tale of the dog

So here's a story. A few weeks ago, on a snowy Monday morning, I was driving in to work and there, just past the Wal-mart on a busy street was this big brown Rhodesian Ridgeback looking dog. I drove past and watched him wander into traffic in my rear view mirror. Not good. So I flipped the car around and followed him into the Karl Malone (ex-Utah Jazz superstar, you know...Stockton to Malone!) Toyota parking lot. There was another guy there and a city cop and the poor dog was scared to death and wouldn't get anywhere near us. I, of course, had on 3 and a half inch heels on a snow day (shut it) so I couldn't exactly join the chase. I mean I'm pretty good at running in heels but not on the ice. Plus I'd left my conference call going on speaker phone in my car while I tried to woo this poor dog into my car. So I figured, hey, there's a city official here, he'll be just fine. So I went on to work, pull in the parking lot and boom! there's the dog. So I jump out and try to lure him in and he runs off again right toward the cop. So me and my heels went to work.

All week long we saw this dog darting in and out of traffic, trotting down busy streets, curling up under a tree in the mud and snow. I started feeding him, hoping he wouldn't head off to the freeway. It snowed twice. A lot. And every time we got close to the poor dog, his tail went between his legs and he cowered off just out of reach. Me? Sap. My heart was breaking for the poor guy.

And then he disappeared for a week. My worst fear! So I sent an email off to the local animal services and this lovely woman named Heather emailed me back and said she'd see what she could do. Sure enough, a week later, I get an email...they trapped him. Yep, in a cage. So sure, he's at the shelter but he's not smashed or anything. So I went to visit him and he was a doll. A big, scared, super skinny doll who stunk like a diaper pail but a doll nonetheless.

So, after his 5 day 'vacation' at the shelter, nobody claimed him and Heather called and said his time was up, so I picked up this huge dog (literally...he would NOT get in the back of the Tahoe so I had to pick him up) and took him home. He is a sweet dog, easy going with our dogs and the kids, thinks he's an 80 pound lap dog, and his name should be Shadow because he's always RIGHT there, no matter where you go. Which is also his "issue." A little separation anxiety means he can leap tall fences in a single bound and is the best canine Houdini I've ever seen.

So after a few hundred bucks in shots, neutering (sorry, buddy), food, leashes (he's been through 4), a new crate, and doggie day care, we're hoping for the best for us and Malone. If it doesn't work out, we'll be calling the Dog Whisperer.

i suck at birthdays

It’s one of those things that I always wish I was good at but I’m just not. I have friends (Amy and Natalie) and family (Tiff, Aunt Kris, Mom and MamaHama) who are amazing at birthdays. They always seem to find the perfect gift. The thing that’s sentimental, thoughtful, the thing you wanted but wouldn’t have gotten for yourself. And it’s always wrapped really cute and delivered on time if not before. Never a belated birthday required from this crew. I’m that person that gives a generic gift card or hand soap or some cheap but cost more than it should have jewelry, or a unique, creative thing like a Make Your Own Espresso Kit that they’ll never use and will probably end up in a charity donation within the year.

I also suck at cards but that’s a whole different story. And, to add insult to injury, I also recently crashed my personal Entourage account so my birthday reminders are MIA which means it’s up to my brain to remember birthdays (lotsa luck), or I need to be on Facebook every day to make sure I’m not missing anything, or I need to find time to recreate my personal database of life. If I could find my personal calendar, I would totally schedule that in.

So imagine my internal angst when the baby mama and daddy birthdays come around. I know I suck at this for people I see or talk to regularly so I know, or should know, what they like, need, want. I suck at this for people where I understand the relationship – you’re my sister, I can give you a pair of purple tights or diamond earrings and there’s a reason and a story that I can explain to you and if it’s weird it’s still okay because there’s never too much or too little because you love me because at least I tried (hopefully, on or before your actual birthday). When it’s the people who gave you your child, it’s so…well, so much more.

Tagg’s baby mama’s and baby daddy’s birthdays are within a couple of weeks of each other, right around Halloween. This year, Tagg and I painted some fall colored picture frames for them. He’s a really good artist, for a 2 year old. I’m actually “making” him do a couple more for me because they were so incredible. We added this amazing photo of him at 2, with his Cars cars and a scab on his knee and sent them off with birthday cards. I think it’s good. It’s definitely from the heart. But I wonder and worry if there’s ever going to be a point where they’re seniors in high school or in college or getting married and being reminded that there’s this amazing little boy in the world who they gave birth to and gave to us, or “gave up” as most people think of it which certainly captures more of the sacrifice involved, is just not right. They made this choice so they can do all of the things they wanted and needed to do, and be the people they were meant to be. I know they want to know about him and know that he knows about them and there will always be love surrounding their relationship no matter what path it takes. But is there ever a point where they’d rather have something like an iTunes gift card than photos and art that remind them of what they gave up? Or does it remind them that their life as it is and their future IS the birthday gift?

It was Sloane's baby mama's birthday - the big 21 - recently and I had the same angst. We went to lunch with her and her mother at Paradise Bakery because she said the best birthday gift ever would be to see Sloane. So I guess that's the answer, right? Or at least I can hope.

poor man's vegas...

...is the rich woman's perfect birthday gift. I was lucky enough to spend almost a week in Mesquite, Nevada, with my family for my birthday. If you're not familiar with Mesquite, it's about an hour north-ish of Las Vegas, just on the other side of the Utah border in sin-land! That's right...casinos, bingo parlors, cheap drinks, 70 degree weather this time of year and lots and lots of golf. The thing we like about it is that Vegas these days is, well...Vegas. I mean, whatever happened to the cheap buffets, free drinks, getting into the clubs for free and $10 blackjack tables? It now costs over 10 bucks a pop for a drink, cover charges are more than the uncomfortable but cute shoes I bought to wear, and I just may never be comfortable doubling-down on a $25 bet. Now, I do like the lovely restaurants. They've relocated a lot of my favorites to Vegas but, frankly, one or two night of gourmet dining in Vegas means I'm at McD's the rest of the time. Hey, a girl's gotta have some money for the other sins noted above - and shopping.


So my family has had a condo timeshare in Mesquite for over 10 years. We like it. Cheap drinks, cheap gambling, low key, lots of golf and let's face it people. When you're celebrating any birthday over 40, it's not so bad to spend it in a town where the average age HAS to be 67.

I feel like the hottest chick in town! I could strut my "wow-I-meant-to-be-in-better-bikini-shape-than-this body" at the pool and feel pretty darn good! Unless my lovely younger sisters were around, anyway. I am thinking about entering this contest someday...bring it, ladies.


Speaking of, we went to dinner one night at a four-star restaurant called Playoffs (used to be Carollo's ribs or something like that). Four-star restaurants in Mesquite are apparently judged by the fact that they are not in a casino and do not have a drive-up window. Either way, this joint has been a family tradition for over 10 years. So we're eating dinner - steak, ribs, salads, a bottle of wine, the works - and I asked for the check and when our server brought the ticket holder back with my card, there was no ticket, nothing to sign. I gave her my best "I'm confused" face and she said someone took care of our tab. WHAT?!? Who does that?! We hadn't talked to anyone, I don't think we looked that much like a homeless family, and unless my lovely sister was making googly-eyes at some guy named Gerald, we can't really figure out why this man decided to pay for our dinner. It kind of made me feel good about the world and the people in it and these days, that's a pretty good gift. So thanks, Gerald, you mystery man. The dinner was lovely, but restoring my faith in humanity was priceless.