Tag Archives: Pets

January 10, 2011 · 16:46

Loquacious outlining…

My mother brought this up the other day.  She said, “Mary, you haven’t been writing lately.”  At first, the response was simple and to the point.  “You’re right.  I just haven’t had anything to say.”  Well, yes, that is the truth, albeit a heavily truncated version of the truth.  After dissecting that statement over the past few days, I believe I have a better, more thought out response to that: I had words to say (and correction: I have been writing…the ever-in-progress-novel).  I just didn’t know if they were relevant.

This brings me to the question of relevance and all that encompasses that.  I don’t know necessarily who is reading this (other than the president of my fan club, my mother) and sometimes, when wondering who your audience is (know your audience), you begin to question the validity of statements and tone.  Well, sorry folks, I’m done questioning.  I don’t know who you are but here we go…yippee.  Hi mom.

So while deconstructing that argument of validity, I began to outline what has been happening since the last post (I am too embarrassed to even check when the last post was, what I do know is that I have skipped every major holiday and avoided them in writing much as I did in ‘real life’).  A debriefing of sorts I suppose shall suffice:

  • I fell into my standard holiday depression.  I am beginning to wonder if depression is something that will continue to plague me as the years progress and hormones continue to spiral out of control.  Dear women on birth control, I commend you.  I almost wrote a piece about that but decided for the male subscribers, that would be a little too much information.  Also, that requires having a partner (even random) to have said ‘meetings’ with and well, BC hasn’t exactly been necessary when your life can easily be lumped into four things: Work.  Sleep.  Eat.  Dog.  If someone ever wanted to case my house, it would take a mere matter of days for them to figure out my schedule.  Moving on…
  • I am in a bit of a bickering match, or lack there of with my best friend right now.  We haven’t spoken in over a week and while we are two very stubborn individuals, my feelings are still gravely hurt and I don’t know how to piece the words together appropriately to tell her how I feel other than to say, you fucking pissed me off.  And never, I repeat NEVER put my dog in his crate again (that’s not what started the argument but it certainly did not help either).
  • I don’t believe in New Year Resolutions as I gather they are most often broken.  I am instead relying on what I now call my New Year Responsibility.  What is that? you ask.  Well, I have not mentioned this as it’s not a very proud conversation but here it is anyway.  I am in a wee bit of debt outside of my student loans.  Put it this way, I spent the early part of my 20s being irresponsible and behind a bottle.  I didn’t exactly pay some medical bills when they were due and well, I want to buy a house at some point in my life.  Insert 2011 and Operation Get Out of Debt (aside from the hellacious student loans).  I am determined, budgeted, and have even acquired a Tri-Met pass.  Farewell car and downtown parking fees.  Hello public transportation and a slowly rising credit score.  I thought getting old was supposed to be fun…
  • My life isn’t where I had expected it to be at 25-almost-26.  I didn’t expect to be married, kids, the white picket fence, but I figured I wouldn’t still be bartending my way through bartending.  I am tired…so tired.  I had to start seeing a chiropractor just to find walking comfortable again.  By the end of this year, I refuse to be bartending.  It’s time to make shit happen in more ways than just the credit score.  This year, I will find a job that doesn’t make we want to pull my hair out.  Hopefully one with a little piece of joy I refer to as health insurance.  Something that makes me come home at the end of the day NOT hating humanity.  I am sick of correcting grammar.  I am sick of booze.  And I don’t even drink the shit.  Maybe I should change the name of 2011 from Operation Get Out of Debt to Operation Make Life Count.  Yes.  That’s the spirit, Burger.
  • I am single.  I don’t know really where to go with that but yup, I still am.  I didn’t think that would change and I have been the last person to act on that.  Maybe that is why I ignore New Years Eve and the debacle that is Amateur Night.  I am almost afraid that I enjoy being alone too much such that I purchased a new TV (hello HD) and now have streaming NetFlix.  Maybe life as a cave woman (in high definition) is the way for me.  Or maybe I should start getting out more.  Please, just please, don’t talk to me on the bus.  I am still from a New England family, a wee bit snobby, and am well-versed in firearms and self-defense.

So there it is.  I’m sure somewhere hidden in that loquacious outline is a sense of relevance with all of you.  Or maybe a simple conversation starter.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I have a tendency to be redundant.  You heard (or read) me whine for over a year about a broken heart.  I am kind of in that “now what?” section of life when that heart is no longer broken, doesn’t belong to anyone, and though I may suffer from bouts of depression and significant solitude, I am happy.  I don’t know how to write when I am happy.  And I don’t want to write on a consistent basis when all I am writing about is the same thing, just reworked and reworded.  So I guess, Happy New Year.  Skordo says woof and Olive, well, she says meow and just peed on my bathmat.  Great.  At least she is consistent.
Wow.  I missed this…

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December 2, 2010 · 10:22

A limited color wheel…

It took a break from words to begin to understand what happened.  That knowing where things went wrong – whether at my own hands or actions – well, was a lesson I needed to learn.  That every error in judgment did indeed lead up to something.  I am happy to finally understand what that something is now.

The world is seemingly changing colors again.  Though you and I may argue what those colors are, and yes, I still see the world as markedly black and white, those shades of gray that I had battled with are now fading or darkening into something that makes sense.  I simply spent too long trying to change it.  I tried to alter my world rather than let it be what it is.  And I must say, it is the heaviest sigh of relief to not try so hard anymore.

My quiet little life, what I had struggled so hard for and traveled thousands of miles to discover, is no longer at my fingertips but ever present.  I have exactly what I wanted and before I could even make brisk or meager attempts to harness that (again), it was here.  My morning cup of coffee, alone on my front porch overlooking the business people traveling their morning commute or buying their cup of coffee from a local vendor, is what I look forward to every day.  To have something to look forward to – whether it be that cup of coffee or a job that finds the slightest of fulfillment – is what I had been missing.  I had overlooked the simplest of things.  Go figure, I had to make a production out of life to find the pure joy of coffee.  It won’t be the last time I do it, but it will be the last time I cause a scene about it.

Over the holiday last weekend, I spent my time at Mr. Asshole’s house.  I was sitting outside one morning with that same cup of coffee, minus the city traffic and noise, and as I watched Skordo run a muck in the yard, I knew that with the exception of the ever-missing presence of my mother, this was what I had forgotten to prioritize in my life.  Those little things go overlooked, and suddenly, the great buttresses that are the structural base of your life begin to crumble until there is nothing left to hold dear and sturdy.  I wish I didn’t know why they were forgotten before but I know the answer to that.  You know the answer to that.  But we learn something from errors in judgment.  It’s just a matter of what you do with that information.

I sit here now, finishing that morning cup of coffee knowing that the remainder of the day, my phone may very well ring from only two people, my mother and Mr. Asshole, and I am OK with that.  I may have had a little pity party last night eating dinner alone at a restaurant while families enjoyed their meals and children sang along to the Christmas carols playing as background music, but I won’t let that get the best of me.  That is not a shade of gray to be argued with.  My solitude is as black and white as it may appear.  I fought for too long to alter the shades of the world.  Now it’s time to just let it be what it wants to be.  This time, I will welcome the element of surprise.

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June 20, 2010 · 20:26

“Push in the clutch!”

Father’s Day has never been as hard as one would have expected it to be.  I’m sure it’s hard on my mother.  I’m sure it’s difficult for my family to think of but for me, it has never been that stinging.  Just because he hasn’t been around, doesn’t mean that someone else hasn’t been.  I still don’t want to talk about him today.  We talked about him enough a few months ago.  There is someone else I would rather give homage to, and a man far deserving of it.

On the previous About Me page, I briefly mentioned that I have been fortunate enough to have a handful of great men to step in and take over the void that was left when my own father passed away.  These great men – family friends, my orchestra conductor growing up, and my old boss at a small coffee shop in Corvallis – all have played instrumental roles in my life.  They have all given me those wise ‘fatherly’ bits of wisdom and at times crude humor.  I have cried with these men, screamed bloody murder at a few, and was even taught how to give a proper hug by one.  These are some great men.  And they had some massive shoes to fill.

One in particular though is the man who I describe as the man who raised me.  I’m sure I could come up with a better moniker for him, but to be honest, this is rather fitting.  For now, I am going to call him the Asshole.  Excuse me, Mr. Asshole.  He is far from one, though he often believes himself to be.  He would probably curse me a bit for sharing the fact that he is indeed kind and giving, and I have even seen him cry.  Once.

This was the man who taught me how to drive.  My mother had made an attempt at it but needless to say, her white knuckles did not bode well for my 15-year-old “I’M AN ADULT, MOM!” hormones and he quickly separated We Burger Women before one of us ended up buried next to my father.  He was patient, understanding, gave all commands in German (which I now give to other people when giving directions), and never yelled when I stalled and lurched trying to make the clutch and gas move in some semblance of smooth, forward motion.  I got the hang of it and I owe it all to him.  Well, far more than that actually.

I keep pictures of Mr. Asshole and me in my apartment next to pictures of my father.  We are never smiling in these pictures and that is quite fitting of us.  We have shared our glory moments of laughter together (mostly at my mother’s expense) but only one piece of evidence exists of this and that photo is lurking in Florida at my mother’s house.  I think it is a bizarre sense of understanding we share between us.  If I didn’t know the difference, I could swear to you that this man is my father.  And when people mistakenly ask if I am his daughter in introduction, I take a sense of pride in it.

He is much of the reason I moved back to Oregon.  The best day I have had so far was with him in Corvallis.  We sat in the yard and watched our dogs run laps, chasing their tails.  I remember sitting back and staring at this man knowing that though I am not even remotely close to the time zone that my nearest biological family lives, I have one of the best parts of my family here.  If he ever leaves, I may chase after him.  He has become a part of me and the past decade would have been a dull existence if it weren’t for him.  It takes one strong man to keep me in line but he has managed to do it and stick around for these great ten years.  I may be the source of a few (hundred) gray hairs on his head, and he is at times the source of angst ridden phone calls to my mother.  Yes, he is an asshole but he is my Mr. Asshole. So to you, Happy Asshole’s Day.

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May 15, 2010 · 07:36

And we’re off…

A friend of mine left me an interesting comment the other day.  While he pointed out the obvious, I feel there are parts of my story missing in it…the parts I never felt the need to address before.  Yes, I needed to grow up.  Maybe that’s why I moved here.  Yes, I felt life to be a mundane existence hence fleeing from a broken heart to try something new.  And yes, I have made some decisions in the past that I am not so proud of but I will never say I regret them.  They all lead me to something, whether that something be something new, a better person within, or simply learning from an ill-fated action.  So where now?

I will open this by saying that I have a fever of 100.4 right now.  I quit my job yesterday and I feel this may be karma biting me in the ass.  If my words end up being a bit on the jibberish side, well, my head and throat are on fire and Skordo is testing my nerves to the extreme right now.  Onward march though…

I am moving home earlier than initially planned.  This is starting to parallel my move here in the sense of I had made a plan to leave on one date and ended up leaving early.  Am I running again?  Not this time.  Moving here, I absolutely did.  We already know that.  Leaving here though, I have nothing to run from.  I lived a life here that I am strangely proud of.  I grew up in a manner at which was entirely necessary, and finally, I took a few risks.  I did things I never thought I would.  I took that playing safe card and threw it out the window.  And you know what?  It didn’t break me.

Last week, I encountered an opportunity to be outside of myself a little bit.  Maybe that ended up leading to the progression of my new-found set of balls, but I took a few risks.  And at the end of each action, I found myself smiling.  I did what was right for me, I took care of myself in a way the Year Ago Mary would not have, and I had some fun.  I suppose I played my ‘risk worth taking’ game again.  I like that game though.  I didn’t win.  I didn’t lose.  I finally enjoyed.

Off we go now though into the great abyss of packing, boxes, allocating housing (my two new least favorite words:  breed restrictions…Skordo is a damn cat), and prepping my car (and my sanity) for the great drive again.  Maybe I continue to tell myself this is right because there is a part of me that can’t quite believe it.  Maybe I am still trying to motivate myself to do any of this, but I certainly set the ball in motion yesterday.  Or maybe, I simply am ready to start over again.  Either way, something beautiful will come out of all of this.  I am curious to know what that something beautiful is.

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March 18, 2010 · 07:42

Here, have a snack…

These words are slightly forced today.  I have spent all morning in deep conversation with A via MSN Messenger (in addition to being awesome, we are also nerds) attempting to find a topic for today.  I even told her at one point, “A, go ahead and write it today.  I’ll say it was you, I promise”.  She said no.  Her topic ideas were good, just lacking substance.  My mother, the foodie, nominated food as a topic, the horrible Florida winter (which I feel I brought with me from Oregon…I am like a cyclone), breakfast food, running, and of course “your wonderful mother”.  Yes A, you are wonderful.  You make me want to pull my hair out at times and set things on fire, but at the end of the day, you are wonderful.  And man, can you cook…

I think A may win a little bit here today as I am going to take you on a field trip into the lives of our current kitchen and past kitchens.  As previously mentioned, she can cook.  I will have a break from work long enough to come home, change my clothes, and grab a snack.  Now, when most people think ‘grab a snack’, this means sandwich.  In A’s mind this means Oh, I’ll make Greek spaghetti…and sauce. Yes, last Saturday I came home for 20 minutes to browned butter oozing over spaghetti with Feta, Parmesan, and some amazing sauce.  This is her idea of a snack.  Have I mentioned that I have been a bit spoiled?

As this is slightly The Month of Bill, I will tell you the story of the first time my mother really cooked for my father:

They had been married for less than a year.  They were living in a small apartment outside of Washington D.C. while my mother was working for the National Geological Survey.  They weren’t exactly rolling in cash but one night, decided to splurge on a hunk of roast beef at the grocery store.  Allow me to preface this by saying my mother is Greek, grew up in a Greek household, better yet, my grandfather owned a Greek restaurant for years.  They bring home this mass of beef goodness and my father asks my mother if she is capable of doing this.  She is quick to respond with assurance and my father retreats to the living room.

Over the course of the next twenty minutes or so, my mother is shoving cloves (yes, plural) of garlic into this now prized possession of beef.  My father walks in, faced with his beef that is now Dalmatian spotted with garlic and asks my mother, “What on Earth have you done to the poor thing?”  My mother says, “Bill, trust me.  I know what I am doing here.”  Into the oven it goes.

While it is roasting, the scent of garlic begins to permeate through their small apartment then creeps into the entire complex.  For those living in D.C. at that time, I’m sure you could smell the garlic for a five mile radius.  My father is sulking.  He is in saddened, disbelief shock and I am sure, questioning why he ever married my mother.  But sure enough, one bite into that meat and all fear resigned back to love and assurance.  My mother is the best cook ever and after that night, he never doubted her cooking again.

Needless to say, it comes as no surprise that my dog is aptly named Skordo, which means garlic in Greek.  Aside from being a wonderful mother, A, you really are the best cook ever.  Thank you for this past year of delicious meals.  To our neighbors, I apologize if you have issues with garlic.  I believe that my mother and I have a constant bloodstream of garlic and quite frankly, I am OK with that.  It’s no wonder we can’t find dates…

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March 11, 2010 · 08:36

The barking dog…

Skordo woke me up at precisely 8:15 this morning.  This would not have been a problem if I had slept well last night, but truth be told, I slept like garbage on a July day in Florida.  I had nightmares left and right (one involved van Gogh, one I was performing Beethoven’s Adelaide which I have memorized yet forgot the notes on stage), could not get comfortable, slept on my left arm strange and it was dead when I woke up…then acquired those horrid pins and needles.  I awoke to confusion, and a barking dog.  I briefly questioned why I ever got him then remembered the story.  Good morning, friends.  I am going to tell you the tale of Skordo and the ultimate demise of the wedding.

A year and a half ago, I was deeply involved with someone.  We were blindingly happy and still in that “honeymoon” stage.  We all know that stage.  The early part of the relationship where red flags are not so present because you are so enamored with each other and no one can create a wrong.  Yup, we were there, and so happy.  Of course, we decided to move in together.  Many would say that was the first mistake.  I am inclined to disagree.  It was what came next that lead to the eventual downfall.

So I imagine when you were little, you too had The List – the “When I Grow Up” list.  My list (as previously mentioned in my last post) wasn’t very involved but it did have something on it.  I wanted a Doberman.  I remember seeing Father of the Bride and thinking I must have a Doberman that sleeps on my bed with me.  Turns out, my new ‘roommate’ had the exact same thought, well, minus the sleeping on the bed part.  Long story short, we decided to get a dog.  Excuse me, not a dog, a puppy – an eight week old Doberman Pinscher puppy while living in a third floor loft (no balcony or walls), smack in the middle of downtown Portland.  And with that decision came the ultimate end.  Enter Skordo Roethlis Burger-Payne.

Two weeks in to potty training, crate training, and sheer exhaustion, The Ex was ready to get rid of him.  I didn’t have the heart to do it and if anything, didn’t want to hear the man that raised me tell me “I told you so”.  Thankfully that week, Skordo became a bit more comfortable in his crate and finally began sleeping for scattered hours through the night.  A, this is the reason why you will probably never see grandchildren of the human kind.  Enjoy Skordo.  Or blame him.  Take your pick.

After crate training though came potty training.  This was not a beautiful process and let me tell you, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.  I thought we would pick up this adorable pile of cuteness and everything would be fine and dandy.  Oh no.  Not at all.  Living in my loft proved to be a serious problem with a puppy so we ended up moving to the suburbs.  I hated every second of it while Skordo (and The Ex) loved it.  This was the first real sacrifice I made for this dog (aside from sleep) and I now warn everyone thinking of getting a puppy of that moment.  The Ex and I began to argue over my commute to work, how to appropriately train the dog, my utter contempt for suburb living, and just about everything else.  Skordo began to drive a wedge between us.  And at the end, when We were over, there was no argument on his behalf who got Skordo.  I won fair and clear.  If anything, I may not have given him much of a choice.  I think my words were: “I’m moving to Florida and I’m taking the dog”.

Nine months later, I have a fantastic dog.  Every lost hour of sleep was worth it.  That stupid move to the suburbia hell was worth it.  Even the arguments over him were worth it.  Skordo is the first thing that I have accomplished off my silly list and I take a great sense of pride in him.  And I still give credit to The Ex for allowing this presence in my life as Skordo’s last name is still hyphenated.  Cheesy, but true.  Skordo may enjoy waking up every morning at 8:15, but the remaining hours of the day, he is the best dog ever, and I am better for having kept him.

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January 12, 2010 · 06:15

No alligators today…

I woke up this morning smelling like dog.  Really.  Thankfully, there is a reason for this.  For those that have noticed on the weather forecasts, Florida is in the midst of some strange arctic weather.  It has been in the 30s in much of South Florida.  Yes, we are cold.  Very cold.  The average temperature for this time of year is in the 70s…where did the heat go?

Before Christmas, Skordo’s crate was moved from the den into the garage as to allow more room for company.  This worked out just fine when the weather was ‘normal’ but once it hit the 40s at night, I knew Skordo was going to have a few choice words for me.  Needless to say, yesterday morning I woke the boy up and he was shivering.  Last night, I let him sleep in my bed with me.  The things we do for dogs…

About two weeks ago, I proved to my mother just what extent I would go to in order to take care of an animal.  Thankfully, this animal was not my own as Skordo has been trained not to do this.  Also, he is afraid of water…best dog fear ever I have come to understand.  What did you do, Mary?  We’ll get there.

My mother loves Amazing Race. Yes, the reality show.  I really do not enjoy reality shows in the least bit and my mother (love you, A, I really do) thinks this is an excellent show.  She wants to fill out an application for us and believes that we would be absolute characters on this show.  I am inclined to agree that characters we certainly would be.  Picture this:  my mother standing at the bottom of some Vegas casino watching her daughter – her only child, the light in her life, her will to live – scale a building.  I am attached to harnesses and ropes cursing ever being born, my mother for making me do this, and reality television for ever existing in my mother’s nightly channel line up.  Any running expedition, I would be doing.  Any heights and/or rollercoaster activity, I would be attempting.  Anything involving the consumption of strange food or frog testicles, I too would have to do.  Yes, this is a great idea, A.  Get right on it.

Getting back to the story at hand though.  About two weeks ago, my mother and I were on the sofa watching TV one evening and we noticed that our neighbor’s Golden Retriever was swimming in the lake again (side-note: we live on a lake, and not the kind of lake you swim in as there could be alligators anywhere in Florida).  We go outside and sure enough, about 12 of our neighbors are making attempts at coaxing this dear dog out of the lake.  We join the parade and bring Skordo out.  Nothing is working.  My mother (being the talker that she is) has had a long conversation with what turns out to be our neighbor’s dog-sitter and sure enough, this dog-sitter (first day on the job) did not attach the choke chain properly, it slipped off, and off the retriever went, swimming with all her might, into the middle of the damn lake.

After 20 minutes of shaking dog treats, throwing bones, letting Skordo bark around the edge of the water (smart dog, he wants nothing to do with water), it is beginning to get dark, the dog is getting tired but is still swimming circles in the middle of the lake.  I look around the lake and realize not one person is making any active effort to get the dog out.  Shit.  “A, get me a towel.”

I ask the uneducated dog-sitter for the leash and jump in the water.  To be honest, it wasn’t very cold and I purged all thoughts of alligators, duck feces, and whatever other marine wildlife or bacterial infections could be lurking in our lake.  I swim out to the middle, grab the dog by the harness, and make a speedy return for land.  If there are alligators in the lake, they kept away from my toes that night.  The dog was returned to its dog-sitter and I proceeded inside for the longest, hottest shower of my life.  I scrubbed so hard I looked like a tomato by the time I got out.

After finding my place on the sofa again, my mother looked at me and said she was proud of me for taking action while everyone else was sitting around, twiddling their thumbs.  I looked at her and said “Well thank you, A.  And this is why we would win Amazing Race.”

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November 4, 2009 · 07:10

Hi Dad, I mean Steve Martin…

I am beginning to re-think this whole quitting smoking thing.  By re-think, I really mean the patch may not be the best option.  I feel like I have been hit by a truck.  I am so nauseous that looking at this computer screen is making my head spin.  This may be brief, friends.  This is painful on numerous different levels.  I truly feel hung over.  I don’t remember smoking being this painful.  It was always so calming, beautiful, and serene, albeit killing me, but it didn’t make me want to put my head in the oven.

The list of known possible side effects of the patch reads:

  • skin redness at patch area
  • itching, burning at patch area
  • nausea
  • headache
  • weakness
  • dizziness
  • rapid heartbeat
  • irregular heartbeat or palpitations
  • vivid dreams

No where does it list death as a possible side effect, which I find to be mildly comforting.  Even Advil has that on their bottle.  I am curious though as they are not mentioning suicide and depression as a known side effect.  I imagine I am not the only person out there screaming: “MAKE THIS PAIN GO AWAY!”  It’s miserable.

About the vivid dreams though – I should have thought a bit harder about this as I am already known to experience some very heavy, lucid, and intense dreams/nightmares.  Maybe this was not the best option for me.  I had four last night.  Yes, four. That I remember.  Intense.  They all slightly tied into each other but there were defining moments between them where I awoke, sat up, and had to remind myself this wasn’t real.  Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

Briefly, I will do my best to gather these nighttime visions:

Dream #1

I was living here, but not with my mother.  I was bartending at a bar in some country area (but it was really South Florida…I never said they made any sense) with one of my current co-workers.  The next thing I knew, I was stealing money out of the register and we were all off in my car, with Skordo, on a drive through the Oregon mountains in some bizarre campground.  My brakes weren’t working and we got stuck.  There was no tie in as to how we got there, and as quickly as we arrived, we were back at work at this strange bar.  The Irrevocable Heartbreak walked in, out of no where.   He said he drove all this way to tell me he missed me.  We spent a few days together in some strange warehouse.  Then he was gone.  No note, nothing.  I woke up at this point, looked at the clock:  4:03AM.

Dream #2

I was again in Florida living on a canal with my mother and father.  Mind you, we have covered that my father has been dead for 18 and a half years so to make a long story short, Steve Martin was actually my father.  Skordo and I were on a walk and we (yes, we both.  It’s a dream, it’s not supposed to make any sense) slipped and fell in this canal.  I remember something biting my arm, hard.  Blood was rushing out of my right arm and it was in excruciating pain.  The next thing I knew, the sliding glass door was opening and Steve Martin, my father, came out in his underwear yelling “Thanks, Charlie for the Country Congress!”  He fired off two shots and the black alligator that had so attached himself to my arm released its jaw and Skordo and I scrambled to safety.  Apparently, Country Congress was the name of the firearm being used and Charlie was our neighbor that provided such to my “father”.  I wake up:  5:52AM

Dream #3

I am back in college, only this time, it is in Colorado on a mountain resort.  Now, you would think resort = fancy.  Oh, no no.  This was cabin style living, my friends, to the extreme.  The resort part had to do with the classrooms.  Drew Barrymore (really) and I were roommates and we decided to take my car for a spin.  Skordo was in the back seat and Drew was in the front pounding beer.  We parked my car in this parking garage and went for a walk.  Skordo stayed in the car.  When we came back, we were told by some random girl that my car had been blocked in, violently vandalized, and broken into.  I remember flying down some stairs at the speed of light thinking My dog is in the car.  They can take what they want, just not my Skordo. My car is mangled.  Everything, but Skordo who is scared and curled up in a little ball in the backseat, is gone.  Drew then proceeds to vomit all over me.  I wake up:  6:15AM

Dream #4

I am driving across the country with Skordo and Olive (Skordo is the only constant in all of these dreams) and we are heading back to Oregon.  We make it there in the blink of an eye and after we arrive, I feel the need to dump the car and ride my bike.  I put Skordo on his leash, park my car in some strange apartment complex, and stash Olive in a public bathroom.  We are off to meet up with an old boyfriend that I have decided to get back together with.  I run into a group of people, my age and Owen Wilson, that are goofing off in the parking lot where I stashed Olive.  The old boyfriend comes walking out of the woods (with toe nails painted black and he is wearing Chuck Taylor’s).  Somehow, in all the chaos, we lose Olive.  Years later, we have all (including Owen Wilson) reunited on this Weimaraner puppy farm (yes, it was a farm) to pick out a friend for Skordo.  As we are in the cages with all the puppies, Olive comes and jumps onto my lap.  It was like a family put back together again.  I wake up: 8:01AM

These dreams are bizarre.  I woke up just so confused.  None of it really made any sense at all.  Skordo is now barking and I want chocolate.  Off to run now.  I wish I had never started smoking in the first place…

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October 27, 2009 · 10:35

A day away…

So far today I have gone running (two miles without stopping to breathe or walk…my lungs are begging, pleading for me to quit smoking), fed and walked Skordo, bought him new bones, bought more gauze for my finger as I attempted to cut it off at work on Friday (which probably needed stitches), broke an entire candle display at Target, purchased super glue for my mother’s plate that I broke, did Pilates, and choked on water so much that it came out of my nose.  Good day, friends!  This should be fun…

I find that I cannot write on the weekends.  Try as I might, my mind is elsewhere and somewhere drenched in my alcohol soaked clothing, I am exhausted.  I tried to write on Saturday and couldn’t find the words.  I tried to write yesterday and couldn’t find words.  I guess it takes more than a morning off to really collect my thoughts.

As Skordo is now devouring his second rawhide of the day, I am able to take a few minutes and gather myself again.  I have been staying a busy as possible to avoid certain thoughts, actions, and words.  In between working three jobs (for those struggling to find a job, I’m sorry that I have been greedy), Skordo, and my new-found fitness routine (I swear, everyone warns you about the Freshman 15 but never the 10lbs you pack on after you’re done and have to live with your mother to pay off your student loans…oh, and she cooks with butter), I am left only with small minutes to read, entertain, and keep myself motivated.  I have re-read a fair share of my last posts and realized I was making him – the irrevocable heartbreak –  too much of a reoccurring theme and I was forgetting myself and the progress somewhere in my solitude.  Alas, I am giving him, my head, and heart, a much needed rest.

As I have spent the past two mornings off, I am finding that this solitude is not so much of a rapture as I once feared it would be.  When I first moved here, the level of anonymity I possessed and stillness that was surrounding was all-encompassing; I felt I was drowning.  I no longer feel that way.  If anything, it was a pleasant reward to come home, to not say a word, climb into my empty bed, and read until my eyelids cannot keep their strength to stay open.  To drive around alone and without a voice in my head is refreshing, and as the days pass since life with, near, and because of him, I am taking a stronger sense of pride in my own actions.  I must say, this is a pleasant life.  Even if I do despise South Florida with a passion, I am coming to grips with the fact that I came here with a purpose in mind, and leave with purpose I shall.

You would not believe your eyes
If ten million fireflies
Lit up the world as I fell asleep

‘Cause they’d fill the open air
And leave teardrops everywhere
You’d think me rude
But I would just stand and stare

I’d like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay
Awake when I’m asleep
‘Cause everything is never as it seems

‘Cause I’d get a thousand hugs
From ten thousand lightning bugs
As they tried to teach me how to dance

A foxtrot above my head
A sock hop beneath my bed
A disco ball is just hanging by a thread

I’d like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay
Awake when I’m asleep
‘Cause everything is never as it seems
When I fall asleep

Owl City – Fireflies

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September 29, 2009 · 21:03

Pieces of joy…

Where once I have given you all words of great sorrow, I feel I must share the new found pieces of joy I am experiencing here.  This may not entirely be an upbeat and optimistic post (I am who I am –  dripping with cynicism), but I have overlooked parts of my life where written form is concerned.  This may also be silly and a bit off at points, but I have always found beauty, amusement, and joy in strange devices.  I now welcome you to the best parts of my day.

    • Skordo is the greatest thing since bread came sliced.  I will say it until my face is blue, but it is without a doubt a fact.  He spent all day with me and I enjoy (almost) every moment of his company.  Even when he decided to make a roll of toilet paper a toy this morning, I still found a smile on my face as I was vacuuming up the pieces.  I never thought I would ever experience such an unconditional feeling but needless to say, when everything else around me fails and tears stream down my face, Skordo is there to bring my smile back and will gladly lick the sorrow away.
    • Though my enthusiasm for daytime driving has diminished here, I am not without my motivation for an evening lap or two.  I am still finding strange comfort in escaping into the unfamiliar roads, turns, and waters here and as I do so, my music is an ever-present reassurance that this – the move – was right.  My life in this area is not permanent, but I will make the absolute best of it while I have it.  I know this healing process is just that – a process.  I am getting there, one mile of aimless driving at a time.
    • My music is all mine again.  When once I had hidden from the words that so reminded me of home, of him, I am now able to flood the sound through my ears and heart again and am beginning to feel whole.  Yes, he is present in thought, but the knot that had made quite a home in my throat for the first six weeks has now departed and I am breathing a weight of relief.  I don’t know what I would do if I could not hear the words anymore.  To live in fear of my music as I once had, I cannot begin to describe the level of emptiness it brought to an already so fragile being.  It was as though the heart that was slightly pulsing was now missing the most important of beats; it was just enough to passively get by.  But she’s back, the words are back, and though I am not fully healed from the irrevocable heartbreak, I have the most important parts of myself back in the belonging specter.
    • I must give credit to a woman where credit is so greatly deserved: my mother.  This woman put up with a handful from me at first.  I overran her house with my menagerie and horrible cleaning habits (it is a rare moment when the carpet is visible in my bedroom) and still, she puts up with me.   Better yet, she feeds me and puts up with me.  At first, I was hesitant to live with her.  I complained about being 24 and living with my mother, blah blah blah…but to be honest, after settling into a routine with work and such, I often find myself looking forward to our dinners together, our hour and a half spent each day chatting about work and such before I head off to My Kids, and just her overall company.  Not many people my age get this experience with their parents, and certainly many would not appreciate it such as we are, but I am finding a strange partnership with her now, one that we did not have before.  Not that it wasn’t there in our relationship, but one that proximity would not allow.  I know down the road, I will look back on this year with her as an experience that will be pivotal in my life.  I never thought that I would so enjoy being 24 and at home.  Look at me getting soft in my old age…

      I guess I would mark this all as progress.  I am coming out of my Oregon-coma and awakening to Florida sun and waters with a new sense of life.  No, I am not healed.  I am still fragile and my heart is still battling the cracks, but the capacity at which I once felt to feel is making its slow and cautious restoration.  I’m not done yet, but we’re getting there – one breath at a time, one breath at a time.

      I had a daily bliss
      I half indifferent viewed,
      Till sudden I perceived it stir, –
      It grew as I pursued,

      Till when, around a crag,
      It wasted from my sight,
      Enlarged beyond my utmost scope,
      I learned its sweetness right.

      Emily Dickinson

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