words:

He’s one of those who knows that life
Is just a leap of faith
Spread your arms and hold you breath
Always trust your cape

1guyclark

Abandonment Issues

I’m sure that this here blog is thinking I don’t love it anymore. That it’s no longer the cute, fluffy blog it was when I first got it and the new has worn off.

However, I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth.  I have written dozens of little notes of ideas about what to write. Things that make me happy. Things that stress me out. Random thoughts. Dozens I tell you. But I can’t seem to make it all come together.

Do I write about how I have self diagnosed Social Anxiety Disorder? I mean, sure, I tend to turn down or flake out on more plans then average. Sure, I’m paranoid that no one likes me, but even more freaked out if it seems like they do like me. But really, who wants to get inside that messed up of a mind?

Do I write about my job? My job that I truly love and cherish, particularly in these trying times? Who wants to hear about a business that is well run, that has a contingency plan, that is turning down business that isn’t “worth it’s time?” That kind of talk gets no attention these days. It’s almost a fairytale.

Do I write about my new car? I love it. It’s a 2007 Nissan Versa  hatchback. I’ve named it Earl. (it’s grey, get it, Earl Grey?!?!)  It reminds me of a baby elephant. It has all sorts of fun bells and whistles, including a sunroof. Sunroofs are cool.

How about boys? Let’s see what I have to say about them these days. Love them. The fuzzier the better. Silly? Sign me up. Possibility of stunted maturity…WOO HOO! Completely uninterested in me….YES! So, basically same ‘ol same ‘ol in the world of boys.

Politics? Always a good subject. Obama’s in. Life is good. I’m proud of our president and have to punch myself every once in awhile when I hear “President Obama.”

Fear? My fears are random and somewhat debilitating. I fear I will never find true love. I fear that I am too OK with being alone. I fear that my parents will die suddenly and I won’t know how to go on. I fear that my hair never looks good. I fear being depressed, again. I fear that my outfits are too “matchy-matchy.” I fear I will never be a parent. I fear that if I were to become a parent, I wouldn’t be a good one. I fear that my cats feel neglected. I fear that I love my dog WAY too much.

My dog…that’s a good one. I love him. Possibly too much (see above) but he is a companion to me in ways I have never known. He got to go to California with me at Christmas and was a camp on the plane. We took him to the beach and that little furry face smelling all the wondrous smells of the ocean was one of the most joyous things I have ever witnessed.

Wii fit? Love it. Haven’t been on it for a week (thanks virus!) but it makes me actually enjoy exercising. I can actually tell that I’m becoming more flexible, etc…..Bravo Nintendo!

I could probably go on and on. Typing lots, saying little. Basically I just want my blog to know that I still love it. Hopefully, one day soon, I can sit down and write a thorough, possibly interesting and informative post.  But not today dear blog, mommy’s got a headache.

Whitewashed Memories

The human mind is a funny thing. It files things away in a seemingly random way and brings memories up out of nowhere. It also seems to have a great editing feature as it will often change the memories to only show the good (or sometimes bad) in a person or situation.

This past weekend, the “good” edits have been in full force for my subconscious and particularly in my dreams. For four nights in a row I have had the strangest dreams about a former “flame.” The dreams have been more memories then the fantasy situations that normally entertain my sleeping mind. However, these memories have been edited, some quite drastically, to only recall the good. They have been so well edited that I have been anxious to go to sleep in hopes the dreams would be there waiting. I’ve been fighting waking up because I knew, once I did, the dreams, like the person they were about, would be gone.

We first met in the spring of 2007. At a Marine base. The day after he got out of the brig. Dubious timing is a forte of mine. A friend had been dating a Marine for awhile and she thought it would be great if we all dated Marines. I reluctantly agreed to go with her, and one of our other friends, to Camp Pendleton for the evening. I didn’t dress up. I didn’t “do” my hair. I just went because I had nothing better to do.

If you’ve never been on a military base, as was the case with me at the time (for the record, I had dated military before, but they were on ships) it is a foreign place. I used to joke that there was a different climate at Camp Pendleton because of all the testosterone, but seriously, it’s different there. It is strange because all of the places are familiar (buildings, fast food places, etc) but when all combined and placed on this area that is dominated by males, it makes for an odd mix. Once we cleared the gates, I was sure there was nothing there for me.

It is a well known fact that I am bad at noticing people flirting with me and that I tend to “try” to flirt with people who have no interest in me. This used to bug me. I’ve learned to deal with it. My first (and only) night at the ‘E Club’ (enlisted men’s club) was no different. I don’t remember any details about the boy who had my attention that night, but I do recall that I didn’t have his attention. I’m pretty sure, in my mind, that confirmed my suspicions that there was no one there I would have anything in common with. I had been ignoring the boy, all dark eyed and charming, who was buying me drinks and asking me questions all evening. It wasn’t until we went back to my friend’s boyfriend’s barracks and this fella joined us that I even acknowledged his existence. My other friend had met someone and had disappeared, promising to pick us up in the morning (as she was our ride) so it was just the four of us, hanging out, being silly, doing nothing.

It soon went from a foursome to two duos as he and I were no longer aware of anyone else in the small, sparse room. He asked if I wanted to go for a drive. I did. We drove and drove and talked and talked. We went back to his room and talked some more. He’d lived an interesting life. He explained why he had gone to the brig. He talked about what he wanted to do in the future. We finally had talked so much that we couldn’t talk anymore and well, we made out. I remember details about that night like they were yesterday. 

He asked for my number, promised to call. I gave it to him and didn’t have any expectations of him calling. He called later that day. He explained that he was on this ridiculous 24 hours on 24 hours off schedule. He wanted to see me as soon as possible, but didn’t know when he would be able to make the 82 mile trip North to take me out. I told him I’d figure something out. I did.

So it began, 6 months of requesting work schedules around his days off.  Driving up and down the 405 countless times. Late night calls from him to help him make it through those last few hours of his 24 hour shift. Getting up at 5 am to get to base by 7 am when he would be getting off work. Waking up in his room at 6 am so he could get back to work and so that I could get out of there before the Commanding Officer caught me. (He did catch me once, we had a nice talk. He like Michael a lot and thought he just wasn’t made for the Marines. He said I wasn’t like the normal “barracks bunny” and said he’d turn a blind eye to my presence, as long as I kept a low profile) It was, in many ways, an exciting time. 

These are the memories that are popping up in my dreams. The look on his face when I would walk up the long sidewalk to the barracks. The serenade he coordinated for me one day, with 10 Marines singing “Pretty Woman” to me from the catwalk. The picnics we would take on the beach. Picking strawberries. The way his skin tasted like cantaloupe. The way his big dark eyes could see right into my heart. The way that his touch sent shivers through every cell of my body. The physical attraction that we had that almost scared me, it was so strong. Talking about our dreams and our future and feeling that those dreams and futures would be achievable as long as we were in each other’s lives. We talked about me going home with him to Louisiana once his discharge was final. He talked about me to his mom. He met my mom. He would switch days so he could have 2 days off in a row and come up and see me. We played house at my Dad’s place when he was out of town. He cooked me gumbo.

What doesn’t seem to pop up in my dreams is his random tantrums. Never would these be directed at me, but his fiery temper was terrifying to witness. He once found out that a friend of his had hung out with me alone in his room and beat the crap out of the guy, in front of me. He found out that his discharge was going to take a lot longer then he had been told and he punched a hole in the wall. He would disappear for a few days here and there and no one really knew where he went. Since he didn’t have much interaction with others in his job, the only thing that anyone could ever confirm was that he had gone to work, which meant he was alive, but no one knew where he was other then that. His roommate would call me asking where he was. I would call his roommate asking where he was. No one knew. He wouldn’t talk about where he had been, but he was always slightly different when he re-appeared. As time progressed he went from accusing me of smothering him to accusing me of not caring enough about him. His drinking increased. The good times became fewer and farther between, but when times were good, they were SO good. These, apparently, are the memories that I am really holding on to. In a lot of ways, I find no reason to remember the bad. I remember the things I learned from those bad times, but I think it would be fine to forget the details.

Michael and I saw each other from time to time after I moved to Nashville. He was on the road a lot and when he came through town we would see each other. We rarely spoke of the past. We never talked of a future. It was all about the present when we were together because we, or at least me, understood that the present was the only guarantee there was for the two of us.

A couple of years ago he showed up at my place unannounced, as he normally would. He was going to be in town for a month or so for some training. We saw each other pretty regularly. We never went out. I never introduced him to my friends. I never even told them he was here. An opportunity for him to move to Nashville had arisen. The discussion about that was not a pleasant one. The actions that followed that talk made me fully aware that I no longer wanted him in my life, for any reason, for any time.

So here I am, two years since I have laid eyes on him. I have moved and he doesn’t know where I live now. I got rid of my land line so he has no way to call me. Yet, I have these dreams. These wondrous dreams. Dreams filled with good times, and sweet gestures and a certainty about the world. I guess I’ll keep the dreams and these whitewashed memories. There’s enough negative things in the world that I don’t need to hold on to more that has no effect on my current life. So, Michael Andrew Gonzales, wherever you may be, we’re cool. I don’t want to ever see you in my awake life, but if the visits to my sleeping life stay the way they have been, you’re welcome any time.

Better Living Through Chemistry

So, I’ve been on anti-depressants for about a year and a half now. Seriously! I know it’s shocking for as well adjusted person as I to be taking such measures to be able to function, but it is true. The chemicals in my brain can simply not be trusted to regulate themselves and, this is truly shocking, vast amounts of vodka didn’t really help either. I like to think that this was a great decision on my part and that I am much better at life in general since bringing Celexa into my life. Hopefully those who knew me before and stuck around through some ugly times to see me after would agree.

My prescription ran out a few days ago. Well, let me clarify, the bottle I had ran out the same day my mom came in town for a visit and I got sidetracked and didn’t get a refill ASAP. This, I have come to understand, was a REALLY bad idea. I had been having relentless, exhausting dreams for the last few nights and this morning I woke up with that feeling that I had almost forgotten, that feeling that getting out of bed was going to be a big chore today. At first, I figured it had to do with my mom going home today. That always makes me sad and knowing that it would be over 6 months before I would see her again, definitely is rough. But this had a different feeling, a feeling that was more familiar then I wanted it to be.

I instantly called my prescription in, but the day started to get away from me and it was time to take my mom to the airport before I had a chance to get to Walgreens. As we were sitting at Cracker Barrel ordering food, my mind started racing and I couldn’t keep a thought in my head or form a complete sentence and it turned into a struggle to keep my shit together before dropping my mom off at the airport. She hates leaving under any circumstances, but if the flood of tears I felt pushing on my eyes broke through, there was no way I could have gotten her on the plane. I knew I just needed to get my pills and get home and chill.

If you have never had chemical imbalances or fun things like that, make sure to add that when you count your blessings. It SUCKS! You want to talk to people, but you know you would not make any sense. You want to be alone, but are scared to death to be lonely. It’s like your heart and you brain are duking it out and whichever one is messed up is winning. There is a part of me that is kinda glad this happened, I think I had gotten to comfortable. I needed a little reminder that life is a fragile thing and laziness is no excuse to not take of myself. Now, I’m going to go snuggle with my dog and watch random TV until my mind gets back in order…..

Single People Deserve to Die

A coworker of mine found out that their spouse (a salesperson) was scheduled to take a trip out of the country to an area that had been on the news lately because of outbursts of violence. Among the many reasons they came up with as to why this was a horrible idea (which I agree it was) was “It’s not like (they’re) a single person, they have a spouse.”

All of a sudden it became so clear. Since I have not married, my life is expendable. Phew, now I don’t feel nearly as bad for spending the weekend watching “Deadliest Catch” and eating dip. I probably will stop wearing my seat belt, start running with scissors and perhaps I should take up smoking or a nice heroin habit. Seeing as I am a 34 year old single person, it’s not like it would matter as much. I mean really, I’ve only got one ovary and fallopian tube left and at my ever advancing age, the likelihood of me procreating gets smaller every day.

Sure, I have pets, but they are just animals. I have family and such, but no one has chosen to be legally tied to me, therefore, I’m expendable.

I mean really people, how easy is it to be single?!?! I have one salary with which I pay for all my expenses. Luckily I have the opportunity to buy engagement, wedding, baby shower and other gifts for those people who have found someone who wants to have legal ties to them. It makes me understand that not only is my life not worth as much, but that all milestones in my life aren’t worth as much because Target doesn’t have a registry for “Single Girl’s New Place” or “Heather Needs a New Handbag” or “Dog and Cat Toys are Free.”  I don’t mean to imply that I begrudge my married and baby-making friends, but damn y’all, with a life as non-momentous as mine apparently has been, it hurts the ego.

I have the strength of one person to carry groceries up the stairs.  If a bug needs killing, it’s all me. If someone invites me to do something, pretty much no other person on the planet gives a shit if i do it or not. I mean, hell, I’m SUPER expendable since I don’t even have siblings. I’m like the SUPER SINGLE PERSON. I was born single, grew up single, hit mid-life (ish) single and at this point it’s looking like old age is going to be single for me too. It’s almost selfish of me to have a job. A job that could go to a married person with a family. But that’s how we single folks roll……

The single person really hardly even deserves a vacation, unless to go to a wedding, baby shower, funeral or other occassion. Once we hit our 30’s it gets hard to find a group of single folk (or open minded marrieds) who are apt to want to take the same vacation. Luckily for me, being an only child and all, I can take vacations with my parents….that isn’t pitiful at all!

I hate to sound like a whiner. I suppose I’m lucky that I haven’t been put in a home for spinsters by now. I’m fortunate that I’m allowed to walk the same streets and pay the same taxes as those who have legal ties to others. Maybe I’ll take the route of this lady at least I’d be married.

God Bless Reckless Kelly!

They’ve posted some preview tracks from their upcoming cd and I’ve been listening to them ALL DAY!

I can pretty safely say that they are my favorite band….and hopefully not sound like a teenager when I do so. To write tearful ballads, hard rocking songs and now a “topical” tune (American Blood) shows the extent of their talent. Seriously, just when I think they can get no better, they prove me wrong.

I look forward to a lifetime of them proving me wrong and cannot wait until June 24!!

If you want to be in the know go here. Just don’t tell the IT guy at my office I’ve been streaming all day 🙂

Single Girl’s Guide to Moving

I just moved into a new apartment. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, gated community, super close to my favorite grocery store. All good things. However, I still haven’t quite moved completely OUT of my old apartment. I have until midnight tonight to make that break-up final. To take all my stuff, including all my trash, and be done with the place. I suddenly feel like one of those girls who can’t get out of a relationship without being almost in another one.

Here’s the deal with my old place. I’d been there 7 years. For the most part everything was cool. But we were just moving in different places. I was moving to a place in my life that I didn’t want to be packed like a sardine into my home and it was moving into a place where black mold grows.

If you ever want to feel completely alone in the world, move by yourself. Make sure you’ve lived in your place for awhile, have animals who like to place things under furniture and have a tendency to keep stuff longer then you should. In order to get the full effect and complete alone experience, have lots of random things that can’t really be boxed up and make sure to live on at least the second floor and move to a new place that is also at least on the second floor. OOOO…having a small car helps too.

Once you get the keys to the new place, bring over fun things, like clothes and such. Carefully consider the order of the new closets and take lots of time to place things just so. Only put a little bit of stuff in your car at a time so you can drive back and forth as much as possible, while fooling yourself that you are accomplishing things. Go ahead, take a nap.

Make sure that whatever outfit you choose to move in makes you feel especially unattractive and then work up a good sweat. i also suggest being in dire need of a root touch up and a bang trim so you have more hair ornaments keeping things “in place” then a Eastern European gymnast.

Pack your boxes as heavy as possible. Once you’ve lost the packing tape for the fifteenth time, start putting heavy things in trash bags. Then sort of drag the trash bags a bit so they start to fall apart as you put them in the car. Make mental notes of the things you need at Target, and then quckly forget it. Make at LEAST 4 trips to Target and spend as much of your hard earned money as possible at each trip.

Once the movers come…..oh yes, you HAVE to hire movers,with no upper body strength and a 99 Saturn Coupe, there ain’t no way that big fluffy red chair will make it to the new place.  Once the movers come, make sure you remember that you have a bunch of stuff in two closets. Fool yourself into thinking that it’s not much stuff and will be like one trip. Start to realize that your attachment to things lessens when you start to think about taking it up the stairs at your new place and finding a new place to stash it for another 7 years. The movers will be super sweet….awww, poor girl ain’t gots no man to help her move….and will move your stuff faster then any group of friends could think of doing, and they don’t complain to your face.  During this portion of the move, you will feel good about things. Try to remember that feeling later when you are sitting in the shambles of your former home disgusted at the dust bunnies and unidentifiable stains that have been hidden by the furniture for lord knows how long. Recall it also when you wish your dog could be trusted to run down to Lowes and get a new vent for the dryer so you could at least finish drying the clothes that are in the dryer….sorry Wade the mover, glad you’re so strong!

Go grab some lunch on the way back to the old place. Make sure you’ve been eating fast food for the past few days so you can push your body physically while giving it the worst fuel possible. Sit on the floor of your old living room and hold back the tears at the amount of crap that is still left to deal with. Realize that there is no one to call to get help from. Curse yourself and your chronic procrastination. Go into the closet and wonder if there is really any reason to hold onto the prom dress your mom sewed for you or your grandparents china.

Take a few bags of trash down to the dumpster. Wish that instead of watching 5 hours of America’s Next Top Model, you had gone out Saturday night and found some nice, strong boy who would love to carry heavy things and take trash out in return for sexual favors. Must be clean, cute is optional. 

Make sure to have an appointment on your moving day for something completely unrelated, say taking your dog to the vet for shots. Once you have cleared whatever momentum you had going, make sure to add as many expenses to the trip as possible. Extra heartworm pills and flea treatment….bring it on. You’re already hemorrhaging money at this point, what’s a couple hundred more dollars.

Work yourself to supreme exhaustion. To where you are driving in the turn lane for a couple of miles before you notice. Don’t take pain pills until day 3….then curse yourself for not working out more (i.e. at all)

Figure out a way to postpone the final cleaning of your apartment and go to your new place. Bask in the glory of being alone. All alone. Alone in that big apartment with a big new bed that you will also sleep alone in (save your pets, who are apt to be pissing you off at this point because they are stressed and you find yourself actually saying to them “what the fuck do YOU have to be stressed about?!?”) Take a bath and shave your legs above the knee for no one.  Figure out how to hook up your DVD player and watch a couple of hours of Sex and the City. Make sure to watch the season where Carrie has no man and such. Season 5 I believe it is. It’s all about confusing messages from males and such….good times! Go to bed, exhausted and already anticipating the pain of the next day and trying to divise a way to just leave your old place as is without going broke with “cleaning charges.”  Snuggle up to your dog and convince yourself that even though he can’t carry anything, or help pack or clean and has out of nowhere shit on the floor of your new place, you really LOVE being single.

Where’s Kellie Pickler when you need her?

So, former American Idol contestant Kellie Pickler doesn’t know for sure if France is a country. Nor does she realize that Europe is NOT a country, but rather a continent. However, she is not in a partnership with Forbes magazine and posting articles about where all the wealth is stored.

Articles such as this one http://money.aol.com/forbes/general/where-the-worlds-wealth-is-stored.  Perhaps if I saw Ms. Pickler’s byline I would not be surprised at the fact that they have placed Fort Knox in Tennessee, NOT Kentucky, where it actually is.

That’s how we do in the South.  Shelbyville is NOT in Shelby County, Memphis is. Knoxville IS in Knox County, but Fort Knox is not. Try to keep up AOL. They did do one smart thing and not have a place for comments on this article.

First no high speed and now this……..

“If I know what love is, it is because of you.”….Herman Hesse

One year ago today, I was living my life. Loving my new job. Thrilled to be out of my old job and feeling as though I was back to being myself, perhaps an even better version of myself then I had been.

That was a Monday. The next day, Tuesday, I looked around the Craigslist pet listings as I was known to do to kill time. For some reason, that day, I decided that I wanted a dog. Well, I had wanted one for awhile, but that day I decided I was going to get one. I wanted a small dog. A purse dog. A dog that I could take with me pretty much wherever I wanted. I came across an add for a Pomeranian/Chihuahua mix. The ad said it was 6 months old, pretty much full grown and up to date on shots. The little picture was the cutest thing I had seen in a long time.

I responded to the ad immediately. Turns out the ad had only been up for like 5 minutes so I was the first call. I made plans to drive to Clarksville that night to “look at” the puppy. Sweet Nikki agreed to go with me and she, Brianna and I piled into the car and drove to Clarksville.

I had made plans to meet the woman in the parking lot of WalMart. After some interesting searching….do you know how many blue mini vans are in the Clarksville WalMart parking lot?…we found her. What I assume to be her daughter brought the puppy out and it was a done deal. I grabbed that little ball of fur, handed over the “adoption fee” gave her my email so she could send me the vet records and then and there, I was a dog mom.

He was so small and furry and snuggly. I couldn’t believe he was mine. We went to PetSmart to get all of his accessories. Here is the first picture I took of him:

The “Nature’s Miracle” package in the background was pure coincidence. We stocked up on his needs and got back in the car to drive home. The whole way home he snuggled up into my neck and eventually fell asleep. It was LOVE!!! Nikki and I tried to come up with names and quite frankly, I can’t remember any of the names we discussed. Out of nowhere, I remembered a dog that a friend of mine had drawn. We joked about making a whole cartoon about this dog and becoming famous. I even “wrote” a theme song. The dog’s name was Noodle. It was perfect. Cute, fun to say, spoke of my love of carbs and just worked.

I finally got home, introduced him to the cats and there I was, Noodle’s mom and my life was more complete then I could have imagined.

Our first week together was a dream. I couldn’t wait to get home to him. He peed on his pee pee pads. He chased the cats. He slept with me and made cute little puppy noises at night. It was ideal. Until I broke him. After exactly one week of being together, he ran out from under a chair and I stepped on his little leg. He made the most horrific noise and my heart broke right there. Eventually I found an emergency vet and off we were. I was bawling my eyes out and he was licking my hand. His concern was my happiness, not his injury.

The first thing I learned at the vet was not the state of his leg, but rather, the fact that the woman who had placed the ad for him was either delusional or a big fat liar. He was only MAYBE 3 months old, no where near full grown and had no sort of Pomeranian OR Chihuahua in him. Not that it mattered at that point, I was in for the long haul. After some x-rays and such, it was determined that he had a broken leg. They brought my little guy out with a big blue cast on. My heart broke all over again. But when he licked my face the second I took him in my arms, I knew it was going to be alright.

He used that cast any way he could. He ran around like a pirate dog with it knocking on the floor. It didn’t slow him down. He would bang it on the floor when I wasn’t paying attention to him. He used it on the cats as a weapon. He would make sure I remembered it was there whenever he was getting in trouble.

As a result of his injury he had a lot of vet trips. As a result of the vet trips, he got to come to the office a lot. He was an instant hit. If you ever start a new job and have trouble meeting folks, bring a little puppy with a broken leg and a great personality in and you will meet everyone. He was the agency mascot. We joked about putting him on the payroll as a “Vice President of Good Moods.” It was great.

About the time his cast came off, he was four months old, which is a good time to determine what size he would be. He weighed about 12 lbs at 4 months, which meant he would be 25-30 lbs when he was full grown. If he was going to be a purse dog, I was going to need a MUCH bigger purse. Friends joked that he wasn’t just “Noodle” anymore….he was more like “Lasagna” but as his size grew, my love for him grew too.

I would like to not come across as a crazy dog lady and hope to go on dates and such, but dammit, I love my dog. Seriously, I can have a horrendous day and as soon as I remember that his furry face is going to greet me as I open the door…it’s all OK.

He’s an amazing listener:

He likes to stay well read:

He protects me:

He’s good on car trips:

He likes ice cream:

He’s not afraid to give me his opinion:

He knows how to enjoy a nice relaxing day on the couch:

He lets me dress him up (but doesn’t alway like it):

But most of all, he makes me super happy and has brought things to my life that I didn’t even know I was missing!:

Happy anniversary my furry friend. I hope to some day be half the person you think I am. I also hope to find the human version of you…..but maybe I should hope for half the human version of you 🙂

The Homewrecker’s Handbook

warning: this post will contain much swearing, lot’s of “f bombs”–feel free to click away now

This goes out to all the ladies who will fuck someone’s husband. Hopefully it will help you deal with some of the “tricky” situations that may come up as a result of fucking someone’s husband.

  • Don’t get mad should the woman who’s husband you fucked (aka, his ex-wife, mother of his child, forgiving angel, etc.) be kind enough to bring over Christmas presents HER MOTHER bought for your children.  All of them, the one you had when you met her HUSBAND, the one you had as a result of FUCKING her husband, and the one she had when she was married to her husband, whom you fucked. It’s a kind gesture on behalf of you’re baby daddy’s former mother in law for the kids…it has nothing to do with you….HUSBAND FUCKER.
  • When your baby daddy, wait, let me clarify…most RECENT baby daddy, talks to his ex wife about the child they had together before you fucked her husband…don’t get angry.  Really, in general, unless she comes at you with a machete or threatens your kids, don’t get mad at her at all, for anything.  Very few things that she could do to you would be worse then FUCKING HER HUSBAND, while you were supposed to be babysitting her kid.
  • Whenever something starts to get you irritated with your most recent baby daddy’s ex-wife, remember that he hasn’t paid her a damn dime in months and that she has brought over food for you and your kids when you didn’t have money for any…..all of this after you FUCKED HER HUSBAND.
  • Say it’s a year or so after the divorce is final, you have a one year old child with this man and have set some sort of wedding date, don’t expect his ex-wife to be thrilled that you would like her to change her last name. It takes time and money. This woman, the one whose husband you fucked, has a career, a career she was building while you were fucking her husband.  She’d rather not have the name, but it is also her child’s name and she loves her child. She isn’t so hype on explaining a sudden name change due to the divorce that resulted from you fucking her husband. Let it go.

There are a ton of other things I could write down here, but I think you get the gist.  It was once said to me that in a wedding the mother of the groom should keep their mouth shut and wear beige, also a good idea for what husband fuckers should do in life.

It should be noted that the husband is as much to blame in all of the above situations as he was a party to the baby making. He also should not tell his ex-wife the ludicrous things his baby mama says, should that entice his ex-wife to show her the questionable text messages you sent her a few months ago and will save for situations just like these.

I am not a mother, an ex-wife or a husband fucker.  This was done as a public service.  Spread the word.