I feel like I got hit by a Scion.

If I ever live with someone again, it's going to be that person's job to put me to bed, because I am dumb about that. I am dead tired. I am so tired I can barely focus my eyes. But the thought of getting up to take out my contacts and wash my face seems even more exhausting than sitting here, so I'm still sitting here.

I feel like I got hit by a truck. But, I actually got hit by a Scion.

My poor Carly.  :(

Porter in the tow truck.

This morning, I woke up to take a shelter dog on KDKA-TV with my friend Jim Krenn. It went pretty well, see? Then I ran home to pick up my foster Beagle, Porter, because I wanted to take him to work with me. 

So, I put Porter in my Subaru and decided to go a different way to work. Everyone knows that the Squirrel Hill tunnels are hell on Earth, so I never, ever drive through them. I always drive through Squirrel Hill. But today, since it was President's Day and the roads seemed clear, I decided to get onto the highway. I was driving in stop-and-go traffic on 376-East when I got plowed into from behind.  Porter went flying and at first I didn't even think about anything else, just Porter. Then I realized I had been hit.

Porter was ok. So was I and the other driver. She actually couldn't have been nicer. She was young and pretty, wore lovely gold eyeshadow, and she felt so badly that she cried the whole time we exchanged info. I was in shock, just staring at my car, so she sort of took charge. At one point I pulled a piece of her headlight out of my trunk and handed it to her.

My insurance company sent a tow truck. I emptied my car and loaded several bags, my lunch box, and my Beagle into the tow truck. Porter just cuddled into me as we rode off, with my battered car on the flatbed behind us.

We went to the collision center and Porter waited sweetly by my chair. 

If you have to have a bad day, have it with a Beagle.

The car rental company came and gave me the biggest minivan in the world, I think--a Town and Country. I could drive a whole soccer team in this thing. It was so big that Porter could get his front half in, but then his back legs just scrambled and I had to hoist him.

I was feeling sort of discombobulated so I drove to my parents' house and let myself in. It seemed like the best thing to do at the time. By that time my neck and lower back were starting to hurt pretty badly, so I called my dad's chiropractor and made an appointment. 

I'm not sure how long it will take to fix my car and back, but I'm glad I had my little Beagle with me today.

I'm really, really tired.

Beagles are so sincere.

I love having a foster Beagle.

Porter the paleontologist.

I asked my mom if she liked Porter, and she replied, "What's not to like?" It's as simple as that. He has such a sunny disposition. The little guy looks up at me with an expression that's so innocent, so hopeful, and so sweet. Every moment seems to give him such unabashed delight. It's a pleasure to watch him pad around.

He's also a quick learner. It's fun watching a creature who doesn't know anything about our world start to process and comprehend things. When I met him, he was afraid of me, toys, swinging doors and every household noise. Now he's gained confidence, knows his name, and obligingly obeys when I say "Come," "Wait," and "Sit."

He also knows a couple unique phrases...like when I'm cold and I want to go back inside, I say, "Time to go in," and he knows that he has to hurry up and decide which bush to pee on before he gets hauled back into the house. I can read the expression on his face as it changes to "Oh darnit, fine, I'll just pee here!"

Firefly the cat is making progress, too.

Look! She is ALMOST in the same room as the Beagle.

Firefly, my 13-and-a-half-year-old Butterscotch Calico, is not a friendly cat. She's sweet and lovable with me but get visibly pissed off when I have visitors. I did not expect her to adjust well to Porter. In fact, I thought she might present a dealbreaker, and I'd have to sheepishly end my foster period at the adamant behest of my cat.

My co-workers suggested that Firefly would "get used" to having a foster dog, but I couldn't make them understand that I didn't want her to have to suffer, even temporarily. I didn't even want to upset her for five minutes! She's a cranky cat, but she's been by my side through thick and thin and I love her with all my heart.

Anyway, she's definitely pissed... Every day when the Beagle and I get home from work, Firefly runs to greet us at the door, discovers that Porter is still with me, and bristles as though she's saying, "Are you kidding me? Again?!" Then she storms off.

But I've developed a good routine, which Porter knows and obeys. Porter gets shut in his bedroom when Firefly eats, wants to cuddle with me, and goes to bed at night.

And to my huge surprise, having a foster dog has made my feisty cat friendlier! It's like she's competing for the attention that she used to take for granted. She'll now come out to socialize with guests, and when Porter is in his bedroom, Firefly climbs all over me, desperate for affection. I'm always very happy to give it to  her.

My muppet.

I've been thinking about the quote "Happiness [is] only real when shared." It might be a bit of a stretch to apply the sentiment to pet ownership, but my life feels significantly richer these days. I feel lots of love, and I feel like I want to give it to others. I feel more patient. I feel less concerned with trivial worries. I feel more like myself.

Thanks, foster Beagle!

Recipe for mending a broken heart in 50 days

If someone comes along and devastates you--ruins you for what will feel like the rest of your life--you will feel very lucky if you can do the following:

Find good friends. 

Cry to your mom, if she'll hear it. Schedule dinners and brunches with people who love you, even if your limbs feel too heavy to pull out of bed, even if you know you're going to cry in front of them and come home feeling soggy, drained and bruised. Let a very good friend tuck you into their bed and hold you while you weep. 

Find a professional.

He or she will probably say the same things that your friends are telling you, like, "It's better to know about this now than later" but somehow it will sink in differently. 

Find someone who's worse off than you are, and help them.

Maybe a sick, abused dog who no longer trusts anyone either. You can learn to trust each other.

Find good things.

Be relentless about this. Feed yourself good food. See doctors. Exercise. Get enough sleep. Get a haircut. Buy a new couch if you can. Make crafts. Try Zumba even if it makes you feel feel like a flailing muppet in a sea of mermaids. 

Find the holes in your story.

Why is your heart so broken? Maybe the story you were telling yourself was never true. Maybe you weren't as happy as you wanted to believe you were. Maybe now you can finally stop walking on eggshells all the time. 

Find out what you've been overlooking.

Maybe, just maybe, the sweet, deadpan guy you never seriously considered is flirting with you. And maybe he's secretly funny. Maybe you should let him take you to an arcade. Be nice to him, even if you're still trying to quell the banshee inside. He might be just what you need. 

I wanna be your dog

It's official. Porter has moved in for one month as my Foster Dog.

Porter, if you're new here, was rescued by Humane Officers when another dog in his home was beaten the death with a metal bar. Porter has heartworm and an upper respiratory infection, and needs a quiet place to recover.

It turns out that it's really easy to foster this sick little Beagle. So easy, in fact, that I keep thinking I'm doing it wrong. This is what he does most of the time:

This is how he commutes back and forth to work with me:

And this is how adorable he is when I tuck him in at night:

He has his own bedroom and futon.

It's been a long time since I've lived in a multi-species household, and even though it's a little complicated, I quickly remembered how much I love it. A home feels really good with both a dog and a cat in it. Last night when I got home from the gym, Firefly gave me her sweet, sincere hello and Porter did did the full-out doggie routine of "Oh my god I thought I'd never see you again!" It was great.

The kids. 

But the best part has been watching Porter learn how to be a dog. He's four years old, so normally, this wouldn't be remarkable. But, Porter spent his first four years living outside under the care of an animal abuser. So, I've been able to witness as he discovered, for the very first time:

- Dog toys. He's terrified of them. So, we've had to find and invent games he likes, like running through a blanket, bullfighter-style. Then he wiggles around under the blanket, wagging his crazy little tail.

Porter and me.

- Windows. He's fascinated by them.

- Cuddling. He's still timid about this, but he'll put his head and elbows in my lap while his back legs and butt stand up and wiggle.

It's wonderful to see his sweet, pleasant little mind work, too. He doesn't seem to know what any words mean, and it only seemed to click this week that the shelter gave him a name: Porter. But, he aims to please. Whenever he does something wrong, he'll only do it until I correct him and then he promptly obliges. Porter wants very much to be a good dog.

Today we're going to go to a dog wash and give him a bath. Then we're going to the pet food store because even though Porter will eat brussels sprouts, he won't eat Kibbles n Bits! In between that, I'm hoping to score Pearl Jam tickets. Wish me luck!

awesome.

Last night I got stuck inside a dream

Last night, for the first time, I was fully aware of being trapped inside a dream.

I kept waking up all through the night, and getting frustrated about it because I wanted to be able to wake up to meet my friend Line early in the morning. But then, suddenly, it was Monday and I was in my office. 

i was here

It was a stressful work day because people kept coming in and interrupting my train of thought, and my phone kept ringing with work calls, and I kept trying to keep up with my emails. Then, all of a sudden, I thought, "Wait, what happened to Sunday?"

And I thought back, and I realized that the last thing I remembered was trying to fall back to sleep in my bed. I realized then that I was dreaming, but I didn't know how to stop. I thought, "Usually the dream ends when you realize you're dreaming." But I kept looking around my office, and the dream wouldn't dissolve. 

Then I thought, "This is weird, because there's nothing bizarre about this dream." I looked at my paperwork, and it was all my real, actual paperwork. I spun around in my chair and saw all my binders and books lined up. Nothing was out of place or dreamlike. And it just kept going on like that, every dreadfully realistic detail about being at work on a Monday.

I really wanted to stop dreaming, though, so I kept doing things, like jumping up and down, and trying to scream. But I was still stuck there. Meanwhile, I was worried that it might not be a dream and I was just going crazy. I was worried that if it wasn't a dream, someone would see me doing those crazy things. 

Then I lay down on my floor and told myself, "I'm really in my bed. My dresser is on my right. My bedroom window is on my left. There are pillows and blankets." But instead I could just feel the floor and carpet in my office. I was starting to panic. 

Then my office phone rang. I picked it up and it was my best friend, Madge. Madge told me not to worry because she was sending help. Then I looked up and I saw that there was someone standing in the hall outside my office wearing a white gown. I went out and there was an angel, with wings, with her eyes closed, and she took me in her arms and we started to float. 

And then, I found myself back in my bed.

Yeah for real.


............

In other news, these are a few of my favorite things today:

Scrabble, NOT Words with Friends, although I'm stuck slumming it in Words with Friends because that's what everyone else plays. Why?

Apples to Apples, which I played for the first time last night. The game starts with a green card -- a descriptor. Then you have to play a card in your hand that matches, however bizarrely, that descriptor. Each player takes turns judging the answers and picking the winner of the round. I played poorly at first because I was playing with some people I had just met. Then, I started to figure out how everyone ticks, and I knew that Caitlin would think that wine tastings are "cosmopolitan" and Matt would think that Stonehenge is "fancy."  

Matt and I get along, incidentally, because we both thought "pigeons" were best described as "intense," even more intense than "tornadoes." 

Sea foam green nail polish that matches my iPhone. Okay really my iPhone; I succumb!!!

This.

Holy crap Porter the Beagle is totally grinning at me. You can't even say he's not. 

Take two Beagles and call me in the morning

This...is Porter.   (meant to be read with awe and wonderment.)

omg

When you work around animals, everyone always asks, "How do you not want to adopt them all?" And I explain that you go through this phase, in the beginning, when you think Fate personally picked out each and every animal just for you, and you weep every time one of them finds a home without you.

But then, as the years go by, you make peace with the fact that you play a temporary role in the animals' lives. Or, maybe it's a form of self-preservation when all of the animals actually start to blend together, a little.

But then, suddenly, one animal will come along out of the blue and break your whole heart.

case in point.

That was Porter the day I discovered him in his kennel. He had lived with another dog who, a week earlier, was senselessly beaten to death with a metal rod. You can see how frightened and sick Porter was when this picture was taken, but you can't see that his tail, which he was sitting on, was attempting a forlorn wag.

It turns out that Porter tested positive for heartworm, a serious and potentially fatal disease. This means he has several weeks of intense treatment ahead of him and he needs a safe place to help him remain as sedate as possible. This is perfect timing for me, because I am treating myself for heartache, and I need a safe presence to help me remain as sedate as possible.

So now, officially, Porter is my Office Foster Dog! He lives and eats and naps with me while I work.

It is amazing.

here. hold this.

There are so many good things about having a Beagle sleep behind you while you work. First of all, it makes me close my office door, which keeps me from wandering down the hall to to complain about the phone call I don't want to return or to compliment my co-workers' cute shoes. In other words, it's quiet and I focus. Also, Porter makes these little sleepy moaning noises that soften my cold, black heart, and make me want to be kind to everyone. And he certainly puts deadlines and other drudgery into perspective: animals, like Porter's own brother, are sometimes beaten to death. We have a lot of work to do.

snore, snuk, zzzzz

I like to think that the Office Foster arrangement has been good for Porter, too. I made this little collage to show his progress from:

- Terrified
to
- Still hating me, but tolerating me a little
- Starting to think I am a-ok
to, finally
- Cheerfully asking me if I need his help with anything

He's blossoming! Just look at his sweet, trusting face!

In time, I might be able to start fostering Porter at home, too (!!) but right now he needs to stay close to the shelter for treatment and care. I might even be able to adopt him...

I feel unbelievably lucky that Porter came into my life when I needed a dose of love, motivation and perspective. I think I need to take care of somebody else right now.

The only puzzle I have no idea how to sort out is this one:

she sparkles (even if only to me)

My adorable, beloved, crankypants CAT! She hates dogs! What am I going to do? I can't make her live with one, can I? After 13 devoted years together, my cat is definitely entitled to have some input in this household.

I'm not sure what will happen, but it will take about two months to treat the heartworm and release Porter for adoption, so for now, Porter and I can mend our hearts together.

mwah!

Feelings, wo-o-o feelings

Mother effing feelings!

It's physically exhausting going around with all these stupid feelings all the time.

Men don't seem to be so burdened by feelings. I think that's because
a) some men are completely heartless and
b) the rest learn, early on, to put their feelings somewhere that's not right up on the surface.

I noticed that when [a lot of] guys talk on the phone with their friends, it sounds something like this:

"Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah. Fuckin' right. It's like, yeah, you know what I'm saying? Yeah. Yep. Naw. Okay dude. Later."

And when I say, "Oh, what's new with your buddy?" the guy will respond, inexplicably, "I don't know, we didn't talk about it."

But when girls talk to each other, we go straight to feelings. Are you happy? Is your relationship going well? Are you succeeding at work? How is your family? Are your hobbies fulfilling? Is this where you thought you'd be at your age? Is your elderly cat still eating? Is she responding well to the probiotics? etc. etc. etc.

At least, that's how my girlfriends and I talk to each other. I hope it's not just because of me.

I think my big feelings are something that people (who like me) like about me. I love large. My good moods are euphoric. But the pitfalls are that people who can't handle me can't handle those big feelings, and when those feelings are hurt, they are debilitating.

Right now, I'm working on nurturing good feelings. I'm trying to sleep more, manage stress, eat fresh and natural foods, read for pleasure, get massages, exercise well and spend time with positive people.

In related news: these are a few of my favorite things today:

My office dog, Porter. Porter came to the shelter when the other dog he lived with was beaten to death. Porter is now recovering from lots of anxiety and heart worm, so I'm honored to welcome him into the peace and quiet of my office during the work days. For the first time in I have no idea how long, I genuinely can not wait to get to my office tomorrow.

Porter, I need the budget analysis for the Henderson report, stat!

The movie Singles. Get ready for a blog about that. I was just no where near your neighborhood.

"I miss you. The way you used to look at me."

The chocolate chip cookies my mom made me yesterday with caramelized butter. Here is the recipe. You're welcome.

And this guy, always. I'm having a frenaissance with Eddie Vedder --like I needed one, I know!--after my dad soothed me by putting on PJ Twenty when I visited them yesterday. Pearl Jam exhilarates and delights me like nothing else. It's such a reliable source of comfort.

What a different life, had I not found this love with you.

Stop wielding my name like that

I've been Googling around, trying to figure out whether:

- using a person's name is a known act of passive aggression
- or maybe I'm just oversensitive.

When I was little, my mom and dad never called me by my first name unless I was in trouble. It's worth noting that I rarely got in trouble, but I was always called "Poodle" or "Boo," until I, say, forgot to pull the shower curtain inside the bath tub when I showered, and my dad would discover the flooded bathroom and bellow my first name through the house in a terrifying tenor.

"Hey, sweetie," meant that dinner was ready, or that maybe cookies were done cooling and ready to eat. But when my first name echoed through our home, I knew I had done something wrong.

Years later, when I started dating, my boyfriends and I never called each other by our first names...unless we were fighting. One man knew I was upset with him when I addressed him by name instead of the sweet nickname that usually bounced off my tongue. The last man I dated called me things like "Baby" or "Cupcake" until our relationship ended in a series of mean-spirited emails, in which he explained to me, using my first name, comma, just how absurd I was being. I knew he was using my name to convey his condescension via the written word.

My best friend Madge says my name, but always adds a sweet suffix or substitutes the word "Munkin," (which she once blurted out, hilariously and accidentally, when she was thinking of both "Monkey" and "Pumpkin"). I don't say her name, either, unless I'm addressing her as "My Madge" or "Hey Madgey."

Then there was the especially passive aggressive woman I worked with who always overused my first name. I'd get emails from her that read something like: "Just wondering if you had time to finish that report, YOU, since I haven't seen it yet. Did I miss an email, YOU? Let me know as I'm still waiting for it. Thanks, YOU." It was enough to make my own name read like an accusation.

I've even noticed it when I communicate. As a manager, I try to use people's names when I'm praising them, not correcting them. I'll say "Great job, Ted!" but not "This is full of typos, Ted."

But...I've been Googling around and I can't find any evidence that lots of other people feel like someone can wield your first name in an act of aggression. (This person does call it a "douchey business tactic.") Maybe I just need to find someone who whispers my name like a sweet nothing.

If you've ever winced at the sound of your own name, let me know.

...

In other news, these are a few of my favorite things today:

My new couch, which I bought for myself on impulse. I like this picture of it, because it looks like it was just delivered and moved in by a helpful cat.

Knee socks. I wan't quite sure how to pull an outfit together with them, because when you Google-image search "knee socks" what you mostly get is girls wearing knee socks and underpants. That was not helpful as I dressed to go to Trader Joe's with my mom. But I think they looked okay today.

Manhood for Amateurs by Michael Chabon, which is a selection of personal reflections, regrets, discoveries and memories. This is a great book for a Michael Chabon fan to have around when you're feeling a little uneasy, because it's got all of the dazzling turns of phrase you can expect from Michael Chabon, but in light, heartfelt, easy-to-read and bite-sized bits. 

I was going to take a photo of the book for you but it is apparently lost in the folds of my bed (along with the following: iPad, iPhone, Lucky magazine, necklace that was strangling me, hairclip, laptop sleeve, shoebox, teddy bear, and life-sized stuffed dog--which is embarrassing), so all I could find was its discarded dust jacket on my night stand. 

Happy Sunday!

"They're just jealous" and other mom-isms

My Mom: [listing reasons why I'm a great catch] ...you're successful, you're funny...
Me: Some people think I'm not funny, Mom.
My Mom: Yeah? Some people are assholes.

My mom is the kind of mom I can never solicit advice from, unless I'm actually fishing for the answer "They're just jealous." As in, "Someone was mean to you? They're just jealous." My mom has a hearty bias--one in which I am adorable, clever and always perfectly lovable. It's sweet of her.

My mom is the best kind of mom. For one, she's super competent. When I was little, I felt bad for the kids whose moms seemed scatterbrained. My mom was always on top of everything--sewing the best Halloween costume in my class, delivering me to classmates' birthday parties with a meticulously wrapped present in hand, or even showing up at my school with the lunch I didn't even realize I had forgotten on the kitchen counter. My mom could cut my hair, fix my toys and find the things I lost.

I still count on her competence, like when we went to Montreal together and my mom figured out how to ride the indecipherable metro system even though it was all in French. My mom doesn't speak French. She's just good to have around.

My mom is a personal chef, which is the perfect job for someone who's skilled as well as warm and loving. She loves to feed people, which is wonderful when you're 32 and survive on Trader Joe's. Whenever I go to her house, she puts a plate of food in my hand, brings me a sweater and asks me all about my day.

She's also so much fun to be around.

My mom in Calgary, ready to pounce on 7th row seats for Pearl Jam.
We followed Pearl Jam's 2011 Canadian tour together because she is my favorite.

My mom lost her mom to cancer when she was very young. I think that awful fact granted me a very early understanding that moms are impermanent.

I can't imagine what my life would be like without my mom--so generous with her food and affection, so eager to accompany me on adventures, so tirelessly willing to hear about my every irritation, and so subtly funny.

I appreciate her every damn day.

Bedtime all the time

On Friday, my doctor told me to change my sleep ritual. One of the things I should do is use my bed only for sleep.

I currently do all kinds of dumb things in my bed, college-kid style. Things like:

• Eat my breakfast (every day)
• Eat my dinner (sometimes. shame, shame)
• Work
• Lose track of time playing Gems with Friends
• Watch instant Netflix, esp. Freaks and Geeks
• Read  (responsible answer) 
• Act stupid with the cat.
• '
• Remember, with startling embarrassment, the people I forgot to call back at work
• Organize my earring drawer
• Cut out magazine pictures of clothes and haircuts that I want 
• Talk on the phone
• Paint my nails
• Panic about deadlines
• Panic about everything that has disappointed me, especially at dark lonely hours when I should be sleeping.

Now it's Monday morning and the cat and I have already resumed our bad daily habit of taking breakfast in bed.

But surely our sweet morning ritual isn't contributing to anything negative. 

We'll see. This is the first five-day week of the new year, and I'm setting out to take some drastic measures to increase my happiness. 

Wish me luck. 

If this wasn't on the Internet, I'd have more to dish about. But anyway....

This is what it's like to work at my laptop.

Hey. You. Down in front.

Today I went to the first of two doctors to try to get a handle on my hideous migraines. I also visited my dad at his guitar shop and took a picture of this sign. Clearly, I get my marketing skillz from him.

The sign reads, "Like...totally tubular guitar stand. $14.95."
It is tubey.

Now I'm playing with photos of my cat.

Her water bowl. It's green.

And finally...
last night, a wise and endlessly patient friend talked to me about being sad. While I've gratefully lapped up advice from just about everyone I know, his advice was the most comforting to me because I've watched him tumble into the darkest depths of depression. I asked him how you find your way back out...or even just keep going. He said, first of all, you do it for the people who love you. And then, you do it because you never know what will happen the next day.

And today really was a nicer day.

I'm flipping sad.

I went to a glass mosaic class at the Pittsburgh Public Markets on Sunday, and I was a little startled when I made this.

It's a broken heart. It's quite literally my broken heart, and when I got home, I tucked it against a wall so I wouldn't have to look at the feeling that I'm already carrying around with me.

I want so badly to escape from this feeling. Sometimes, I get blissful moments of clarity--that life could be much worse and it will all get better. And my best friend reminds me that the ratio of good-to-bad moments will start to shift until the good moments finally start to crowd out the bad ones. 

But the days feel so long. And my feelings feel so big. 

Usually I like being this way, because I feel like I get to be a lot more enthusiastic and excited and exhilarated than most people do. But right now, everything hurts so oppressively badly... I can't seem to figure out how to take on this life. 

Happy New Year; I'm Subtle

Today my dear friend Suaz gave me a Pee-wee Herman clutch and also a pin that says "Ask Me About My Favorite Band," because she knows me very, very well. (And also because she knows I'll wear them without a trace of irony.)

I posted this photo on Facebook, and as a result one of my friends inadvertently ended up asking me about my favorite band. 

This prompted me, of course, to describe the way Eddie Vedder tosses the guitar solo to Mike McCready when it's time to shred the song "Even Flow" at a Pearl Jam concert. Mike will go crazy while Eddie steps to the side of the stage, drinks wine, dances, and offers demure waves to his fans. Then, Mike and his guitar will --tantalizingly, I assure you-- creep back into the chorus, slowly luring Eddie back into the song. Eddie will then do one of two things: he will either slink back across the stage and take the mic, or, he will linger, and then make a mad dash at the last possible second before the chorus takes off. If Eddie's late to the mic, or even if he's not, the fans know that the next verse is theirs, and the crowd explodes: EVEN FLO-O. THOUGHTS ARRIVE LIKE BUTTER-FLIES. 

It is a reliable ritual and we Pearl Jam fan club members eat it right up. 

(See also: "I love Eddie Vedder With All My Freaking Heart.")

But in actual news:

Today was a huge day at work. We held a rescue and pulled 27 dogs and 7 cats from death row at local animal control facilities. My favorite moment was when this dog, Rollo, stepped into our vestibule. It's normal for rescued pets to be thoroughly spooked when they get to the shelter, but Rollo was like, "How you doin'?" He just totally owned it. 

"Pleased to be here, what's up?"

And now for my shameful New Years Eve ritual. I work in PR and thanks to this annual rescue, I spend my New Years Eves exhausted, wine glass in hand and glued to the news, waiting to see myself.

There we go.

Yes, I did take pictures of my TV.

Dinner at My Parents' House

Dad: You're looking better today.
Me: I got a haircut.
Dad: No, I mean you look good. Your Zeitgeist is better.
Me: What are you talking about?
Dad: Nothing. I'm using the word wrong. There were Germans at work today.
Mom [eating candy]: Here. Look. I found the United States of America.

The end.

A Girl Can Do What She Wants to Do and That's What I'm Gonna Do

I got my hair cut today. I like to cut my hair in tribute to Joan Jett.

My Joan Jett tributes last exactly one day, because I don't have the three hands patience required to operate a blow dryer + roundbrush. 

I saw Joan Jett play in Pensacola this summer and immediately recognized what I later read in books about her. Joan Jett is considered rebellious not because she's some deviant with an attitude problem. She's just her self... her larger-than-life, unabashed and unapologetic self. She manages to be a sweet, sexy, underdog who radiates joy and even kindness. I love this quote:

"I'm kind of a loner in a lot of ways, but in other ways, I'm very much a rule follower. Rules of civility. Rules that help us all get along. There's a thing called right-of-way, please and thank you. My rebellion is not about authority--well maybe it is a little bit about authority, but it's more about society." 
-- Joan Jett 

It is an act of defiance, sometimes, to just be happy being yourself. I've tried to love some people who couldn't handle all of me. It broke my heart, but there's nothing I can do about it. 

I think that if I ever get to have a daughter, when she hits that inevitable time in high school when she realizes she's too creative and free-thinking and self-aware to blend in with the popular kids, I will sit her down and play "Bad Reputation" and hope she doesn't think I'm just old and out-of-touch. And I'll say, from the bottom of my corny, sweet heart, "I don't give a damn if you think you're strange / you don't have to change."

You go, Joan.

A Reason Why I Love My Mom

Because when I come home from her house, I have weird goodie bags she filled with things like:

- a piece of pretty ribbon
- chocolate chips she found on sale
- a catalog that she enjoyed looking at
- an obscure kitchen item she once used but no longer does, with no explanation
- a clipped article about something I guess we might have talked about once
- or, like she gave me tonight, two coupons for toilet paper. (gee. thanks?)

I love her.