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.

it's the irish in me...

Tagg celebrated St. Patty's Day in style...green frosting on sugar cookies with green sprinkles. He likes to lick the frosting off the cookies with his fingers so it's a little impressive that he can make such a green frosting moustache. Thanks to Nana for making the sugar cookies. You're the best!

Scott and I wore nothing green, drank no green beer, ate spaghetti for dinner - the anti-Irish meal - and generally disregarded this traditional holiday. That's what happens after a week of vacation and 6 hours of driving the most boring freeway EVER! You just don't really give a shit about green beer.

the healing angel

When I was sick (that’s what I call the year-ish that I was dealing with my cancer), my Aunt Kris sent me this healing angel. She said the Angel would watch over me so that even when she wasn’t there with me I would know that she was there, and that there would always be people keeping me in their prayers. I kept it by my bedside during those rough days, and she’s still there to this day.

I don’t exactly know what I believe in religion-wise, but I do know that I appreciated the myriad of blessings and prayers I received from Catholics, Jews, Unitarians, Mormons, Methodists, atheists, agnostics and a bunch of other folks I barely even knew. I got healing rocks, shaman bags, prayer books, subliminal message tapes (yes, actual cassette tapes), flowers, religious blessings, cookies and casseroles, a puppy. Whatever you call it, I do believe in the power of love and good energy. And in my case it was healing energy. After battling for months and months, taking a few step forward and then a few steps back, there were days when I didn’t care if I lived or died, where I just didn’t have the strength or passion to fight anymore. And on those dark, bleak days, there was this…energy, like a spiritual lift that’s hard to describe but it was very real and tangible and forceful, like if you won’t do it, or can’t do it, we’ll make you.

We’ll help. Be strong. Be here.

And it worked. The Angel for me was the icon of that energy and when I didn’t have enough hope or strength or humor of my own, that little Angel helped me find more.

Several years later a girlfriend of mine lost her baby girl the day before she was due to have a c-section. The cord had wrapped around her neck and before they could do anything, the baby was gone before she ever had a chance. I struggled for days trying to find the right token of sympathy. Every card I read seemed trite, flowers seemed hollow. And then I saw the Angel and I knew she needed to be with my friend and her husband. The days ahead were going to be dark and difficult and they would need the strength, the virtual love and hugs of everyone who couldn’t always be right there with a shoulder to cry on or the right words of comfort. So I put her in a little box with my story and she went on with her journey of healing.

Six months later, I got a note from Amy thanking me for the Angel. She said that she would often go in her room and hold the Angel when things got tough. She would cry for her baby girl and then find the strength to go on (I’m happy to say they now have two beautiful children!). As much as she knew how important the Angel was to me, she had a friend who was dealing with her own trauma and wanted to know if she could pass the Angel on to help her through. Of course I said yes. I’m not sure where she ended up but I’m hopeful that the Angel is still on her journey of healing those in pain and need, reminding people that they are never alone and that they are stronger than they know.

Here we are 10 years later, and there have been a lot of Angels on my nightstand. I keep replacing her and then finding a new place where she’s needed. Tomorrow I am sending this little girl off to help a couple of friends, father and daughter, who are about to embark on a challenging time caring for wife and mother with a myriad of scary-sounding things – cancer, tumor, surgery, ICU, chemo. She’s about my age, and I can only imagine that she will need all the love and strength of the universe and all of us to get through this. And so will they. Sometimes I think being the caregiver is the hard part. At least when you’re sick, you get the good drugs! Anyway, Angel, work your magic. Aunt Kris, thank you for starting this chain-letter, pay-it-forward, sharing and caring Angel moment. You may never know how many lives you changed with that one thoughtful, loving gift.

And whatever name you want to put on it, this is my idea of religion.

hoarding hoarders

Dammit. I may be addicted to yet another tragically bad reality show: Hoarders. Watching the show is now one of our guilty pleasures. It's just so...gross. People who started with a couple of animals, a little collection of old magazines, a penchant for shopping the sale racks, a feeling that you have to keep things because you may use them "someday."

It makes me think...am I a hoarder? I mean, let's face it. I have a lot of shoes.
A LOT. And I don't like to get rid of them. They may come back in style, they may go with that one future outfit, they may get more comfortable. I have over a hundred pairs of shoes. This picture is just of the boot closet...the brown boot side. Hoarder.

Let's talk about Nature's Seasoning. Best spice EVER! It's THE secret ingredient in Mom's famous potato salad (which I now pass off as my famous potato salad). And over the years it's become harder and harder to find so when I see it at the store, I buy lots of it. Sometimes all of it. I probably have over 20 bottles of it. I like other spices too. If the apocalypse comes, I should be well equipped to barter with my Mormon pantry-loading neighbors. Trade you some oats and rice for some spices that makes your stuff taste good! Still...Hoarder.

And then there are bikinis, books, MAC eye shadow and lipsticks, photos, recipes...yep, I am a hoarder of many things. I'm not alone. Scott hoards boat stuff - ropes and fenders and life jackets, and motorcycle stuff and old Wasatch Marine logo t-shirts. And we both hoard episodes of Hoarders on Tivo.

So the question is, at what point are you an official hoarder as opposed to just a collector or a regular human being? Apparently, it's when your shit overtakes your life. That's it, shoes! You stay in the closet!

Footnote: I started this blog as a bit of a joke, and then when I saw the photos I thought...Oh my god! I may really be at the front end of a problem! Some serious closet cleaning is happening as we speak. And I need to organize my suits.

look-a-likes

I posted a new picture of Sloane on my Facebook account and several friends were like - oh, she's so cute! She looks just like you!

It got me wondering, because I think our kids look like us but does she really? So I pulled up some old photos (and I'm talking really old).

That's Sloane, my niece Harper (my brother's daughter who is 5 weeks older than Sloane), and me on my 1st birthday about a hundred years ago.

I think the answer is yes! There's a definite resemblance. I guess maybe that Chinese parable is true. Your family is connected by a red thread and it pulls at your heart strings until you are all together.

The funny thing is that it doesn't really matter. Does she have my eyes, or Scott's laugh, or grandpa's toes. It sure makes it a little easier since we don't have to field a lot of awkward questions because our kids don't look dramatically different than us (we expect that to change when they're both like 8 feet tall but we're good for now!). And some days it's hard when you see your friends theorizing about whether their little boy has mom's eyes or dad's, or where their daughter got her laugh. Our conversations are a little different. Unlike a lot of adoptive parents, we're lucky to know who and where our babies came from so we can answer some of those questions but, in the end, these are our children, our family, our heart and soul and like it or not they'll inherit things from us that go beyond hair color and a laugh.

So today, I look at these pictures of three little girls with the same lovely, clear blue eyes and I know that they may be separated by decades but they are bonded by love.