Flashback Freeway

"Sometimes, a writer finds buried treasures in places they remember. As you think about the geography of a place from your past, memories will surface as you think about the place where they occurred..."

This was the gist of a lesson I recently taught my students. Then, I drove off to my old stomping grounds for a long weekend, and I felt that lesson come alive in my mind.

Sometimes, you don't even have to visit a building or any specific location for this to happen. I learned this weekend that, in some cases, just driving down the road will be enough to stir the pot. As I drove alone on a few brief errands this weekend, I was overcome with memories.

I remembered driving down the road with one of my BFFs in a red Mustang, singing along with Celine & Meatloaf at the top of our lungs as the wind ripped through the car. (Don't laugh. That song was at the top of the charts then.)

I remembered driving on the interstate for the first time with Boyfriend K. I was terrified that the car in the lane next to me was moving in on my space. He laughed at me and my paranoia, and I laughed back. Terrified, still.

I remembered riding, stunned, with Boyfriend S after the "Meet the Parents Date". I was stunned because his mother had whipped out flossers after dinner and flossed her teeth RIGHT THERE AT THE TABLE. (I'm not sure if this redeems her at all, but she was polite enough to offer me a flosser, too...."Gee...thanks...I think I'm good, though.")

I remembered wondering what road we were on as I rode home in the back of someone's parent's station wagon from the Nelson concert, my ears still ringing. (Ahem, they were cool too, thank you very much.)

I remembered getting a ride home after school from Really Nice Guy Friend everyday, only later to discover he liked me all the while and I was too stupid and too wrapped up in my Loves Gone Bad to realize it. Hind sight is 20-20.

I remembered the day I spent with Short-Term Romance Boy as he got a tattoo on his ankle, somewhere on the other side of town. I have no idea when or where this was, but it was a sight that scared me out of a tattoo...for life!

I remembered riding in Boyfriend D's brand new Jeep one cool Florida night, feeling too grown up for my years.

I remembered cruisin' in a convertible the summer I retook Chemistry (yeah...Chemistry and I went together like oil and water...) with my Wannabe Model Friend. She looked in the rearview mirror more than she looked at the road. (Checkin' out her pouty look.) Then, we'd drive through Taco Bell for bean burritos and Dr. Pepper.

I remembered walking, after a movie, down the main drag in town while it was closed for construction. Laughing my head off at Guy Friend B's jokes. Who knew Raffi's "Baby Beluga" could be so funny?

I remembered the odd ritual of touching a screw in a girl friend's "bucket" of a car and hollering out "SCREW!!!" everytime we crossed a railroad track, as though her car would fall apart without our help.

I remembered "pushing" my "For Real" Model Friend's car - from the inside - everytime we went up a hill. "Go, go, go!" We were never sure if it could make it to the top.

I remembered walking with a Middle School Friend to the 7-11 outside her neighborhood and spending a few dollars on that crazy powder candy you dip a candy stick into and then lick off the stick. Afterwards, we dried fresh flowers in the microwave and rolled each other's hair.

I remember walking home in the rain after school. I remember cutting through the field, taking the short cut to Freshman BFF's house and having Dr. Pepper and bologna sandwiches. And laughing.

I remember the little sink hole on a corner around a few corners from my house. It totally freaked me out, so I walked a wide circle around it.

I remember standing outside my house after a great first date, with butterflies in my stomach. My face hurt from smiling so much. I don't remember where we went or what we did, but it was great.

I remember walking home from a friend's house when the street lamps came on, after a really silly afternoon of prank calling everyone we knew...and didn't know.

I remember riding downtown to a summer theater camp with a girl I barely knew, singing Richard Marx in the car. (Yes, he was cool then, too.)

I remember being so impressed when One Or Two Dates Boy had a CELL PHONE. (oooooh......) Sure, it was his mom's...but WOW! I also remember being stupid enough to believe his nonsense blabber about how it "worked on a grid system...blah blah blah...and if you move when you're on the phone it will lose the signal..." What??? No wonder boys got me in trouble so much.

Those moments truly are miles away from my present. Today, I find myself cruisin' the streets on the way to and from school and the dance studio, jamming to Hannah Montana with my NEW BFFs...Little Princess and Big Girl. My latest boy, FireDaddy, has a seat indefinitely reserved in my cool, white Pacifica. Sometimes, I still kiss the clock and make a wish when I glance down from the road at exactly 11:11. I still love to car dance on Target and Publix runs. And, everyday, when I look back in my rearview mirror, I smile at what I remember AND at what I see smiling back at me.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dotsi/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Just Sittin' Around, Talkin' About Boys

In some ways, I'll never grow up.

I was "tagged" in a Facebook note-meme this week called "Finish the Sentence". One sentence was particularly interesting.

I'll always.... and I completed it with ...be a daydreamer.

This is not to say that I am a "faraway" girl (i.e. can't focus on something smack dab in front of me because I'm hyper-focused on the clouds out the window or the hangnail on my thumb or something equally obscure). But, I am still the girl who looks in the mirror and wonders what I'm going to be when I grow up. I am still the same girl who imagines one day gracing the stage with my presence once again. I am still the same girl who believes in true love and fairy tales and dreams come true. I am still the same girl who dreams.
That sounds so sweet, doesn't it?

I will never grow up in other ways, too, though.

For instance, I will NEVER quit having girly crushes on handsome men. ...And something tells me I'm not alone in this.

I found myself tonight, as I was in a dreadfully boring inservice working late with some coworkers, talking about stars on whom we have had/currently have crushes. It started innocently enough. Someone had tickets to a concert coming up, this led to discussing othermusicians coming to town, and before I know it - my latest "musical crush" was revealed - Jack Johnson.

I know he's not the ABSOLUTELY MOST handsome man in the world -- but OH. MY. GOSH. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE his music and LOVE, LOVE, LOVE his voice. And, from what I make out (Hee! Hee! I said "make out" about Jack Johnson!) he is definitely cute. AND, he used to be a professional surfer! THAT'S HOT!!!

(Um, HELLO? I used to have pictures of Kelly Slater snipped from Teen magazine pinned to my bedroom wall. Don't get me started about surfers...)

After all, isn't that what a crush is? A silly infatuation for someone based on fluff? Often times, overrated fluff, at that...

Another crush of mine, as mentioned before in my photo mosaic meme, John Cusack. I have "loved" him since Say Anything. Come stand outside my window holding a ridiculously large (I mean, really? Where were iPods then?), antiquated, Peter-Gabriel-cassette-tape-playing boom box ANYDAY, baby.

Why? What is it about him?

I don't know. He's cute.

I could go on and say other, more mature, reasons. He's a talented actor. If you have seen Grace is Gone you would never argue against this point. He's intelligent. Have you seen him speak? He and I are politically like-minded. War, Inc. Yadda yadda yadda... He's cute. All that other stuff is icing on the cake. I also realized, while writing this, I like his voice, too. Perhaps there's something about a man's voice that makes him more attractive to me.

I could go on to name at least half a dozen other adorable men on whom I have crushes. And, yes, Fire Daddy is well aware of them. And, if, for some reason, he isn't, it's not because I have been hiding them from him. I mean, I know he LOVES Alyssa Milano and a few other "hot chicks". But that's not the point.


The point is...I guess I'll never really be too old for crushes and sitting around with girlfriends, giggling and making googly eyes as we drool over "boys" from afar.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy Birthday to Me

OK. It's not really my birthday.

You know how, when you're a kid, you track how close you are to your next birthday in fractions? I'm 5 AND A HALF. I'm 6 AND THREE QUARTERS. I'm ALMOST 10 (in two months).

Recently, I referred to my two darling daughters as 5 1/2 and 2 1/2. My husband corrected me, saying they were basically 6 and 3.

This did not make me happy. For numerous reasons.

1.) They are, if we must be accurate, 2 and 9.5 months and 5 and 9 months. They are NOT 6 and 3. I do not like to think of them aging any faster than necessary, thank you very much. As Big Girl knows all too well, they will be my babies forever -- even when they are grown women.

2. If their birthdays are coming up, then so is his......and mine. This isn't a big deal. Really. I'm quite comfortable with being thirty-one. Thirty-two, on the other hand, is not sounding nearly as comfie.

I remember my mother telling me of an age that really bothered her mentally. I think it was 25 or something completely ANCIENT like that. I thought I was past this after I nearly choked on 29. I'll never forget sitting in a booth at the Cheesecake Factory with my parents and Fire Daddy as Big Girl crawled all over my huge pregnant belly. I'll never forget thinking, "I'm going to be 29 and married with two kids. What happened to my life? Where has my youth gone???"

But, as Mother Dearest has always said, "What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger." I emerged on the other side of 29 a stronger, more confident woman. In fact, I rather like being thirty-one. I like being a "thirty-something". I've safely established myself as an adult -- out of the "pretend adult" years of your twenties. Yet, I'm still youthful and able to keep up relatively with the Spring Chicks. Except for weeknights. And I need a lot of notice so I can check the calendar and arrange for a babysitter. And I don't really like bars. I'd much prefer a restaurant, thanks.

Now, as soon as I find myself wearing my age proudly, my darling husband tells me it's time to move on? Um, that really doesn't work for me. Sorry. I'm not ready.

Thirty-one and I have so much more to do together. We need more time. I need to savor this while it lasts. I love it when people say, "You have two kids???" or "You've been teaching for 10 years? You look like you're right out of college!" OK. I know they're lying, or at least exaggerating...but I don't mind at all! I'm not Annie Lennox. (Crap. Did I just age myself?)

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing really WRONG with 32...except that it's not 31.

I just don't know if I'm ready for such a drastic change. It's all moving so fast. I mean, shouldn't we start with coffee? Maybe a lunch date? Perhaps if we just slow things down, get to know each other a little bit better first?

I guess I do still have four months and ten days to get ready for the big day.

Heating and Venting

Excuse me, readers. Can I just vent for a minute, please? Duh. Of course I can...it's MY blog...

Is it just me? Am I just getting old? Is my blood thinning?

I am SO TIRED of being COLD!

I can deal with the outside temps dipping below freezing a dozen or so nights in the season. (Yes, I said a dozen. I live in North Florida, people.) Though I'd rather not have to deal with the "4 Ps", as my local weathermen so often call it, I will buck up and take it like a Real Woman if I must. I'm getting much faster at dawning my Payless Ugs and wool coat over my pajamas as I grab my trusty yellow flashlight and scurry out to drip the faucets and cover my few surviving potted plants.

I can deal with making a point to rush out and start the car up twenty minutes before I need to leave for school in the morning so it will be a steamy 76 degrees before my girls and I have to load up. Thank you to my oh-so sophisticated car thermostat and heater!

I can tolerate my Big Girl's mental meltdowns and emotional breakdowns every morning as she climbs in the car on days with temperatures 60 degrees or less. I also can tolerate the struggle my Little Girl puts up every darn day that we ask her to wear a jacket. I can plan my wardrobe to always include a light jacket so I do not turn into an icicle in my classroom each and everyday of the entire school year. (Thank you ever so much, Mr. School District Man, for taking away the school's rights to control their own heating and cooling systems.)

What I cannot understand is why my darling Fire Daddy is SO insistent that 65 degrees is a reasonable temperature at which to set your home thermostat. I cannot understand why it is acceptable for me to be forced to dress like a bag lady at 3 o'clock in the afternoon in my own home. I cannot understand why one warm-natured man gets to control the thermostat while three other residents suffer from frost-bitten fingers and toes.

I also cannot understand how two people can sleep in the same room and in the same bed at night, yet one requires an extra blanket, socks, long pants, long-sleeved shirt, and a hoodie sweatshirt, while the other sleeps in nothing but his underoos and needs to stick a leg out from under the covers to keep from getting too warm.

I also don't understand how, a mere handful of years ago, I was just as warm as he was.

I've got to wonder...is this another little favor for which I should thank my Heroine Hormones? Golly, girls. Thanks a lot.

Bocephus On My Mind

This post has been a long time in the coming. It pertains to a topic that I have only alluded to in the past, but a topic that is very prevalent in my everyday life.

No, I'm not talking about Hank Williams, Jr., for those of you who know who Bocephus is. (Although, I do have very fond memories spawning from a different era of my life involving a certain gold-flecked adult beverage and this song. But, that's another post entirely. For now, why don't you indulge yourself, as I am right now, and listen to this song a little...let down your hair and let your mind wander back to younger, more carefree days, as you sing along and do a little soft stepping in your mind. Have fun. This post will be here when you come back.)

I'm talking, instead, about my darling beagle, Bo. Yes, his official name is "Bocephus". Fire Daddy named him that after I adopted Bo for him as a birthday gift from the Humane Society some 7 or 8 years ago. (Am I the only one who has trouble keeping track of the years now?) I'll never forget that day.

After visiting the animal shelter to just "check it out", I walked out with the only beagle they had. A beagle named Lou. My friend and partner in crime (she, herself, a lover of hounds and owner of bassets Winston and Stonewall), accompanied me to the nearest pet store to purchase the necessities. From there, I delivered the supplies to our apartment and immediately drove with Lou (certain this would not be his name for long) to the fire station.

Fire Daddy recalls hearing his fire brethren announce as I entered the bay, "Some lady's here with a dog." Somehow, for some reason, he knew it was me....with a dog I had not told him I was purchasing. (Because I didn't intend to, remember?)

We sat in the day room, giggling and watching him follow that compulsive beagle nose to every nook and cranny within walking distance. When the subject of names came up, it did not take long for Fire Daddy to pronounce him Bocephus - much to my objection. When the shortened version of Bo was explained, I reluctantly agreed.

Bo was his dog that day...and, perhaps, only that day. Ever since then, he has been mine. With the exception of cuddling into the cozy butt cave, Bo prefers me and always has. (You're probably wondering what the butt cave is...Fire Daddy lays on the couch with his legs propped on one end. Bo sees an opportunity for warmth and snuggles right up to his hind quarters, tucked under his thighs.)

Bo and I spent many sleepy evenings alone, cuddled on the couch together in that apartment. Fire Daddy worked hours and hours, days and days at a time, of overtime that year. You see, not only did we adopt our first child (Bo) that year, but we conceived our first baby, too. As my belly grew and my energy continually waned, Bo stayed by my side. When he would no long FIT by my side, he moved to the his perch on back of the couch.

I would arrive home from teaching, drag my weary, pregnant bones on his extra long walk around the apartment complex, and then crash for a "little nap", only to wake up at midnight, still in my clothes, and take him on his "bedtime" walk. It was safe. I had my vicious, guard dog to protect me. Then, because sleeping in his own kennel only lasted ....mmmmmm....two nights?, we would curl up in bed together until he beat my alarm to the punch in the early morning hours. (Growing boys wake up hungry.)

As we prepared for Big Girl's grand entrance, I read everything I could find on how to properly introduce the two children (yes, I'm referring to Bo and the baby); how to set their relationship off on the right foot. When she finally arrived at our apartment for the first time, after the hospital kicked us out at 9 PM on a Tuesday night (exactly 48 hours after delivery -- and not a minute more, Mr. Insurance Man), it was precious to watch him as he cautiously craned his neck, stretching his body to nearly twice its normal length, gingerly letting his nose investigate this curious creature without getting too close. Another moment I'll never forget. The meeting could not have gone smoother.

Now, fast forward nearly a month to our first July 4th together as a newly expanded family unit. Fire Daddy, as always on the Fourth, was at work. (Hello? Firecrackers everywhere? That's a busy night in his line of work.) I, on the other hand, was at home alone with a brand new baby, who still had her days and nights reversed, and a dog who was COMPLETELY FREAKED OUT by firecrackers. I recall that night very seriously considering jumping from the second story window in the baby's room. I thought the barking and screaming that night would never end.

It did eventually end, however. Since then, Bo has continued to provide us with amazing memories. For instance, there was the night he ate the chicken bones. Well, this actually happened on many occasions, but one night took the cake...er, the bones.

Fire Daddy's brother (we call him Diego Montana) was in town, preparing to fly out the next day for a camping trip on the West coast. We had enjoyed a lovely grilled meal of chicken wings, grilled corn on the cob, and some other scrumptious items that I do not recall. I, as usual, had tucked myself and Princess #1 (this was before Little Sister joined us) into bed at an early hour (this was also before the days of my compulsive insomnia), while the boys stayed up late chatting, giggling (yes, boys giggle), and compiling camping gear from each one's collection of supplies.

The excitement didn't begin until after midnight, when Fire Daddy quietly crept into our dark bedroom. The lights out throughout the house, I barely cracked my eyes in my sleep, until I realized Bo was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Bo?" I mumbled.

"He's not with you?"

"No...he was with you guys." I sat up, sensing danger.

Fire Daddy made the rounds in the house, calling in a hoarse whisper for Bo to come to bed. No response. I could feel the anger surge through my veins, sure that those silly boys were to blame for whatever bad event was to come of this...because nothing good would, I was sure.

After he returned to our room, without a four-legged companion, my panic grew. I questioned him about their actions throughout the night. When I learned they were in the garage for a period of time, digging through Rubbermaid tubs of camping gear, I knew what had happened. Bo was surely in the garage.

And he was.

He lumbered slowly, painfully into the kitchen once we opened the door. He had been waiting for us in the dark, poor thing. But we didn't know the half of it yet.

Why hadn't he scratched at the door? What had he been doing out there all that time? It had been at least half an hour...perhaps even a whole hour?

Dear God...check the trash.

You see, we learned long before that any items of potential danger needed to go directly to the outside trash. Beagles, and their noses, are quite resourceful. The beagle owner down the street had warned us of their beagle's amazing talents that led them to padlocking their refrigerator. Consequently, we had child locks on all our cabinets long before we had any children. We kept all trash cans securely behind closed (and locked) doors from the first day Bo joined our family. You learn fast when you learn the hard way.

The evidence did not bode well for poor Bo. The hole in the trash bag. (For some reason, that week, we had more trash than the two large cans we maintain could handle.) The hole in the plastic grocery bag INSIDE the black bag. The plastic grocery bag that had neatly packaged our chicken bones and corn cobs, that is. The TWENTY-FIVE chicken bones from our dinner for four. The twenty-five chicken bones that were, now, nowhere to be seen.

We returned to the kitchen like soldiers in retreat, our heads hung in despair and disappointment. Bo, bloated and moaning, lay on the den floor, waiting with his guilt.

We began Emergency Chicken Bone Procedures immediately. Amazingly, Bo ate the entire can of prescription I/D dog food we kept on hand for just such emergencies. (We'd been through a lot with him already.) After a brief heated discussion, we resigned to go to bed and try to sleep while we wait. Wait for the inevitable. I felt sure my dog would die this time.

The symptoms emerged around 6 AM. Fire Daddy was due at the station by 8, so he dressed early and carried Bocie into the vet. I, scared and alone, stayed to dress Big Girl and deliver us both to our daily destinations.

I can recall, on the quiet, somber ride that morning, my little girl asking me about Bo. Without the words, energy, or strength to tell explain the events of the night before or my predictions for the future, I simply replied that he wasn't feeling well and was at the doctor. Her childhood innocence allowed her to accept it at that and move on. I envied her ignorance.

My stomach was in knots throughout the whole of the day. News of Bo's condition was hard to come by. Especially since Fire Daddy was the primary contact for the vet -- and you know how men are with details.

In the end, though, the news was good. There was no blockage. After a few rounds of charcoal and hundreds of dollars in x-ray film (not to mention THE REST of the bill), Bo was released that evening. The vet was amazed he survived. In fact, he referred to Bo as a Miracle Dog. In all his years in veterinary medicine, he had NEVER seen that many chicken bones crammed in a dog's stomach and intestines. EVER. (I guess he's an overachiever, like me.)

This would not be the last time Bo amazed us and his doctors. Since that day, Bo has suffered from pancreatitis after catching a squirrel and liver disease. (His liver functions were literally off the charts. I took him in because he wasn't eating, had an upset tummy, and was generally "acting a little down". Again, they were floored he was not dead. Full recovery within twenty-four hours.) We, the doctors and I, have learned that Bo is an extraordinary dog.

As I type this post, listening to his ridiculously loud snoring on the couch behind me, my heart smiles. He's a crazy dog. He's a naughty dog. He's a slightly overweight dog. But, he loves me. He licks my tears. He cuddles with me when I'm sick. He is always happy to see me, and thrilled just to sit on my lap and get a little love. Sure, he toots when he stretches...and it's really gross. But, I forgive him. He's my boy. He's Bocephus.

Arrrrgh These Pirate Boots?

So, I got this great pair of boots not too long ago - they've been PERFECT for a teacher/Mommy. They're flat, so I can stand in them all day without any pain. They're warm, so they are perfect for those rare, cold Florida days. AND, they look great with dresses and skirts! They're cute with tights, with leggings, or bare legs for a more casual look on milder days. Win-win, right?

The first day I wore them, I got a ton of compliments (from my younger, hipper friends...which made them even more meaningful!). However, that night at dinner, my husband said, "WHAT are THOSE???" On every occasion since then that I've worn them (not to mention everytime he's seen them laying under the bar stool where I traditionally cast aside my shoes each evening), he turns on the pirate voice and says, "Arrrgh, there's a pirate in me house!"

OK. I can deal with my husband (who has been known to dress in what looks like full camping gear to go shopping or to dinner) making these remarks. I can easily dismiss them as a silly man's lack of fashion sense. However, recently at work, a friend greeted me with a smile, a hug, and the words, "Look at you in your cute pirate boots, girlie!"

WHAT!?!

Now, my neurotic self has developed a complex. I'm working hard to let my sense of humor carry me through this one. I mean, I'm working HARD. I try desperately to ignore the pirate-y taunts in my mind as I pull on these cozy, comfie, suede boots. Melanie and I have even started conversing and tweeting in pirate-speak, to help me make light of my pirate paranoia. However, I've decided that I need feedback from you.

What do you think? Are these boots too pirate-y to be pretty? Do I look like I'm missing my eye patch and parrot? Should they have come with a hook neatly tucked inside the shoebox? Tell me what you think!

As for the photograph, courtesy of aforementioned husband, I have to laugh. Do you know how many inches of LEG I had to cut out of this picture??? Ask a man to take a picture of your shoes with caution -- your bootie may make the shot, too!

OMD and ODD

I cannot relate.

I've heard a lot about it, though.

OMD.

Have you heard of it?

The technical name is "Old Man's Disease".

I first heard about it from my husband's former lieutenant a few years back. He's about ten years older than Fire Daddy, but they became very close, given their close quarters at the station. (...but that's another post) As I understand it, there are some very specific symptoms that accompany this illness.

1. Changes in sleep patterns. Namely, the patient has to get up multiple times throughout the night to pee. They develop mild narcolepsy, as well, resulting in multiple cat naps throughout the day. Bedtime shifts to a much earlier hour (8 or 9), resulting in earlier waking hour (5, 6, or 7 - even on weekends. In some extreme cases, 4 AM has been documented.)

2. Changes in temperament. Remember the movie Grumpy Old Men? They weren't kidding. Some theories suggest this is a side effect of the aforementioned symptom. Others site other causes.

3. Changes in physical strength and endurance. The patient may begin to feel as though they are a fading version of their younger self. They find that they fatigue quicker and suffer from heightened aches and pains after exertion.

4. Perceived differently by other males. Patients may report overhearing their male "peers" (term used loosely) refer to them as "the old man", especially during group fitness activities or physical challenges.


Fire Daddy and I are pretty young, though of a respectable age. However, I watch with caution as I begin to recognize shadow symptoms of this pervasive disease encroach into our home.

My greatest concern is for another member of my family, though.

Are you familiar with ODD? It's closely related to OMD. In fact, it could be considered the canine version: Old Dog's Disease. The symptoms are very much the same. My heart breaks for my poor Bo. He's been a very good dog -- overall. (Believe me, I've got a few whoppers to share...but that's another post.)


Perhaps I should share some of my observations.

1. Changes in sleep patterns. I know this sounds next to impossible. I mean, sleep is like a third (at least) of a normal, healthy, all American dog's day! However, I've actually noticed my Baby Bo sleeping MORE. What's particularly alarming is that he's now the last one out of bed each day. This is the dog that, in his younger years, woke us impatiently before 6 AM to be fed breakfast -- seven days a week.

2. Changes in temperament. Thankfully, this has been for the better. I've noticed Bo is MORE tolerant of my daughters' attempts to show affection. He's INCREDIBLY loving now. In fact, one might refer to him as ... NEEDY. It's kind of sad. Poor baby...

3. Changes in physical strength and endurance. When we first adopted Bo from the Humane Society, we lived in an apartment. Consequently, he was leash walked -- VERY FREQUENTLY. I'm talking, on a Saturday or a Sunday, he required 5-7 LONG walks per day. (This came in very handy for me when I was at home alone on maternity leave -- the baby weight literally fell off.) He was walked so frequently, in fact, that the painters who were redoing the exterior of the buildings commented one day, "That dog goes on more walks than any dog I know." Additionally, each walk was fast-paced and required a lot of strength and discipline on our part to maintain control of the route.

Now? Well, we'll put it this way. On more than one occasion, Bo has booted one of the girls from the stroller. One time, Fire Daddy had to CARRY HIS 30 POUND BOOTIE HOME -- FOR A MILE. Have you seen those cool new strollers now that have a hidden seat in the back where the basket would normally go? I need one of those hidden seats on my double jogging stroller for Bo.

4. Perceived differently by other males. Well, I can't really attest to how he is perceived by other male DOGS, but I can say that my father, my brothers, and Fire Daddy's brother ALL made remarks about how heavy poor Bo was looking when they saw him this holiday season.

Boys. They're so mean to my little Chunky Monkey.


I don't know what to do about my boys. I guess I'll keep them.

Snatch This!

Yes, traditionally a meme is PASSED around. Yes, I know, you really aren't supposed to steal it from people, but this looked like too much fun. And she did it first.

Here's a little hubbie fun for you to enjoy.

A Meme for My Bebe



1. He's sitting in front of the TV. What's he watching? Comedy Central (Daily Show and Colbert Report), military channel, history channel

2. You are out to eat, what kind of dressing does he get on his salad? Ranch, preferably Hidden Valley. He has renamed it "The White Ketchup".

3. What's one food he doesn't like? Mushrooms. (Wienie. I think it's where it grows...which is a rediculous reason not to eat something -- especially coming from an ADULT.)

4. You go out to a bar, what does he order? Beer -- Miller Lite is frequent, but he likes a wide variety, depending on his mood.

5. Where did he go to High School? Orange Park High School

6. What size shoe does he wear? 12?

7. If he were to collect anything, what would it be? OH. MY. GOSH. OK, he just THIS YEAR got rid of the 12 boxes of G.I. Joe, Star Wars, and Transformers toys that were in our garage! But, those were old collections. Currently, he would like to/sort of does collect pocket knives.

8. What is his favorite sandwich? The Jenny. Ham, turkey, two slices of cheese (usually meunster, but he likes American, too), ranch, mustard and mayo. It's named after me because I make it...I RARELY eat it.

9. What would he eat every day if he could? Steak, scrambled eggs, bacon, grits, and biscuits. His dad is from Kentucky, and Breakfast is his specialty.

10. What is his favorite cereal? He eats cereal, but doesn't really LOVE it. Honey Nut Cheerios?

11. What would he never wear? Short shorts. (I'm laughing just picturing it. -- He has bird legs.)

12. What is his favorite sports team? Football: Gators and Jaguars. Basketball: Kentucky Wildcats, though he isn't a huge basketball fan.

13. Who will he vote for? Obama. We're very pro-environment and education. He would like to see less government, but doesn't like the McCain's about-face on all his previous stands.

14. Who is his best friend? Me! And his brother. (He may say it in the reverse order...)

15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn't do? How much time do you have??? He'd like me to stop changing my clothes 50 times each morning, for one. Call me when you've got about an hour and I'll share more. :)

16. How many states has he lived in? Two. Tennessee (for about 18 months) and Florida ever since.

17. What is his heritage? Well, what would you accept as "heritage"? His "heritage" according to HIM is Tennessee and Kentucky. He really doesn't know much beyond his parents and grandparents. We've done a little research on his decent and are starting to think he is of British ancestry...but that's really only a hypothesis. (This picture is his Mamaw's old country store in Dawson Springs, Kentucky.)

18. You bake him a cake for his birthday, what kind of cake is it? Cheesecake. With EXTRA graham cracker crust.

19. Did he play sports in High School? Wrestling and Cross Country

20. What could he spend hours doing? Camping. Hiking. Reading about camping and hiking. Reading about Native American history, philosophy, culture, etc. Otherwise, sleeping and watching TV. (He "requires" a lot of sleep...)

Your turn! Steal this meme and be sure to leave me a link in a comment! It's fun! Try it!

P.S. If you don't have a blog, you can just leave a really long comment here!