HOUSE A HOME

What you already know: I just got a divorce. What you might not know: we were married for 10 years. As it happens, I got his final break-up email*—or rather the straw that finally broke my back—on the night of our tenth anniversary. The whole thing was kind of a big deal for me. So there’s some fixing to be done. And I’m using good old Remarks from Sparks as one of my tools. You have my apologies if you find yourself sick of hearing about the split. It can get annoying. But if this makes you feel any better—at least you didn’t have to live it, right? 

So let's talk about the house. My house. As part of my coping with the divorce, I threw shit out. As you can imagine, and the shrink affirmed this, that kind of thing is common after a dissolution of marriage. I had the walls painted over. I replaced light fixtures. I bought so much new stuff that my UPS man came to the conclusion that I was a crazy shut-in. (Yes, I did all the buying online. Another part of my coping: swearing off human contact whenever it was in my power to do so.)

Mr. UPS showed up one day when I was doing a bang-up job of overhauling the garage. “You sure do get a lot of packages,” he said, depositing the day’s haul on my driveway.

Starting to unpack the lampshades, throw pillows, bedsheets, and—wait for it—king-sized box spring, I replied, “Yeah. I need some stuff.” (I’m still waiting for Overstock or Amazon to send me a Really Damn Valued Customer plaque. It took me all of three months to employ my Prime membership alone to the tune of $5000. My sister, Lauren, said she knew that I had gone too far when I bought the deep fryer. My friend, Jim, said it was the emergency generator that signaled A Problem.)

Throughout the house I added new color. I bought new drapes. Fresh accent furniture. And as I was doing some redecorating here and there I realized that I don’t want to just like my baubles and whatnot on the walls; I want to love them. I believe that if you’re going to put some kind of decor in your home you ought to have more than one reason to put it there. “I like it” doesn't cut it for me.

Allow me to explain. With photos. Note: I don’t pretend to be a photographer. These photos’ll suck. But they aren’t here to be pretty. They’re here to illustrate a point. In fact, I’m going to illustrate the hell out of my point. (And really, don't you get a zing up your spine when you're invited to enjoy a little voyeurism and see into a stranger's home? This ain't some pretentious design blog. This here's my real life, and it's not designed to impress you. It's designed to please me.) 

I want parts of my house to be playful. So I placed a print of Picasso's La Toilette over the guest toilette. I put a 9" praying mantis over the door in my office. I have hands sprouting out of my dresser and the buffet. There's a bright little giraffe my sister, Cat, named Horace on drape duty. And do you remember how in Annie Oliver Warbucks said to hang DaVinci's Mona Lisa in his bathroom? Well I thought he had a pretty good idea, so put my own spin on the concept and hung a print of Warhol's Mona Lisa in my half bath as a playful nod to a cultural reference.

I don't have a fascination with death. Or do I? I'm attracted to the macabre. The wire crow sculpture floating ominously over a bookcase. A full-size skeleton in the Bikram version of Trikonasana, posing beneath a print of the Zombieland rules. One of my favorite paintings: Picasso's Guernica. Virgil's exhortation to live. Yeah, it's all undeniably creepy. But all of it's also charmingly grotesque reminders that I'd best do me some living, for something gnarly lurks.

It's rare that I'm sentimental. But from time to time, I do land there. I collect green glass 'cause it's pretty, but I also have pieces that are sentimental. Gifts from friends. A piece that belonged to my great grandmother.

There are all of two photos on my walls. Count 'em. Two. They're a perfect depiction of my favorite people on the planet: my sissies. And a sentimental kicker: the photog was our dear friend, Ash.

That print in the kitchen reads "Have Tea and Let it Be." It's a nice reminder, sure, but the sentimental me keeps it because my Rabid-friend asked me to make it, and when I see it I think of her, one of the best things that's ever happened to me.

I picked the metal seagulls 'cause they look cool but also 'cause I grew up in Utah, and if you grow up in Utah you can't escape without some knowledge of gulls. Those birds over my bed remind me of my roots.

(Hey do you see that green Jesus bust? Affectionately, I call him Greesus.)

I have much of my own "work" hanging in the house. Here are some. But there are more. My typographic stuff hangs in my office, bathrooms, hallways, any space really. I like their style. (I better—I designed them.) A few have good reminders. And they inspire confidence; when I'm not feeling capable of creativity, I can look on my walls and see that, hey, I've got some game.

This place is mine. I want to be able to walk through my house and see more than what pleases my eye. I want to be tickled. I want to remember. I might need to be encouraged. So I rolled up my sleeves and put my walls to work.

•••

*Yup. You read that right. Break-up email. Here’s the bad news: if you read this blog, you’re going to hear about Le Divorce. A lot probably. Here’s the good news: post after post you’re going to pick up little details that boggle the mind and tell Le Story. It’ll be like a treasure hunt! The even better news: I may have found my breaking point, but I’m not broken.

My story isn’t one designed to garner pity. Oh, you’ll feel the pity all right. You’ll experience outrage. You’ll be incredulous. And if I do my job in relaying the tale just as I experienced it, there’s a good chance that you’ll feel sad. But again, the telling really isn't for you. It's for me. My ma calls me her phoenix daughter, and, yes, it’s a shame that there were ashes to rise from, but trust me, dear reader, rise I did. I am. I still do. 

A RECEPTIVE AUDIENCE

Of course I haven't figured it out completely, but I've got the beginnings of an answer.

I have never liked babies, O Best Beloved. And I can name the basic reasons—the stuff that no one really falls for—they smell bad, they're needy, they are noisy, and such. And additionally, for me, it's probably my lack of overall patience. However, I have just now figured out what I think the unique root of my distaste might be.

Yesterday morning while I was getting ready for the day I was thinking about my sister, Haley's, kiddo Addison. Ladies and germs, this miniature human is absurdly cute.

She's so cute that it makes me want to tie off the ole fallopians; 'cause no matter what—I mean really, no matter what—whatever Romo and I spawn in escapades producin' fruit o' the loins couldn't possibly be that adorable. And we wouldn't want our little thing to feel bad about itself from day one, now would we? (Even if no one tells you, you know if someone's 10 levels better looking that you are; it's innate methinks.) We could't produce anything to parallel that kid's adorableness, so why even try? Addie mastered cute in the Peterson gene pool. We Romos may as well try to do something else of note. (Leave me all the way alone on my logic here, okay?)

Something that may be key in all this: that adorable piece of flesh is the spitting image of her mother as a little 'un.

Anyway, back to the original thought: I was thinking about my sister's kid, and here's what I was thinking . . . I talked with Haley a couple days ago, and when we were getting off the phone I said, Kiss your kid hello for me. And we hung up. And then I thought, What the hell? I've never said that before. And, weird of all weirdness, I meant it. What's the deal? 'Cause, let's be honest here, though at the heart of my soul I love Addison because she's my blood, by no fault of hers I've never been all that interested in her.

Wait, don't go! I have to explain—

My life's experiences so far have shaped me into someone who coos like a maniac over dogs, but nods politely (mostly) when someone displays their newly-produced baby. Whatever. Seen one, seen 'em all.

I realize that it can be off-putting, but like I said, this is the result of my life's experiences. I own the world's most attractive dog. No, again—really! this is God's honest truth. I have no idea how we got so lucky and landed the most adorable animal ever created, but because Sophelia is so damned cute we can never get her a Yorkie companion. We wouldn't want the addition to have poor self esteem, but it would be bound to happen, for though we'd never tell her, this new Yorkie would be "the ugly one." No matter how adorable the new dog might appear next to other canines, she'd be ugly compared to Soph. It's a sad truth that we've come to face. I mean, good grief, look:

So thanks to my baby beastie's good looks and her spunky personality, I am a dog person. She has enchanted me.

Babies, they haven't enchanted me, O Best Beloved. They're just something that everyone seems to be able to have (for the most part). Unique? Hardly.

And it has occurred to me just now what the root of my lack of interest in babies might be. They kill my self-esteem.

People, I'm funny. It's true. In real life, in person, I am funny. Quick-witted and silly, I can make just about anyone laugh. But babies, they don't fall for my act. They just sit there staring. They don't get me. Toddlers, however—which Addie has been blossoming into—they are moving into the beginnings of responsiveness. No, they don't get my joke about the NASA administrator, but if I play around with a toddler on a toddler-like level, they respond. We can interact. They're seated in a pleasant in-between stage—just starting to become interesting and not quite to that 8-year-old-so-annoying-that-I-wish-it-weren't-frowned-upon-to-stuff-you-in-my-car's-trunk stage.

Babies don't thrill me because presently I require a certain kind of interaction and they just aren't pickin' up what I'm layin' down. I need an engaged audience. And now that Haley's child is becoming someone who can do a better job of feeding my ego, I have more interest than just staring and wondering how anything human could be so good looking. (Not enough interest to want to go buy one of my own or kidnap her, mind you, but this is progress—and not feeling compelled to kidnap her is probably a good thing, yes?)

It's sick. It's sad. It's pathetic. It's whatever adjective you'd like to apply to it, but it's also what came from some serious introspection while I primped and flat-ironed my hair.

(If you caught on to the irony in that last bit there you'll see just how funny I really am. And if the irony floated right past you, remind me to interact with you on a toddler level. I can charm you that way too.)

MAKES A FRIDAY HAPPY

Perfection, yes?

Yes.

SHE SHALL LEAVE MESSES WHEREVER SHE GOES

Traditional:

"Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross" nursery rhyme

Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross
To see a fine lady upon a white horse
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
She shall have music wherever she goes

Updated for the sake of personal relevance:

"Drive a Fast Car to Northern NV" revised nursery rhyme

Drive a fast car to northern NV
To meet a spent drug rep upon a great spree
With a schedule to keep and plenty of clothes
She shall leave messes wherever she goes

I seem to think that I am am too important and busy to be bothered with picking up after myself. Those few seconds it takes to hang up a dress I just tried on must be so vital to my professional success that I simply cannot waste them on the menial. That must be it.

Thing is, I'm a tidy person. I like things organized. Everything really does have a place even if only in my head. But I get busy, and when I get busy I get scatterbrained. The little messes throughout the house are remnants of recent events. (Apologies for the poor photo quality. I was just so busy being important that I couldn't be bothered to locate my camera for a proper snap.)


Did the voyeur in you just squeal with joy? An actual looksee in someone else's house! And not all clean and perfect either. Some people take great pleasure in photographing their über stylish home and posting the images on their blog for all to ogle and compliment. Me--I unveil my abode in a state of clutter. Just another example of my devotion to reality.

a • our bathroom. Morning prep paraphernalia scattered across counter. A cardigan from a week ago. Drug store buys from last week sitting on the floor. The drawers that the new razors, nail polish, tampons, etc. go in are immediately adjacent to where the CVS bag sits on the floor. Inches, I'm telling you. But I can't be bothered. (There's also a little love note my spouse wrote on the mirror using a dry erase marker. I'm leaving that up for a while.)

b • my office. A couple yoga tops scattered on the floor. Flats I didn't want to wear after I initially put them on. A box from Anthropologie the contents of which I'm as yet undecided on. Bag full of work clothes I changed out of before yoga. Boxes left over from a lunch I had catered last week. (If you ever need to have a lunch done, I strongly recommend Claim Jumper. Their service is terrific, you can call the morning of and they'll have your $400 worth of food ready for lunch, and they have the very best boxes for food transport. Sturdy, holes for handles, and simple to fold flat. It's really the boxes that keep me coming back.)

c • our room. Laundry on the floor from, oh, early last week. He does the washing and I'd be a swell gal to do the folding, but, uh, no. The bed has Cat's Hawaiian quilt on it--a very gracious and much-loved gift that has no business chillin' in our particular color scheme--and hasn't been made in, well, at least a week. It looks great when made. That doesn't seem to matter to busy, important me. Maids come tomorrow. They'll make it.

d • guest bedroom--a room that has absolutely no business being messed up. We haven't had guests recently. But last week I couldn't sleep and my tossing and turning was keeping The Husband awake, so I relegated myself to the guest room and watched Fame on his laptop. When I got up the next morning I didn't make the bed or tidy up my bits and pieces. Instead I just shut the door and walked away.

e • the loft. Husband and I watched Father Goose last night and rather than giving in to the incredible inconvenience of picking up the throw pillows and replacing them on the love seat and sliding the ottoman back to its chair and then walking ten feet to the blanket closet to deposit the crumpled mass of cloth on the floor, we just relocated to our unmade bed to go to sleep. We can't be bothered.

f • living/dining area. The carpets are dry, you know. The little white bits under the chairs and tables really don't need to be there. Had the carpets cleaned on Saturday. Miraculously, they dried the very same day! But three days later the little plastic pieces are still saving the carpet from the wicked dark wood, because removing them would involve five minutes(!) of my precious time.

g • the kitchen. Here you will find the dishes that The Husband washed on Sunday waiting to be put away. And waiting. And waiting. And a salad bowl from our Sunday dinner at my coworker's house that actually still has salad in it. Take the time to dump it out and rinse the bowl? You've got to be kidding me. Next to the bowl of rotting cucumbers and tomatoes, there's an open cookbook I was reading over breakfast, three days worth of mail, and a random bottle of air freshener.

h • la pièce de résistance: my closet, an archetypal Hell hole. It's here that I try on clothes and then unceremoniously toss them to the floor, knowing that they will get wrinkled and I, a girl that irons about once every six months, won't end up wearing them at all. I toss my shoes to the floor rather than slipping them in their nearby slot. And I don't take the plastic off of my dry cleaning until I actually want to wear what's underneath it.

Writing this all out makes me realize what a truly classy lady I am.

And if you're looking for a late-night treat, chew on the irony of my writing about my need to tidy instead of actually doing it. Tastes great and filling too.

WET ADVISORY

Friday was a wickedly windy day. The kind of bluster that makes me almost glad I've added a couple pounds since landing in Northern Nevada; for if I'd been just 10 pounds lighter, the gales surely would have boosted me like a helium balloon.

Living in the desert as we do, winds like Friday's set the sagebrush and miles of dust to dancing. It's all brown out here, and at the end of my work day my dark blue car was clad in desert drab. There was dust under my fingernails (the ones I hadn't already bit off). Dust up my nose. In my eyes. Stuck to the product in my hair. And sprinkling my suit.

Thus when I got home I figured a quick dousing was in order. I left my clothes in a pile on the closet floor and stepped into the shower to wash the work of the wind away.

Once out of the shower and dry, I returned the closet to get dressed. As they hadn't been desert dusted like the rest of me, I grabbed the underwear I'd put on that morning to slip back on (if that made you gag, go away). When I pulled the panties up I realized that they were damp. No. Wet. They were more wet than damp.

I don't remember wetting my pants, I thought. I mean, I could have, but I don't remember doing it.

I pulled them off and checked to see if the moisture was the indicative color for That Time of the Month, which fortunately it wasn't; for that time had passed a week ago and it would be all to cruel for it to pop up again.

How in the world did my underwear get all wet? I puzzled while grabbing a new pair from the bureau.

I then looked to my right at the small, furry thing licking her lips.

She'd been busy cleansing my underwear while I'd been cleansing myself of the Nevada grime.

Sophie, you are disgusting. Just 'cause I leave my underwear on the floor doesn't mean that you can make a meal out of licking the crotch, you filthy beast.

Dogs can be gross. And desperate, for--trust me--there was nothing on the crotch for her to get at.

Lately, the Husband has been bemoaning that we're not give the Soph enough food.

He may be on to something.

CAREFUL COOKERY

My forays in the kitchen are rare. In fact, they're generally confined to when company stay over. Why cook when company is here? Truly, not to manufacture some vision of me as a regular cook; no, I cook when company is there so that a) they feel special, 'cause they know that I'm doing something I don't generally do, and b) so they have something to eat and aren't forced to eat like I do--weirdly.

When Rabid came to visit, I made a hummus-like bean dip. Soaked then boiled white beans, mint, and other whatnot. Initially, it sucked. Then I sprinkled some feta and it was tasty. Feta heals. We should sprinkle some on the Middle East and see what happens. Oh, wait--they have plenty of feta over there and there's still explosive unrest. Resilient people, eh?

While I was trying to combine ingredients properly, The Husband and the Rabid were sitting at the bar across from me. Oh, they offered to help of course, but I simply wouldn't allow it. While I deciphered and followed, The Husband played with my phone and captured this image. (And he didn't even need Rabid's cell phone action to make it crappy; he can do it without!)

Voila: Me. Cooking.

STIMULATING

We dont need no dickshunaree to teech us how to spel heer in Reeno.

MAKING WHOLE

Sometimes, the finest section of my day is the part when I get to hide in my car for a bit, eat my lunch, and continue listening to whatever book's been fueling me throughout the day.

If circumstances permit, at the lunch hour I drive to our Whole Foods, park my car in a remote spot, and head in to purchase my staple lunch with its slight variations. Some days I'll toss in a couple pieces of pita. If I'm feeling that I've gone too long without self-flagellation, I'll include some feta cheese. Other days it's black olives--never kalamata; I can't stand 'em. Sometimes whole garbanzos join the melange. And if I'm feeling naughty, I'll land at the express checkout with a vegan peanut butter smore from the chilled bakery section. The little alterations add a sprinkle of excitement, serving as a barrier between my everyday lunch and monotony.

If I stand in one place in Whole Foods long enough (like I sometimes must do when waiting for a catering order) I'm sure to spy someone I know. Not generally a friend or an acquaintance I can comfortably chat with, just someone I recognize or know the name of, maybe a person from church or work or yoga. I may greet them, or I might just take note and continue scanning and watching. Anonymity and solitude in the midst of a crowd often prompt introspection in a way that isolation cannot.

After I have my lunch in hand, rather than settling at one of the tables inside or out, I clack back to my car, get in, shut the door, turn on the AC, press play on my iPod, scoot my seat back as far as it can go, slip off my shoes, prop my left foot on the seat (if not in a restrictive skirt), and dig in.

It could just be fifteen minutes of the day that I spend in such a state, but they're my fifteen minutes. I don't answer the phone, check emails, or respond to outside stimuli. Alone in my box, I pick through my lunch making bites. A tomato and tabbouleh dipped in hummus. Half a falafel, some hummus, and a couple feta crumbles fused on my fork. I listen to my book, sometimes using it as ambient noise, as I loose the power to focus when wandering through my thoughts.

When lunch is done and my water bottle is about half-way to recyclable, I set the trash aside, sit up straight, put my shoes back on, scoot my chair forward, check my teeth for interlopers, swish some water if there are barnacles, toss in some gum to eradicate the malodorous breath hummus leaves behind, put on lipstuff, and check my phone for any calls or emails I might have missed.

Then I pull out of the parking lot in whatever direction the next stop dictates I ought.

Refreshed? Perhaps. Revived? Maybe. Renewed? Sometimes. Fed? Yes. And at least that gives me the energy required to keep on.

WEED

Tonight I will sleep like the dead, for I am fatigued to exhaustion.

I took a vacation day today to weed the backyard. An entire day off. Just for weeding.

Yes, it was as bad as you're guessing.


(I did consider taking a picture of what it looked like before, but some things are best left to the imagination; and I'm already a little low on dignity.)

Because it's tough to tell in the photo, I'll describe the pile's size. It's about five feet tall with a diameter of six feet. Most all of the weeds have nasty stickers, so I spent six hours being grateful for heavy-duty gardening gloves.

Once the pile was complete, the weeds all whacked, I found myself very grateful for 3mm thick, 40 gallon contractor's garbage bags. All five of them that I filled. Filled all by myself, 'cause the mister had to go to work. I am woman. Hear me complain.

We've lived in this house for a little over two years, and the yard still isn't done. I used to have grand plans for the little space, but time, funds, patience, and apathy have whittled my concepts down to the point where I'd be happy with a cement slab, some sprinklers and grass for the dog. But give me a choice between forking out dough for the yard or saving it and the shred of pragmatism I have takes over. No yard. Our poor dog.

Seein' as the back is nothing more than Soph's giant litter box, it doesn't take much time for the entire space to get overrun with weeds the size of which should never be seen. But when the weeds reach the door and make it hard for her to find a place to pee it's time to conquer the chore. So I took a day.

I've never mowed a lawn. And today was my first go with a weed-whacker. Because I don't speak Yard, I started the whacking in jeans, little bronze ballet flats, and a t-shirt. I ended the day in the same jeans, a long-forgotten pair of sneaks, a long-sleeved shirt, the heavy-duty gloves, and my giant sunglasses for eye protection. Because I was out back for six hours, the neighbors had plenty of opportunity to peer out their 2nd story windows into my yard and see a very large bug eradicating the Romos yard of sagebrush and tumbleweeds.

This yard work thing isn't for sissies.

AIR LUDDITE

When was the last time you saw one of these babies? An entire airplane of travelers outfitted with an iPod or other mp3 player each and this fella brings his portable CD player.


When walking onto the plane, I was balancing my laptop in one paw, finishing an email, via hunt-and-peck, with the free hand. Once on the plane, typing all the while, I found and dropped into my aisle seat, a chair adjacent to the gentleman pictured above and his traveling companion, a woman with whom I could not figure out their connection. She wore a wedding band. He did not. I generously thought that perhaps he lost his and hadn't yet purchased a new one. However, they didn't speak as familiarly as spouses do. Perhaps a new affair? Perhaps coworkers? Perhaps siblings? Just good friends? He held her hand. None of the above, I don't think. They started talking about association with people that sounded like they could have been grandkids. Maybe just a weird marriage . . . After all, in the corner of the photo you can see that the fifty-something woman is reading a graphic novel, and in my inherent snobbery I think graphic novels are bizarre and would be embarrassed to be seen reading one (so if ever I do start reading them, know that I'm doing in the closet and won't be confessing that little tidbit to you).

Anyhow, when I sat down and balanced my computer on my knees to respond to just one more email before I lost the WiFi signal, I overheard the woman say, There's technology all around you, Frank. You going to survive?

He grumbled something I didn't understand, and I thought, What a loon. It can't be that for the first time in my life I'm in proximity of my first small scale, authentic luddite can it? I must be mistaken. I thought they were a myth. (I would like that you not think me patronizing for linking you to the definition of luddite; it's not the most common of words and I thought if you weren't already in the loop, perhaps you'd like to be.)

But then, an hour or so into the 5-hour flight, the dude rummaged through his bag and produced a very stinky sandwich and a Discman. So I suppose technological opponents aren't modern-day unicorns; they're just an odd endangered species.

Pity the folks traveling long distances near me. For I will eavesdrop on their conversations, mentally critique their person and choices, and when I reach true hapless boredom I will break out my phone and secretly snap their picture to mock on my blog.

PUPPY LOVE

HAIR COLOR

I may not warsh my hair all that often, but when I do I have a lovely selection of cleaning products to choose from:


Ah, the little, pretty things in life.

WHAT'S NOT TO LOVE?

STOOL MIDGET

I have abbreviated legs.  So short that it's most comfortable to keep a little stool/ottoman under my desk to prop my feets upon.  

A nice little setup.

Unless the stool is occupied by someone smaller.

SAVAGE ALTRUISM

I kicked a dog.

With my nasty attitude, lack of verbal governor, and aversion to children, you'd think beating dogs would be a highlight of my day-to-day.

Oddly: not so.

I don't know what's happened to me, for I didn't used to be this way, but if I see a dog, I ask to pet it. If one of my docs brings their pup to work (which happens more than you'd expect), I'll get on the ground in my slacks and scuff up my shoes to get to know the animal. The arrival of the Soph induced the arrival of a new Meg. One that likes dogs. A whole bunch.

I would never, ever harm a dog.

Unless it has aims to harm mine.

Well, brother, in that case, I'll kill the canine with my bare hands. (Harsh, but teetering on the cusp of accurate.)

Got my own mama bear thing goin' on.

A few Fridays ago, the weather was something winter days only dream of, thus I thought appropriate a little vitamin D gathering. I put the leash on my Yorkie and we went on a walk to the mailbox down the road.

We walked, and suddenly, my right peripheral vision picked up movement. I glanced to see two dogs charging. Fast. Straight at my Soph. She saw them too and tried to run but was leather-bound to my wrist. I reached down to scoop her from the danger, but the first dog collided, knocking my arm away. From the side, the nasty beast body-slammed my teeny 5 lb animal, jaws wide.

So I kicked and shoved it out of the way, screaming (no, not yelling, screaming at a decibel only those who cross me or my family have encountered) for them to GET AWAY! I held the Soph, a shaking mass of fluff. She nestled into my neck as I muttered what bastards those dogs were, fantasizing about confronting the dogs' negligent, nowhere-to-be-found owner. Only fantasizing though, for I'm far too helpless a wuss for such confrontation.

The dogs had dashed from an open garage where I assume their mess of a master was puttering. My screams didn't even prompt a head-pop from the open door.

I now avow that if something like that happens again, I'm going to sic The Husband on that neighbor. A much scarier thing than you know.

The dog that bombarded my Soph, small by most standards--20 lbs or so--was a behemoth to my lil' terrier and had a trap the right size to rip into my arm, taking a chunk enough to please Shylock. It has to say something good about me that during the drama, I never considered the harm the dog could do to me, only to my Soph.

See, I'm selfless. Kicking that dog practically makes me a saint.

PHOTOS OF CHILDREN

I don't do kids. They are loud. They are sticky. There's a serous risk of offensive smells. They inhibit luxuriating in copious amounts of late sleeping. They get in the way of adult conversation.

But these two boys, I like 'em. A lot.


So I figured, since I'm a fan of Van and lack sans Jack, why not be like every other blogger out there and bore everyone with photos of cute kids?

Wow. It's so cool being one of the in-crowd.

Oh, and Holly, all of this is not to say that Elle wouldn't be welcome here at Casa Romo. I make exceptions for pretty, well-behaved little girls. (Of which the world offers few; so thanks for making Elle one of them.)

•••

And a very happy 2nd anniversary this 2nd of March to Mr. and Mrs. Thalman.

CATCERT

On Saturday-last . . .

Fact: you haven't lived until you've experienced Cat in Concert.  It illicits the kind of gut-vibrating laughter could bust open the top button of your jeans.  Could.

RETRO KICKS

LITTLE GIRLS GONE WILD

I walked into Toys R Us the other day.

Yes, I'll say it again in case you missed it. I walked into Toys R Us the other day.

And this was the first end-cap I encountered:


Me, audibly: "You have got to be kidding me."

Old Scratch's one clever bastard. Pink ouija boards. For the little girls.

REMEMBER MALLORY'S MEAT MEISTERS?