All Or Nothing

The L-Y-D

So.  This one is gonna be short and sweet and (hopefully) heavy on the reader advice.  Did you hear that, Internets?  I AM ASKING FOR ADVICE!  May God have mercy on my soul.

I am about to take a little vacay.  And I'm gonna be gone for a while.  And all throughout the planning process, I have been thinking that I would bring Lydah with me.  There's a whole lineup of doggy activities waiting for her at our final destination, and I think she would be in absolute heaven.

So as the departure date has grown closer and closer, I've started getting my ducks in a row, if you will.  I called the airline, to make sure there weren't any dog-related regulations I hadn't been able to glean from my obsessive online researching, I took an inventory of Lydah's travel supplies, to make sure everything was safe and secure, and I called the vet, to make sure they didn't have any last-minute recommendations for me.

Oh, and that call, my friends - that last call is where this whole thing fell apart.  You see, I LOVE my vet.  I really, really do.  He was our last-ditch effort when Lydah just kept getting sicker and sicker, and he not only fixed up her torn ACL (and WITHOUT surgery!), he also got her stomach all healed, found a food she would eat, spayed her, and is responsible for her TWENTY POUND WEIGHT GAIN.  And if you've ever found yourself in the position of trying to FORCE a sick animal to eat, every day, just so that they won't die - this type of vet is a savior.  He really did save her life.  And I am forever grateful to him for that.  However!  As a result of me having to take Lydah to SEE this vet for some super specialized treatments that, at one time, had me coming in TWICE A DAY, EVERY DAY, the vet and his wife love Lydah almost as much as I do.  Which is great, right?  I mean, it really is - who doesn't want their vet to love their pet that much?   You get EXTRA SPECIAL care.  And, as I've just found out, extra special advice.

Me: So, I'm going to be traveling with Lydah in the next week, is there anything I need to do or bring for her that I may have not thought of?

Vet:  Traveling?  Oh, how nice!  Where are you going?

Me:  Location.

Vet:  OH MY GOSH, YOU AREN'T GOING ON AN AIRPLANE, ARE YOU??

Me: .....ummm.  Yes?

Vet:  Oh, please tell me you aren't going to put that poor dog on a plane.

Me:  So, umm...that would be a bad idea, then?

And then the vet proceeded to tell me all the reasons that would be a terrible idea, how I would be needlessly endangering the life of my dog, how traumatic and stressful it would be for Lydah, how horrible the conditions would be for her, and how it would be just like rolling the dice with my dog's life.  Then the vet's wife told me how she used to work for an airline, and saw not just one, but SEVERAL dogs die in transit.  And then she or another airline employee would have to go tell the owners that sorry, your dog is dead, and then the owners would be inconsolable, but the airline isn't liable, because the customer had to sign a release, and DID I KNOW I HAD TO SIGN SOMETHING SAYING THAT LYDAH MIGHT DIE??  Did I?

So. 

Needless to say, I have backed off the whole take-Lydah-with-me idea, and am now completely confused as to what I should do.  I mean, OBVIOUSLY I don't want to needlessly endanger Lydah's life.  I would honestly never forgive myself if something happened to her that I could have easily prevented.  However, I also don't want to live a life of fear, where all of the sudden I won't drive if it rained even three hours ago and the roads might still be wet.  And neither me nor anyone I know can ever taste cookie dough again because WHAT ABOUT THE SALMONELLA, AAAGGGHH!  I don't want to be that person.

So what say you, readers?  Do you have any advice/experience/knowledge to share?  Because this girl is confused.  And really, even if you don't care about me all that much, it's for Lydah.  How can you resist that face?

 

Car Lots, Books, And Music (The Trifecta)

So, the other day while I was in LA, I lost my car downtown and got stranded on a rooftop parking lot for the entire night.  Well, almost.

I have parked in this particular lot many times before, and have never had any problems with it.  It's close to where I work, easy to see from street level (helps with my abysmal sense of direction), and stays open late.  On this particular Monday, the parking attendant took my five bucks when I pulled up, gave me a parking stub, and told me they would be open until 6pm.  Standard procedure.  I grabbed my stuff and said adios, heading out into the wilds of the Los Angeles Fashion District.

A little before 5:30pm, after I had finished working and also managed to convince myself into buying a big, white watch (my friend said, after I finally made the purchase, that he had never seen anyone get buyer's remorse WHILST buying the item), I started heading back to my car.  I easily located my particular rooftop parking structure and took the (unbelievably slow) elevator (that always smells EXACTLY like pee) up to the fourth floor and got out to find the parking attendant.  No dice.

I figured he might be down taking a smoke break or something (although I'm not sure why you would have to get off the roof to do such a thing), and that he'd probably be back fairly quickly.  Plus, anyone who's ever driven much in LA knows that leaving downtown to go anywhere around 6pm is going to be a long, slow process.  So I wasn't in a huge hurry.  However, as I waited, I kept seeing other patrons of this car lot walk out of the elevator with car keys in hand, open their cars, and drive off.  How were they getting the keys?  Where was the magic key guy, handing out keys?  I certainly never saw him.  Was he in the Pee Elevator?  I finally flagged down one of the happily be-keyed drivers to ask him what was up. 

Here's a rundown of that conversation:

Me:  "Excuse me, sir?  Umm, sir?  Sorry...I just...umm, I can't find the parking attendant, and I saw you had your keys...where did you get them?  Is the guy downstairs?"

Him:  "....."

Me:  "I mean, you know.  Your KEYS?  Did someone down there give you your keys?  THE KEYS, WHERE DID YOU GET THEM?"

Him (shrugging):  "ehhhh....I not know?"

Me:  "of COURSE you don't speak English, okay, whatever, whatever."

I am, at this point, getting more than a little concerned about my car.  I decide that probably the best plan of action is walking frantically around the top of the building, looking everywhere for signs of parking attendant life, and appearing (I'm sure) insane.  Finally someone who looks like he MIGHT work for somebody around there walks up, and I nearly jump on him.

Me:  "THEKEYS,OMG,WHEREISTHEGUYWITHTHEKEYS, (breath) ICAN'TFINDHIMANDWHEREISHE?"

Him:  "....keys?"

Me:  "YES.  The keys to my car?  It's right there?  And I have to leave?  And I have no keys?  And the parking lot guy, he isn't up here?"  For some reason when I get upset, I end everything with an upward inflection.  It's totally involuntary, and I hate it because I KNOW it does nothing but immediately label me as Crazed Emotional Woman.  Frustrating.

Him:  "Ahhh....yeeees....I think he is left.  I think he is left, ehhh...around 5 or 5:30?"

Me:  "No.  No, that can't be true, because he TOLD me 6pm; it's always 6pm, and it's NOT 6PM."

Him (shrugging):  "Huh.  I don't know.  Maybe you check on third floor?"

Me:  "Why?  What is on the third floor?  What am I looking for?  Wait!"

Him (walking away):  "Good luck!"

These two conversations very neatly sum up my view on Los Angeles, which is something I get asked about a lot since I'm out there at least half of my life these days.  Do I like it?  Do I hate it?  Is it all superficial and golden bronzed and beautiful on the surface?  Underneath is it crime-ridden and totally scary?  Sure, I guess it's all of those things, in some measure.  But what it really is is apathetic.  That's the one and only word I've ever come up with that succinctly and accurately describes Los Angeles, in its entirety.  Apathetic.  No one cares about you, and they don't even have the heart to make that a mean thing.  They just really don't care.  If you're doing great, well, that's great for you.  Whatever.  If you're doing badly, say you're stuck on a rooftop, alone, in downtown LA, with no appreciable escape plan, well, too bad.  Best of luck.  Whatever.  Now of course both of my brothers and several of my good friends live in and around LA, and so OBVIOUSLY the apathy thing is a generalization of the greater population, and not a personal indictment on each and every Los Angelean.  So don't get all up in arms about how you live there and you are the OPPOSITE of apathetic and how dare I.  I'm sure you're a lovely person, and I do wish you would have been on the roof with me this past Monday.  But you weren't!  On with the story.

So after the exceptionally helpful advice from the even more helpful man, I ran down to the third floor, and started looking around.  Of course there was nothing but closed office doors and...well, that was all. Lots of closed and locked office doors.  I ran back up to the fourth floor, thinking how frustrating it would be to miss the freaking parking attendant while I was running a wild goose chase across the third floor (again, SUCH helpful advice!) and to my disappointment, no one was there. 

At this point, I seriously started considering my options.  Would I call someone?  It would take any person I knew out there at least an hour or two to get to me, and what would I do in the meantime?  I could call a taxi, but at rush hour, that would possibly cost me more than chartering a helicopter to do a rooftop pickup.  Either way, leaving my car up there meant that I would have to A) return downtown the next morning during normal business hours to pick my car up, B) force the unhappy friend/family member to give me a ride back downtown the next morning OR pay the taxi/helicopter the rest of my life savings to do so and C) absolutely miss both my car rental drop-off time (thus ensuring another full day's cost) AND my flight.  So.  I was unhappy.  And really, I kind of started Freaking Out.  And when I say Freaking Out, I mean my version of such, which involves a lot less crying and lot more...furiousness?   I mean, how DARE the parking attendant just leave?  What in the world?  Who DOES that?  What am I supposed to do?  And it STILL wasn't after 6pm!

I stalked around angrily until I had the bright idea to walk down the parking ramp and see if I ran into anyone on my way.  Around level two, I saw an empty parking attendant cage, but upon closer inspection saw that a man, wearing an employee shirt, was sitting in a parked van nearby.  I walked (with purpose!) up to the van and demanded to know where my keys were.  Sure, I realized that he had no idea who I was or what I was talking about, but I am pleased to report that I apparently had SO much purpose in my voice, that the poor man jumped out of his van, walked over to the lockbox, opened it, and handed me a set of keys.  The only problem was, they weren't keys to my car.  In fact, they were keys to a much, MUCH nicer car, a car parked on level two, which I guess is corporate parking or something.  Anyway, after a second of moral relativism (hmm, what could I do with this car?) I informed Parking Lot Man that those were NOT my keys, and that I needed MY keys, immediately.  He didn't seem to understand me (again, with the no English), and kept pushing the other keys at me, as if to say "here, crazy!  Keys!  Take the keys!  Leave me be!"  But I wasn't having any of it.  I dragged Parking Lot Man all the way up to level four, pointed at my car, and said "KEYS.  I NEED KEYS TO THAT CAR".  And after a series of phone calls, all in rapid Spanish, another parking attendant came back to the lot and gave me my keys.  Not to worry though, he hadn't "left" as in "left downtown".  He had only "left the premises, to go to the other lot".  OH GOOD, BECAUSE THAT MAKES A BIG DIFFERENCE TO ME, THE ONE WITH NO KEYS.  Leaving is leaving.  And had he not been summoned by Scared Parking Lot Man, he wouldn't have come back until the next morning.  Again, with the apathy.  Too bad for me!  He had to go to the other lot.

Ugh.

So, let's segue.  I need book suggestions, stat.  I am out of good books and I am in a definite reading mood and yet I have nothing that I know of that I must read.  Note:  I don't think I am up for something REALLY deep and soul-searching.  I mean, kind of deep is okay.  Like I could handle some death and depression, but nothing where I feel like I must immediately go to Darfur and what about my carbon footprint and how dare I be such a horrible human.  I'm not really ready for that at the moment. 

And, if you don't have a great book suggestion (or even if you do), then how about a song suggestion?  I have been totally loving all the mixes that have been passed around the ol' Interwebs these days, and stemming from a fun email conversation I had yesterday with Tiff, thought it would be awesome if everyone could just give me one song that they feel I must listen to immediately, right now.  Your mantra song of the moment, if you will.  I'd absolutely love to listen to the suggestions.  And bonus points if you want to tell me WHY it's your mantra right now. 

So, there you go.  You guys get a long, rambling story about how I almost lost my car in downtown LA, and in return I get awesome book and music suggestions.  Sounds about right, doesn't it?

Why I Love Radiohead

They are sexy.

That is all.

Back from LA; felt that I had to update, at least for any interested parties - more later.  Have had maybe 2 hours of sleep in the last 24 hours, must get my head back on straight.

Oh, Cody

Well, it has been a while since he's graced us with the material for one of these stories.  I guess we were due.

It all started a couple of weeks ago when Cody started a new rotation at a clinic in a town about 30 miles from where we live.  Because he was going to be getting up at least 45 minutes earlier than normal, we attempted to get into SOMEWHAT of a routine at night.  (For past attempts at routine, see this, this or this).

Cody is a night owl, and all attempts to determine what I am (night owl/early bird) have failed.  If I have to get up early, I am most certainly NOT a night owl, but am more of whatever type of species you imagine being horribly snarly and mean.  If I can sleep late, then I am happy to stay up til whenever.  Cody doesn't care if he has to get up early - actually he DOES care, but all attempts for him to override his natural compulsion to stay up late are generally met with failure.  He tries to go to bed, but always finds something more interesting to do, like watching SportsCenter or losing his keys. 

This perfect storm of disorganization results in the evening "routine" Cody and I have developed over the nearly four years we've been married.  Sometime between 7-10pm we eat something, and usually we're watching television while eating and/or after we're done eating.  Either that or we've gone out to eat somewhere, and may or may not even come back home until 10:30-11.  Sometimes we forget about eating until really late, and then Cody tells me that he's hungry.  Those are the nights I feel like a REALLY good wife.

We end up watching things that have backed up on our Tivo until at least midnight, and it's only then that either one of us even thinks about STARTING the true bedtime routine; a complicated dance that involves the following:

• Locating and bringing inside Sophie, the outside cat
• Chasing Jill (the mean cat) out from under the guest-room bed and into the laundry room
• Thawing the raw meat patties to feed Lydah (which is, as Cody puts it, "an up-at-dawn, pride-swallowing siege")
• Taking Lydah out and making her go to the bathroom so that she doesn't wake us up at 3am by standing over us in bed, panting
• Getting into bed 

Of course Cody has to have a movie playing in the bedroom DVD to fall asleep, a habit I HATED when we first got married but have now gotten completely used to and hardly even notice.  It was a good trade for me anyway, because the habit he had to lose out on in the compromise was the one where he set his alarm clock like, over an hour early and HIT THE SNOOZE, EVERY FIVE MINUTES, FOR OVER AN HOUR.  Boy, those were the days.

(The habit I had to lose was listening to soft music as I fell asleep.  I know, who would EVER WANT TO DO THAT?)

Anyway.  By the time we've stopped watching back episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and finished the bedtime routine, it's easily 1am.  And I don't care, because I hardly ever have to be up early in the morning but Cody does care, because he has to be up early every day.  And you might think that he would catch on to the fact that every day he has to be up early, and every night he stays up late, and therefore every morning he is miserable, but you would be wrong.  Each night it's like a brand-new misery; he looks at the bedside clock, reads off some permutation of "AM", and gets all upset.

Recently, though, with the new clinic rotation and added insult of a 45 minute drive every morning, Cody decided to make a change.  I fully support all of Cody's "change" decisions (for their entertainment value if nothing else), and so I happily went along.  Plus, I already have my doubts about how I'll ever make it as a mom (see: total disorganization, lack of routine, staying up late, sleeping late, needing my sleep desperately), and I kind of feel like I NEED to get on a good routine as far as normal sleep/wake habits.

11-11:30pm was decided upon as the bedtime goal, and for the past couple of weeks, I'd say that we've hit that goal at least 70% of the time - a success, in my opinion.  It's still hard though, to get up earlier than you're used to, and since Cody's been having to do that, I've been fielding all 3am Lydah bathroom breaks.  She's just so annoying, that dog.  I know it's probably our fault, feeding her so late and then expecting her little system to do a digestive miracle a mere 20 minutes after she's eaten, but geez.  Can't she hold it 8 hours? 

No.  No, she can't.  And when she decides she wants to go, she does this awful thing where she walks around on the bed, stepping on all our limbs, and then finally squeezes herself in between our heads, sitting upright, panting loudly.  Since Cody can sleep through a tornado (and has, actually! another story for another day!) I am ALWAYS the one woken up by hot dog breath on my face.  (Sidenote: foreshadowing for future midnight baby feedings, anyone?)

Normally we fight over who has to take her out, a fight which involves me waking up, Lydah panting heavily, Cody sleeping peacefully, me getting annoyed that he's somehow managing to stay asleep, me kicking Cody and telling him to take Lydah out, and him saying okay and then rolling over and falling back asleep immediately.  Without taking her out.  But for his first week of work, I just decided to forego all the procedure and skip to the part where I take her out.  I mean, that's what happens anyway, 90% of the time.  Oh, and obviously we don't have a fence, or all of this would be totally pointless as we would just open the door, shove Lydah into the backyard, and be done with it.

Earlier this week though, Cody took Lydah out to the bathroom before bed and didn't stick around to make sure she went.  This is a surefire way to make sure I get woken up at 3am, and so when it happened I was annoyed.  I took her out, but as I came back to bed I told Cody that the next 7 times were all going to be his turn.  He mumbled "okay" and rolled over.  Always coming up with something new, that Cody.

Anyway, last night Lydah started up with her whole panting routine and somehow (miracle? karma?) Cody HEARD her, and woke up.  He also remembered the "next 7 times" conversation and dragged himself out of bed to take the dog out, griping all the way.  I rolled over to fall back asleep, relishing in the freedom of covers all to myself and appreciative of Cody for taking the stupid dog out.  I didn't really expect him to do it.

Cue to OVER AN HOUR LATER, I am suddenly awakened by frantic dog barking, coming from outside.  I jump out of bed, blearily looking around for Lydah or Cody, seeing no one, but hearing even louder barking from outside.  I open the french doors from our bedroom and run out onto the screen porch, yelling for Lydah.  At the same time I hear Cody opening the front door and calling for Lydah from the front porch.  About a minute later Lydah comes bounding in the house, full of puppy energy, happy to be back inside.  Cody walks back into our room looking sleepy and I ask him if he just left Lydah outside, roaming the neighborhood, for over an hour.  He confirms that he did.  I ask him why.  He says he fell asleep on the couch after he opened the front door and let her out.  I tell him that I certainly hope he doesn't think this counts as one of his 7 turns.  He says that it should.

So I ask you, Internet:  Should it?

Retail Blues

Recently I was reading a new (to me) blogger's "About" page, and after reading it I absentmindedly clicked on the link above the page, the one that looked like it would take me to the author's most recent post.  I read the post, and oh, I wish I wouldn't have.  I went from somewhat agreeing with the author to completely disagreeing with the author and yet still trying to "have an open mind" to getting supremely annoyed with the author and thinking that I would probably never read that blog again.  Ever.  All in the span of one post!  Blogging - it's so dramatic!

Anyway, as I was reading I kept thinking "ugh, I need to comment. This chick is SO wrong".  And then I would think "no, don't comment, you'll just be one of those annoying naysayers and all her devoted commenting fans will crucify me and wonder why I don't just 'hit the X at the top of the page if I don't like it'".  And then I thought, "this is all so stupid, these unspoken blog commenting policies.  Whatever happened to freedom of opinion?  I'm totally commenting".  And then I realized that the post I had been internally debating commenting on was over two years old, and (of course) comments were closed.  So that was that.

Which, by the way, if you think I am putting on any airs about being "better than that" as far as commenting goes, let me clear that right up.  If I get a mean commenter, I fully expect everyone to totally gang up on that person and make them feel horrible for even having INTERNET ACCESS, much less the nerve to disagree with the likes of me.  I mean, seriously.  This is like high school, with anonymity!  What could be better? </end sarcasm

Okay, so back to the point.  The post that got me all riled up was about the customer service this particular author received in a retail clothing establishment, and said service was not up to par.  So instead of recognizing this as an unfortunate SPECIFIC incident, the author decided to instead rail on ALL retail employees in general; belittling them and saying things like "I mean, who do they think they are?  They HAVE to work," and "I seriously doubt that most of them can even afford to shop in the places they work" and "in my opinion, 'retail clothing clerk' is just one step up from being a Wal-Mart cashier".   Ugh.  I'm sure you can see why I was annoyed; I'm getting aggravated again just paraphrasing the post. 

I even read through the comments (I was having the heated internal debate: to comment or not to comment) and an ASTONISHING amount of them were all like "OMG yes, that girl wuz SOOOO rude, you are totally right and they should send you one million dollars in gift certificates and also they should probably build a shrine to you, in apology.  And if they need a shrine template, I'll send them mine because clearly I worship you, OMG!!!!  Youz is AWESOME!"

And then I threw up a little more. 

However, after a while I got to a comment from someone named Mary, who didn't link to anything (smart, Mary!) and she was like "I am very well-spoken and will now write eloquently about the fact that perhaps YOUR CLERK was not very nice, but in general retail and service industry employees are very kind, and generally make up the 5% of the human population who are able to deal with mean, inconsiderate, and dishonest people day in and day out and still remain cordial and helpful at almost all times". 

And I was like, GO MARY!

Because that is so, so true.  People who have never worked a service industry job have NO IDEA what those of us who do work in this field go through on a daily basis.  Most people wouldn't be able to handle it; wouldn't be able to keep a smile on their face and remain genuinely devoted to helping the person who just got through cussing them out.  It's not easy, and I think people who are good at customer service have a GIFT.  I really, really do.  So it's really not fair to make generalizations about ALL SERVICE INDUSTRY EMPLOYEES by assuming that none of us WANT to do this job; that we all just have to because we are too stupid/poor/uneducated to get a job doing something "actually good".  That is insulting.  We don't fault professional athletes because they are gifted at a sport and then choose to take that gift and make a profession out of it.  We don't fault teachers, who have the gift of teaching and then choose to use that gift to teach our children.  So why would we fault service employees, who have the gift of serving others, if they choose to make a career out of it? 

One of the most annoying misconceptions about service employees is that we are in this industry as a last ditch-effort; because we can't hack it at anything else.  Or that we HAVE to work, and have just failed miserably at "normal" career jobs and so whaddaya know, we're just stuck behind a cash register.  This assumption is ridiculous and wrong.  The woman who owns the boutique next to mine (and waits on customers there nearly every day) was a district judge for over 40 years, until she retired to do (guess!) RETAIL.  Lots of the ladies who work in boutiques are married, have lovely homes and husbands who make very handsome incomes.  And yet (gasp) they ENJOY working retail, and they do it because they WANT to.  I know, I know, how stupid must THEY be?  I mean, to lower themselves to serve the general public?  Plenty of college students work retail jobs part-time, decide they like the retail world and graduate (with degrees!  OMG!) and STAY IN RETAIL.  I know, it's shocking.   Some of them even become managers, and regional VPs, and make (are you sitting down?) a REAL, ACTUAL INCOME.   Maybe even more than their customers make.  I know, it seems like it just COULDN'T be true.  Other service industry employees have merely decided that it is more important for them to work a job they enjoy and have flexible hours than it is to have a "more impressive" job title or an extra 10K per year.  I know, prioritizing your personal enjoyment and family over career?  Unthinkable!

Of course there are the inevitable bad apples; the ones who spoil the bunch.  This is true for ANY industry.  Ever been to the doctor and had a really bad experience, maybe the doc prescribed you the wrong thing or just didn't care and sent you out without really helping?  Yeah.  Me too.  So has everyone.  That doesn't mean every doctor is incompetent and uncaring.  Ever dealt with a shady lawyer?  Do you think all lawyers are scuzzy?  How about a bad banking transaction - do you now want to store all your money under your mattress?  I mean, let's get serious, there are always going to be bad waiters and waitresses, and of course you will, at some point, encounter some rude sales clerk in a shop.  However, in general, service employees are there TO SERVE YOU.  They are going out of their way, running their tails off, to MAKE YOUR EXPERIENCE BETTER.  What could be nicer?  You don't even have to pay them, most of the time - they will wait hand and foot on you and then you can just walk out and say never mind, I don't want anything today.  Or you can stiff them on the tip, if you feel like it.  Doesn't matter, we're still all going to see you the next time and try even harder to make things great for you.  It just blows my mind that when faced with what essentially boils down to a personal assistant, lots and lots of people choose to belittle and insult rather than accept and thank.

And we still come back to work the next day, smiles on our faces, ready to HELP YOU.  So when I read something written about how a service industry employee is somehow less important, less of a PERSON than the rest of the human race, it really gets under my skin.

Okay.  I feel better now.  Next post: Retail Blues II - We Are Not, Actually, Your Babysitters      

The Mix Tape To End All Mix Tapes

Well, a mix tape.

I'd love to just throw the songs up here and say enjoy, oh and also please comment on how awesome the songs are and how even more awesome I am for selecting them, but instead I have to give a short explanation for WHY these songs qualify in the category of Memories Frozen in Time.  I even asked Tiff, who spearheaded this particular Internet mix tape thing, if I really had to give the memory-laden explanation.  What if the song in question reminds me of puking?  Or of the first time I got my period?  I mean, do my readers really want to know about that?  What about my brothers?  But Tiff would not relent; she said I absolutely had to explain why the songs mean something to me, and also that she didn't want to hear any more lip about it.  Luckily, in her infinite grace, Tiff told me that I could use revisionist history if need be (also, if you're easily bored you can just scroll down to the bottom where all the songs are listed). 

So without further ado, allow me to present my mix tape:

Memories Frozen in Time

1. Bob Dylan - Highway 61 Revisited
All I have to hear is the first kazoo whistle in this song and I am immediately transported back to Texas Tech Fashion Design, junior year, Spring semester, Flat Pattern II.  I spent so many hours sprawled out on my (tiny) living room floor in my (tiny) apartment with half-constructed pattern paper, muslin, and various cutting/measuring tools strewn around me, listening to Highway 61 Revisited (the album) over and over.  And over.  And over!

2.  Coldplay - Amsterdam
I dated this one guy for a long time.  He never really liked me as much as I liked him, or vice-versa, always at opposite times.  I used to drive to visit him, and lots of times the route I chose took me through these gorgeous caprock canyons, right in the heart of West Texas.  I would listen to this song as loud as I could crank it, because it was just so beautiful.

3.  Dixie Chicks - Cowboy Take Me Away
My first couple of years in college, I had these two best friends who eventually broke my heart into one million pieces (don't worry, there's a song about that, too!).  Anyway, before all that happened, one of them and I would drive to Waco to watch baseball games, or just to anywhere we felt like, for any reason we could think up.  We listened to this song a lot, and I still can't listen to it without remembering riding shotgun in her black Isuzu Rodeo.

4.  Fiona Apple - Get Gone
Ooh, this is a woman power song.  Well, maybe it isn't actually, but it was for me.  This was my senior year of college, still at Texas Tech, broken up with boy from song #2, and kind of in that bitter/angry/triumphant stage.  Does it go without saying that I would sing along as loudly as possible?  I think so.

5.  Guns N' Roses - Patience
This one has two strong memories for me, and both are good.  The first is from junior high summer camp, where one of the boys who worked in the kitchen played this song for me on the very last night of camp, on his guitar, while we sat under the stars at White Sands, New Mexico.  I think I was 13 years old.  It was very romantical.  The second memory is much more recent, from a night spent karaokeing when I lived in Las Colinas, and our friend Derrick sang this song and BROUGHT THE FREAKING HOUSE DOWN.  Seriously, he was so good it was kind of incredible.  Also, right after that Cody left and got rear-ended by an illegal immigrant outside of a Tejano strip club.  While he was driving my mom's new car.  Yay!

6.  John Mayer - Split Screen Sadness
A breakup.  A long distance breakup, that took too long to happen.  Obviously.

7.  Josh Kelley - Special Company
This barely qualifies as a memory, since it reminds me specifically and strongly of The Rock Boat, which we just went on this past January.  Josh Kelley was one of the artists on board, and although I wasn't surprised at how good he was, having already been a fan, I was surprised at how cool he turned out to be.  And no, Katherine Heigl wasn't on board.  Because I know you'll ask.

8.  Lee Ann Womack - I Know Why The River Runs
Okay, this is the girlfriends-broke-my-heart song.   I won't go into all the details in this short format, but suffice it to say I spent the better part of a semester in my room, alone (because they had moved out - surprise!), listening to this song on repeat.  I know it's about a guy, but in my experience, girls can hurt you SO much worse.  You kind of half-way expect it from a guy, but I never expected it from my girlfriends.  What can I say, I was naive.

9.  Muse - Supermassive Black Hole
Muse is my second favorite band ever and this song reminds me of rocking out.  Yep, that's pretty much it.  Just rocking out, hardcore.  Because that's how I do it.  I dare you to not rock out to this song.  It can't be done.

10.  Radiohead - My Iron Lung
Speaking of favorite bands, Radiohead is my number one favorite for sure.  This song reminds me of lots of things: a 2001 New Year's Eve party in Frankfurt, Germany, my friend Heather Dalton (hi Heather, if you ever read this!) from Texas Tech (specifically a memory of going to watch that Adam Sandler movie 'Punch-Drunk Love'), and meeting my friend Kyle Lent, a rockstar fellow I bonded with almost solely through our mutual adoration for Radiohead and Sigur Ros.  Hi, Kyle!  Wow, was that random enough?  And probably boring?  Yeah.  At least it didn't have anything to do with unrequited love or ex-boyfriends.

11.  Red Hot  Chili Peppers - Snow (Hey Oh)
Have you ever listened to a song and thought "oh my gosh, my whole life is about to change, and somehow I feel this song is directly related"?  Well, I have, and I thought that about this song specifically, in or around June 2006.  I kept waiting for this major life changing event to occur, because I was just certain that this song would be the harbinger.  Alas, nothing huge happened, and although I could cheat now, nearly two years later, and list all the things that have changed between '06 and '08, it wasn't anything earth-shattering.  Doesn't stop me from remembering Summer '06 every time I hear that opening guitar riff, though.

12.  Wyclef Jean - We Trying To Stay Alive
This reminds me of my old friend Paige Smith, pure and simple.  We used to bring her jambox (ahh, high school) and blast this song full volume as we danced around her hot tub in our swimsuits.  She would rap one verse and I would get the next and we would always argue over who got to sing "Johnny's chillin'/ Dirty guy's dealin'/What more can I say, we livin'"

13.  Bjork - Big Time Sensuality
Definitely, definitely my last year at Texas Tech, free of all boyfriend-related encumbrances, driving to the airport to visit my brothers and friends in California.  I felt like the world was my oyster and Bjork captured my thoughts exactly with her "I don't know my future/After this weekend/And I don't want to"

14.  Van Morrison - I'll Be Your Lover Too
This song doesn't really remind me of anything except the movie I originally heard it in, 'Moonlight Mile' - a great flick and one I would definitely recommend if you haven't seen it already.  Anyway, all that I could think when I first heard the song is what a freaking great makeout song it would be, and I have been secretly plotting to use it for my own devices soon.  Feel free to follow suit and do let me know how your makeout session turns out.  If the feel of the song is any indication, it's gonna be AWESOME.

And the compiled list, sans wordiness:

1. Bob Dylan - Highway 61 Revisited

2.  Coldplay - Amsterdam

3.  Dixie Chicks - Cowboy Take Me Away

4.  Fiona Apple - Get Gone

5.  Guns N' Roses - Patience

6.  John Mayer - Split Screen Sadness

7.  Josh Kelley - Special Company

8.  Lee Ann Womack - I Know Why The River Runs

9.  Muse - Supermassive Black Hole

10.  Radiohead - My Iron Lung

11.  Red Hot  Chili Peppers - Snow (Hey Oh)

12.  Wyclef Jean - We Trying To Stay Alive

13.  Bjork - Big Time Sensuality

14.  Van Morrison - I'll Be Your Lover Too

Full-On Randomness

When I notice that something's running out, I get really nervous and turn into Hoarder Girl.  For example, the other day I walked into the bathroom and saw that we had one square of toilet paper left, clinging to the empty cardboard roll.  And my first reaction wasn't "ugh, why won't Cody just put a new roll on when the old one runs out?" or even a light-hearted and less-naggy "hmm, hope I have a extra roll in the cabinet up here".  Rather, my brain immediately turns into some sort of high-tech toilet paper calculator, frantically tabulating every spare roll of toilet paper in the house, where each roll is located at that very moment, and how much longer we can last on that much toilet paper without running out.  I have to have at least a 3 roll comfort zone, so that means subtracting 3 from the total.  If, at the end of these intensive calculations, I am anywhere near ZERO TOILET PAPER, I have a mini-panic attack and vow only to pee until I can make it to the store.  Once I obtain a brand new pack of toilet paper (or whatever it is I was running out of), the countdown begins anew.  And my brain does all of this on its own, without any conscious effort or acknowledgment from me.

Lydah is getting spayed tomorrow.  Cody has been incessantly referring to this as her "vagectomy".  (Oh, the creepy Googlers who will find my site now.)  I am somewhat concerned about this surgery, as we have what you might call a "doggy diva", who yelps and flinches at the slightest thought of pain or discomfort.  Some people have to worry about keeping their pups from running around all crazily and trying to rip their stitches out.  We have to worry about Lydah's precarious mental state, and whether she's about to fall, head over heels, into a full-fledged canine depression.  I've heard they make Doggy Prozac.  If this is true, I may be their next (ridiculous) customer.

My brother and I were chatting online and he said he wanted me to bring him my parents' camping tent the next time I came out to visit.  Because he is my brother, and some things never change, my gut response was to tell him that I was keeping the tent for myself, although I haven't been camping since I was about 9 years old.  I just didn't want him to have it without me being difficult, even though I could easily borrow any number of tents if the urge suddenly struck me to go set up camp in the woods, surround myself with bugs, drink nothing but stale, warm canteen water, eat something scraped out of a can, and eventually degrade myself to the point of using the bathroom behind a tree.  Camping.  Why do people VOLUNTARILY lower their standard of living for vacation?  It's like hey, I live in a HOUSE, with a ROOF, and RUNNING WATER.  And for the privilege of all these things, I work every day so that I can pay my bills.  And now that I have worked hard all week and have some time off, I know what we should do!  We should pack up a tent, take it out to some secluded area, work really hard to set up a campsite, and then sit in the dirt all weekend.   It reminds me of that scene in Office Space where Peter Gibbons is talking to his neighbor, Lawrence.  Peter is considering the question "what would you do if you had a million dollars", and after some thought, he says that what he would like most is to do absolutely nothing. 
"Nothing?" Lawrence asks.  "Hell, you don't need a million dollars to do nothing.  Take a look at my cousin, man - he's broke, don't do sh*t." 
That's how I feel about camping.  If you REALLY like camping, then why are you working anywhere at all?  Why do you have a bank account, or a car, or a mortgage?  Why not just quit everything, buy some supplies, and go live in the woods in a tent?  Wouldn't that be easier?

And with that, I'm out.  Not to go camping though.  No, I'll be taking full advantage of all the modern-day luxuries I have on hand this weekend, like flushing toilets and that big metal box they call the refrigerator.

Pick Me!

Let's talk about basketball for a moment, shall we?

No, not because I want to brag about my NCAA tournament bracketeering skills.  When it comes to Fantasy sports, I have to say that I excel so mightily at Fantasy Football that it would appear I've sucked all sports knowledge available to me out of the atmosphere, leaving none for my hapless NCAA bracket.  Judging by the looks of that thing, I'm about as skilled at choosing winning basketball teams as Bennett Salvatore is at officiating for them. 

And goodness knows, that's nothing to brag about.

Plus, even though I went to Texas Tech, and was there during the whole Bobby Knight arrival and subsequent Knight mania, I'm just not that into college hoops.  We all gathered in the Tech stadium for a while, hoping to see a chair thrown, or at least to hear someone get seriously cussed, but once we realized Mr. Knight's halfhearted fury, we kind of petered out.  Some of us got our feelings hurt, too - it was like finally getting a date with the infamous but super hot star athlete, only to have him hand you a copy of He's Just Not That Into You.  Kind of anticlimactic.

So we're not gonna discuss the NCAA madness, or my days as a pseudo-basketball fan at Texas Tech.  Instead, allow me to introduce you to my true love: the Dallas Mavericks.  And before you get up on your high horse and accuse me of being a bandwagon fan, allow me to present you with this compelling piece of evidence:

Yeah, that's a Mavericks vs. Spurs playoff ticket from 2001.  When the Mavericks were still playing in Reunion Arena, that crappy stadium I still kind of love.  I moved to Dallas when I was an 18 year-old freshman in college, straight out of high school in a little town.  I had the whole city available to me, and as cute, young (but legal!) college girls, we pretty much did whatever we wanted.   And what we wanted was to go to the Mavericks games.

There's just something about the ambiance of the stadium - the smells, the sounds, the energy; it makes it impossible not to absolutely love being there.  You feel like you're right in the middle of something big, and it honestly doesn't matter if the Mavericks are playing someone awesome or someone awful.  Just being involved, you feel lucky.  The best way to explain it is to use another Texas Tech example.  Tech is in Lubbock, TX, for those of you who don't know.  And Lubbock is slap in the middle of the Texas panhandle; the only mecca of civilization within a hundred miles in any direction.  There are no hills, no trees, no refuge from the wind, and certainly no escape from the dirt the wind will blow all over you.  And the result of such lovely living conditions is that everyone who lives in Lubbock REALLY wants to be there.  Anyone else hightailed it out of there a long time ago.  And it's funny, being somewhere that everyone surrounding you loves, it kind of creates this massive sense of loyalty and devotion to the thing.  That's how a Dallas Mavericks game is.  That's how a Dallas Mavericks fan is, and a game is just a huge arena full of people who would just about kill in their unfailing devotion for the team.

So it should come as no surprise to you that in 1999, when we heard the Mavericks would be playing the Los Angeles Lakers at home, my college roommate and I decided that we honestly could not think of one thing that sounded better than getting dressed to the nines and trying to con our way into Mavericks floor seats, using our $18 nosebleed tickets as a starting point.

We made it, by the way.  And it only took us until the 3rd quarter to find ourselves sitting directly behind a very handsome Kobe Bryant, who was wearing a pinstripe suit and watching the game with his injured hand taped in what looked to be a very haphazard manner.  HDTV's got nothing on that kind of detail.

It should also come as no surprise to you that when I found myself on vacation in Orlando during the Mavericks 2006 playoff run, all I cared about was getting to the nearest sports bar so I could watch, in excruciating minutia, every heart-attack inducing second of the games.  And it should come as no surprise to you that when the Mavericks lost that year, in the finals, I felt cheated.  And I felt it, shall we say - STRONGLY.

And it should come as no surprise to you that even though my dad (and he certainly isn't alone in this theory) contends that the NBA is rigged, that the players have no heart, that there is no authenticity to the game, I still continue to watch.  Because it's impossible to watch Jason "The Jet" Terry hit a super clutch baseline jumper, to watch Avery Johnson scream until his voice goes out and then still find reserve energy to spur the team on, to watch Brandon Bass take the hardest hit you've ever seen outside of the NFL and still come away with the rebound, to hear that Dirk is planning to play THIS THURSDAY, even after his "lower leg injury" was widely speculated to be season-ending - it's impossible to watch all of that and not feel that the Mavericks are more than authentic. 

Because they're a lot more than merely genuine. They're the reason the NBA is still going strong.  You can feel the raw emotion in the air as soon as you enter the stadium.  They're the team with all the heart, and you can't fake that.

My Habits. Let Me Show You Them*

Well, that was embarrassing.  Honestly, I kind of thought if I threw my kitchen habits (or lack thereof) out there, everyone would be like, "you think that's bad? we eat off the floor, like pigs!" or "don't feel bad about not cooking, we switched to all Pop-Tarts all the time over here".  Instead, I found that you guys (with the exception of a few, who were probably just being sweet - love you!) are like, KITCHEN PROS.  With recipes, and fancy online grocery delivery and menus planned out each week.  And, you organized people aren't even OLD.  You're like, my age!  Or even younger.  So this is really a sad, sad state of affairs.

However, as a result of posting about my kitchen disarray, I received so many good tips and suggestions in the comments that now I can hardly help but become more of a kitchen success.  I mean, let's say I implement two suggestions (maybe RA's recipe binder and Deb's Amazon grocery-ordering) and with that I'm already halfway to victory.  So, with that in mind, I am pleased to formally announce that I am going to make the Kitchen Habits post part one of a whole series of posts about my incredible sense of disorganization.  Subjects to be covered will include but not be limited to: Laundry Habits, Sleep/Wake Habits, and House Cleaning Habits.  Suggestions for other topics?  Kindly leave them in the box or drop me an email.  Is there some habit in your life you're particularly guilt-ridden about?   Ask me to address it.  I can almost promise you'll feel positively giddy about your performance after you read through my dismal failure.

In other news, here are the noteworthy Decision Fights held in my life over the weekend:

Setting and keeping a 1:30am curfew so as to not be exhausted all day Saturday
vs.
Sitting on the back porch with friends late into the night laughing hysterically about the weirdest possible revenge tactics

Spray tan to look pretty (rather than ghostly) for fancy wedding Saturday night
vs.
Sleeping later on Saturday morning

Dressing like a respectable, clean human while out running errands before wedding
vs.
Staying in bed until five minutes before I have to leave the house and then grabbing whatever is balled up on the floor and wearing that

Buying shoes only for friend, as instructed, and wearing shoes I already own to wedding
vs.
Buying one pair of shoes for friend and one pair of shoes for self, because they were really cute and also on sale

Painting every toenail with dark polish in order to disguise horribly disfigured toenail
vs.
Playing Guitar Hero until it's time to leave

Getting up early enough for church Sunday morning to take a shower and wash hair and last night's makeup off
vs.
Sleeping later on Sunday morning and deciding that it's really a great time-saver to not have to re-apply makeup

As usual, my sense of responsibility, decorum, and aesthetic took a sound beating.  But I did have fun.

*Sorry, OPH, I totally and unabashedly stole that from you.  I hear imitation is the highest form of flattery though....right?  Right?

I Am Full Of The Truth

See?  Posting again already!  Look at me.  LOOK AT ME!  Don't look at all the losers and freaks, you look at ME!! (By the way, if any of you know where that lovely quote came from, I'll be impressed.  It cracks me up every time.)

So anyway, today I'd love to get your take on kitchen habits: what is normal, and what is not.  In order for us to have some frame of reference, allow me to present you with what I, for some reason, think "normal" kitchen habits should look like.

Somewhere between 4-6pm arrive home, pour a refreshing beverage and start pulling ingredients for dinner from your well-stocked fridge and pantry.  Of course you already have all the ingredients, because earlier in the week you sat down and planned out your week's meals and have already visited the grocery store for all needed items.

Cook dinner, pausing intermittently to kiss your spouse hello and maybe to shine your countertops.  Of course you are cleaning up as you cook.  Set the dining-room table.  Like, with napkins and placemats and everything.

Somewhere between 6-7pm sit down and eat your home-cooked meal.  Make pleasant conversation with your spouse and (if you've got 'em) kids.  Refill drinks as necessary.  Finish dinner and take all dishes back to the kitchen. 

Someone (preferably not the cook) has dishes detail, and rinses each dish and then places it into the dishwasher.  If the dishwasher is full of clean dishes at the start of this task, the dish detail person unloads the dishes, and then re-fills the dishwasher.

Someone else wipes down the kitchen countertops and cooking surfaces.  However, there's not much to clean, because you were cleaning as you cooked!

So there you go, that's what I envision "normal" kitchen habits looking like.  Why, I have no idea, except that it seems like it would be so nice and calm and organized.  However, let me present you with what our kitchen habits actually ARE like:

Arrive home anywhere between 6:30 and 7:30pm.  Tired.  Pour yourself a drink.  Open refrigerator and realize that no fairy elves have done your grocery shopping for you, and you still only have mustard, ketchup, and that same mold-cultivating tupperware container.  Go to pantry and see two boxes of microwave popcorn, three cans of Rotel, and a can of Healthy Choice soup that you've had since before you got married.  Slam the pantry door and yell to anyone who's listening that there's nothing to eat.

Repeat opening and closing both refrigerator and pantry doors several times, each time hoping that some stroke of genius will strike and you'll figure out something tasty and nutritious to make out of the popcorn and mustard you've got on hand.  Pour yourself another drink, and greet your spouse, who has just arrived home hungry and equally tired.  Give your spouse your drink in an atrocious attempt to appear like a decent homemaker.

Spouse observes that it is nothing less than ridiculous that there isn't a single PIECE of cheese in the house, because you can always make something out of nothing if you just have cheese.  Spouse also helpfully notes that the fact there are no eggs is just unbelievable.  Eggs are, as you know, about 88 cents a dozen.  These pearls of wisdom prove less helpful than you might think.

Discuss what sounds like the best option for obtaining food.  Obviously grocery store and subsequent cooking are out, because it's already hedging on 8pm and you're both starving.  Discuss going to a sit-down restaurant.  Decide that it's too pricey/you're too tired/none of them sound good/they failed the Restaurant Report on the evening news.  Discuss take-out options.

No one wants to get back into the car to pick up food.  One of you goes back to the pantry, finds some stale crackers, and starts spreading them with the same peanut butter you put in the dog's Kong toy.  Life has hit an all time low.  Finally, one of you decides that you'll go pick up food from Horribly Unhealthy Fast Food Restaurant.  Whoever is left at home sits on the couch, flipping channels, only to jump up upon hearing the garage door open and scramble to pull out some dinner plates (the good ones!) on which to place the food. 

Eat Horribly Unhealthy Fast Food, but on the nice dinner plates.  You put your plate in the dishwasher.  Your spouse puts theirs in the sink.  Why?  Because they NEVER PUT ANYTHING IN THE DISHWASHER.  Why would they, when the sink's right there?  And surely someone else (always you) will come by and put the plate into the dishwasher for them.  However, you can't really complain, since your best attempt at being any kind of a homemaker was serving french fries on a stoneware platter.

No one bothers cleaning the kitchen, because no one cooked anything.  The empty fast food bags are left strewn around the island.

Repeat the next evening, ad infinitum.

So, how does it work for you?  Surely there is a happy medium I can aspire to.  Help!