Looking back at 2007

Continuing the tradition I started last year, here is this year’s list of favorites, notables and sometimes just plain weird occurrences from 2007.

Best adventure: Moving out to California! Born and raised a Kansas girl, it has been a great experience to move away, and we picked a quality destination. It has been a fun adventure so far! And it helps that I haven’t gone more than a couple of months without going home or seeing family.

Worst addiction: 7-Eleven coffee. Back in my carpooling days, Jenn and I would treat ourselves to QT every Friday for coffee. Now, 7-Eleven is on the way to campus, so on the days Alan doesn’t bike and I drop him off at work (which is RARE and only when it’s RAINING, cough, cough), we stop and get some java. It’s a surprisingly expensive habit when you do it every day. Thank goodness Santa brought a coffeemaker!

Craziest first, well, kind of: First earthquake. Alan called me frantically, reporting a 5.6 just near San Jose, which means right near us. I was actually in Phoenix, so I didn’t get to experience it. The earth definitely rumbled, according to Alan, and while I kind of wish that I would have felt a minor earthquake, I’m not going to go wishing for one any time soon.

Best extracurricular activity: A self-defense class. I’d always wanted to take one, so when I got a brochure in the mail I signed myself up. It was definitely worthwhile and I’m glad I took it. I highly recommend for all the women in my life. Gouge the eye! Slap the ear! Knee them in the groin!

Best purchase: A new bed. Having always slept in hand-me-down beds, it felt great to go purchase a brand-new bed. Plus, Alan and I felt very grown up.

Most welcome addition: Reagan Jean! Now I have an adorable niece to call my favorite. What a cutie!

Favorite nephew: Kenny gets the grand prize again this year. He gets to be more fun by the day. He’ll chat on the phone, sing Jingle Bells and count for me. Plus, he’s shaping up to be a great big brother. Hopefully he won’t throw pickles at Reagan's head when he grows up.

Most shocking display of flesh: A lady breastfeeding at our apartment complex’s garage sale this summer. With no cover up and full breast exposure. I did a double take because I didn’t believe what I’d seen.

Most interesting neighbors: We live next to an assisted living facility, and I think most of them have Alzheimer’s. There’s a fenced in patio, so they’ll say hi on occasion and I get to see some of the strange goings-on. It’s really quite sad. Elmer yells “help” for hours on end because he thinks that’ll get him home to his wife; one guy talks nonsense to himself in what he thinks are actual conversations; another asked me if I was Glenda because she said she’d be there. It makes me sad, but sometimes you just have to laugh. Such as when one of the guys was walking toward the fence and me, I thought, to say hi to Marti. But instead he doubles over, says he has to “go” in rather colorful language, and drops his drawers on the patio. I didn’t know whether to go get help for him or just ignore it completely, but he ended up shuffling, pants around his ankles, back inside. You never know what you’re going to see at ALF, but I do know that the nurses there are saints.

Cutest couple: Alan and Marti.

Most embarrassing Netflix confession: I’m watching The O.C. I never watched it when it was on air, but I’m “renting” it now and am super hooked. It’s interesting to watch it now that it’s a couple of years removed though, because I recognize actors that are now in bigger roles on bigger shows. Such as Grey’s Anatomy’s Denny Duquette, who played a guy in jail; or Alex, who is now on House.

Craziest work day: My magazine held an equipment showcase in November. The manufacturing guys were all pestering me to go up in a boom lift, and I finally complied. I’ve never considered myself afraid of heights, but my heart was sure racing at 45 feet up in the air. That doesn’t sound like much, but let me assure you, it’s HIGH.

Most embarrassing moment(s): It’s a close call between 1) the day Marti ran into our neighbor’s apartment and I had to run around and trap her in the bathroom to catch her and 2) the day that Marti pulled her leash out of my hand on a neighborhood side street acting all tough to a dog half her size. I then had to stop traffic while the other dog owner helped me capture Marti. It lasted all of 30 seconds, but it felt like 10 minutes.

Best pug: Marti! Marti almost had some competition this year as Alan and I considered rescuing a pug, but Alan couldn’t be convinced. Marti just earned another year as an only pug.

Marti’s list

Marti’s biggest challenge: She’s adjusted nicely to California living, but hasn’t adjusted as well to our new bed. It’s quite a leap for the little girl, so we occasionally have to help her out.

Greatest accomplishment: Being famous. The pug blog that I’m obsessed with makes a calendar and donates the proceeds to a pug rescue in Florida. A Marti picture was chosen to be on the back cover. Next year I’m going to send in more pictures sooner in the hopes of getting on a month, but I was a little tickled to see Marti on a calendar.

Best new friends: It’s a close call between the dog park pups and the mailman. Marti LOVES the mailman—at least she loves the one that’s nice to her. She even knows what the truck sounds like and whimpers to try to get me to let her out to see him.

Best honor: Being the mascot for the Turkey Bowl football game on Thanksgiving. Marti the Moose was even given a spot on the team T-shirt. Yay!

Be on the lookout for my New Year’s Resolutions!

Merry Christmas!

A Complainer's Blog

So the holidays are approaching and I thought I'd get into the holiday spirit by complaining and getting some annoyances off my chest. I don't know if I've mentioned it previously, but the walls in our apartment are pretty thin. It hasn't really been that bothersome because our bedroom has closets and clothes insulating it and I don't have a problem sleeping. But the living room is another story. Almost every morning I can hear our neighbor – let's call him Scott, because that's his name – let out the rip-roaringest belch you've ever heard. I could set my watch by it and only be off by 30 minutes at most. He burps consistently between 8:00 and 8:30.

Scott has also been renovating his apartment for the past month. I assume he has permission from the landlord to be doing this, but he hasn't asked for permission from my ears. He did warn us ahead of time that he was going to be ripping out his carpets and refinishing the hardwoods. I thought, "How bad can it be?" Well, I don't know if he got bit by the remodeling bug or has watched too much Flip This Apartment, but he's been running all kinds of machinery and loud equipment for weeks now. And, working from home, I hear every bit of banging, drilling, sanding and belching that's going on. Currently it sounds like he's sanding something very large because it's taken two days.

Ok, I feel better.

On another note, remember the anti-dog-pooing sign? The other day it turned into this:



Marti does not grace this area with her presents (ha!), but we do regularly walk by it. I don't know who the sign is aimed at, but even if a dog were pooing every day in this area, I don't see why it's bothering anyone. It's all dirt, on the side of a building, where no one walks, ever. It just kind of irks me.

And finally, the dog park is in its 7th week of being closed. Marti is beside herself; she doesn't understand what's going on. The grass is looking much better though – meaning, there is actually grass again – so maybe Marti's Christmas present will be going to the dog park once we're back after Christmas.

Oh, Christmas Bush

Alan and I gave away our artificial Christmas tree before we moved to California. It was just one more big and bulky item that we didn't want to take with us. It was still a good tree though, so I donated it to the Walters household. Click here to see it in its decorated glory! I'm glad to see it found a good home.

Space in our apartment is limited, and while we had room for a tree, we didn't want to get a giant tree that would take over our apartment. I was thinking about one of those little evergreen-plant-in-a-pot types, but when Alan and I got to Safeway we saw these little 2-foot trees and had to have one. We took off the tag and went into the store to pay, with the idea that we would come back out and pick the best tree because they were all the same price. But when we got back out to pick the tree, we got it in our heads that the tree had its hopes up and was thinking that it was going to be the one coming home with us because we'd taken its tag off. We didn't have the heart to let it down, so off we went with the short little tree.

You know how usually you get your tree home and it's way bigger than you thought it would be? Not the case here. Once we got this little guy in the apartment it seemed way smaller than it did outside. We bought a tree stand at Target, and the tree stand is practically bigger than the tree itself. But once we got it decorated, I must say, it's pretty adorable. I love our Christmas bush!

Perfect Timing

I've come down with bad colds for each of the past three years. I can't just get a normal cold though; they inevitably turned into bronchitis and a cough that lasts a month. It hit me last week, and I'm unfortunately still feeling the effects. This cold had the worst possible timing though. I went to bed abnormally early last Tuesday, and Wednesday morning I just didn't feel quite right. Throughout the day I just kept feeling worse and worse. Add in a flight to Kansas City, and by midnight I was ready to curl up in the fetal position. What was this virus thinking? I had a niece to meet!

I did get to meet my adorable little niece, although I was super paranoid about getting her sick (as was her pa). I washed my hands like a germophobe and even covered my mouth bandit-style the few times I did hold her. That's ok, I was perfectly happy just watching her. Everyone had better brace themselves though. I've been deprived of baby snuggling and at Christmas she's all mine!

What a cutie pie!


As comfy as can be.


With big brother. They even have the same haircut!

California Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving just does not feel like Thanksgiving when there is no extended family involved, but our little family threesome made the best of it, creating new traditions all our own. Thursday morning Alan and I headed up to campus for the 2nd Annual Turkey Bowl. Alan was there to play and strain some muscles, and Marti and I were there to cheer him on.



Marti says RAH!



Two good halves of football, and Alan's team came out victorious, 2-1. Might I add that Alan contributed a significant touchdown, which could be seen in this picture if the sideline wasn't in the way. You'll just have to trust me that Alan was a star!



After all that exertion, Alan took a pre-dinner nap. Some Thanksgiving traditions never change.



After our big, wonderful, outdoor potluck Thanksgiving dinner, in which I ate way too much and got to see someone experience their very first Thanksgiving feast ("Very delicious!"), Alan and I headed up to Lake Tahoe on Friday to enjoy a day of skiing.

Alan and Marti among the knotty pine.



Saturday was opening day at Heavenly, so skiing was limited, but it was still really fun to hit the mountain and get my ski on. Another reason to love California: Several ski resorts within a 4- to 5-hour drive, a huge improvement over the 10-hour Kansas-Colorado journey. I'm going to make sure Alan and I have a few ski trips this year, even if I have to kidnap him.

Tag, I'm it!

My wonder twin friend Jenn tagged me, so although I'm not going to totally play by the rules, I'll play along. Plus, I was going to work out, and this gives me a good reason to put that off...or not do it at all. Funny, because Jenn is usually a reason that I DO work out.

My Amended Rules
1. Link to your tagger and post your own rules on your blog.
2. Share 5 facts about yourself on your blog.
3. Tag 1 to 5 people at the end of your post, and then link to your favorite blogs.
4. Let Nikki know she's been tagged.

Five facts about me
1. I hate, hate, HATE doomsday chain emails. The "If you don't send this to 20 people in 20 seconds you're doomed to have bad luck forever and the love of your life won't ever find you!!" type. Seriously? If it's an email worth sending, just remove the stupid threats and send along. Stop the cycle, people. Also annoying: Circle of fear emails that encourage urban legends. Snopes.com. Check it out.

2. I go through spells when food just doesn't sound good and I can't figure out what to eat. I still eat. But I am in a 2-month rut right now when making a grocery list and coming up with dinner ideas is the most boring, awful thing in the whole world.

3. Open cabinet doors and drawers always make me think of ghostly haunted houses, because on spooky shows that's how ghosts get their kicks.

4. Every time I put Marti's leash on I think of the movie Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken. In this movie, the main character, part of a girl-and-horse diving act, learns to grab onto a horse running by her up a ramp and jump off of a high dive into water. I think of this movie because Marti, without fail, will circle around me and I have to wait until just the right moment to grab her collar and attach her leash.

5. I rarely vacuum. I think you're probably supposed to do it once a week, especially if you own a pug, but I just can't handle that chore. I think it has to do with the necessity of having to have the floor clear.

Tagged
1. Nikki

Not tagged, but other blogs I obsessively check:
Owned by Pugs
Atlanta Panda Updates
Go Fug Yourself
The Bachelor Recaps

And a video for good measure. The music cracks me up:
Charles the Pug

Frequent Flier

So I'm in the throes of traveling frequently again, which has limited my time and/or creativity in the blogging world. I guess it could be worse; only half of my traveling has been for work. I was back home for a wedding in late October, off to Phoenix the week after that, and I just got back from Vegas on Thursday night. In a couple of weeks I go home mid-week to see my little niece, thanks to a free flight I've earned.

At least when I was in Phoenix learning about telehandlers I was able to sneak out a couple of nights and hang out with Kyle. We had some good dinners, he showed me his apartment, and best of all, gave me a tour of his golf course. I must say, I do not feel sorry for the guy: his office is amazing.


We got out there right at sunset, which made it even more beautiful. Who knew that the desert could be so pretty? And, although I didn't get a picture of them, there were cottontail rabbits everywhere. We're talking hundreds of them; 10 of them on every green. They would scatter as we zipped around corners.

Then, I was off to Vegas this week for three days of crane classes. That's right: Me in classes, all day, learning about cranes. I sometimes wonder how I fell into this industry. And I'm not the only one. I was one of about three women there, out of a total of 150 participants. I felt like I was in one of those pictures: Which of the items in the picture doesn't belong? Erin...and 149 good ol' boys. Tough call. I was constantly getting asked, incredulously, "Are you a crane operator??" "If you don't mind me asking, why are you here?" They always meant it with the best of intentions--genuine curiosity about what would bring me to a crane conference. It was fairly amusing. They even felt the need to say "Gentlemen....and ladies" when I was the only woman in the class. And they also threw in fairly frequently how they knew a female crane operator who was better than the men. Thanks, guys.

What is not amusing to me, however, is a blonde joke in a professional setting. One day for lunch there was a taco bar, and I filled up my plate, but didn't see the "fixins" at another table. I finally realized where they were, after I was pretty much done eating, and someone goes "Well, she IS a blonde." I'm sorry, I can't even muster a smile for that. I have no problem with blonde jokes...I think they're pretty funny myself. But not in a professional setting, where I'm pretty much the only woman in the room. AND, they're called HIGHLIGHTS. I'm not even really that blonde.

But that wasn't nearly as insulting as what happened to me a couple of years ago when I had forgotten to bring my business cards with me on a trip. This buffoon of a man said, "Well, she IS blonde...I'm sure she'd forget her head if it wasn't attached." Wow. I had no words for that one.

At least most guys on this trip tried to be politically correct. Most of the instructors in the classes were from Florida, with thick southern accents. "Crane" was pronounced "crine" and one gentleman pronounced "specific," I kid you not, as "PACIFIC." As in the OCEAN. For the first few times I thought that surely I heard wrong. Oh no, he really was saying Pacific. He probably eats "pasketti" for dinner as well.

And I get paid for putting up with all of this.

Welcome to the world, little girl!

Reagan Jean
Born October 29, 2007*
2:53 p.m.
6 pounds, 10 ounces
19 inches

Two weeks early and a day too late! All during Crystal’s pregnancy I had been joking that it would be great if she had the baby a couple of weeks early, conveniently when I would be in town for a dear friend’s wedding. While little Reagan Jean gave it a valiant effort to emerge from the womb early, I still missed seeing her by about 24 hours. I am, however, not going to hold it against her, as I’m way too excited to have an adorable little niece whom I can’t wait to meet!

Proud Pa


Pretty in Purple


Cuddling with Ma


Welcome to the world little girl. You're loved by many!

[Erin's note: YES! She's in my favorite month of all, and less than a week from my birthday!]

Happy Halloween!

One of the perks of having a pug, besides all of the unconditional love and kisses and company, is that pugs in costume are hilarious. Let's face it: With those smashed faces and loads of wrinkles, they are always funny looking. But throw a costume on and it's like pure cuteness overload.

Alan and I came across several worthy costumes at Target awhile back. We debated over the lady bug...or the dinosaur...or the bumblebee. But how could we resist the moose?



Unsure of what size to get her, we opted for the small on our first attempt. It was so tight on her that she couldn't move, which only added to the hilarity. But she also couldn't really breathe, so we opted to return for a larger size. Now, the moose head is slightly too big, but at least she's not miserable in it. I don't think she LOVES it or anything, but she'll put up with it for awhile.



I think she figures, "If this is the price I pay to go to the dog park daily and not have to hunt my own food, it's worth it."

Happy Birthday to Me!

Yesterday was the big 2-7. I officially feel old now. I'm not just mid-20s, I'm upper-mid-20s. Whoa. My brother reminded me that by the time he was my age he had a 2-year-old. Ha! But I'm not feeling too panicked yet. Every time I go to the doctor they ask me my age and they say, "Oh, you've got PLENTY of time to have kids," with the emphasis on PLENTY. That's always a relief, especially because we're in no rush (sorry to the grandparents out there. But not really).

Also, everyone out here in Cali seems to think that Alan and I are super young. We get carded all the time and people express shock at our age. We were purchasing our new bed recently for our anniversary—which is really such an adult purchase—and the salesmen were like "Anniversary of what? You're not married!?" Then, I was recently dropping off a bedspread to be cleaned and the cleaning lady fell in love with it. She was asking about it and I told her it was a wedding gift. Her attention quickly turned from the bedspread to the fact that I was married. "You not MARRIED!? You look like student at university! You going to be 27?! NO!!" She was Asian. And fantastic. I love her.

Crazy cranes...and pilots

Because I work for a crane and lifting equipment magazine, I get daily Google alerts about cranes. Usually the alerts include links to news about endangered whooping cranes rather than anything that relates to my job. However, I still click on these articles now and then to see what's going on with the cranes. This article in particular struck me as funny.

To save you the read if you're short on time but in need of a laugh, this AP report talks about an ultralight plane being used to lead cranes on their migration from Wisconsin to Florida. The article then states that 17 cranes were raised in captivity by researchers in "crane-like" costumes to keep the birds from becoming familiar with humans. The funniest part of all: The ultralight pilot wears the same costumes when leading the cranes in flight on their journey.

No wonder these suckers are almost extinct. They're not the brightest "cranes" in the box.

Third time's a charm

Have you ever seen the movie Signs? Besides having two extremely terrifying scenes in it, it also featured the adorable Abigail Breslin, prior to her Little Miss Sunshine fame. In Signs, her character is always drinking water and leaving half-filled glasses all over the house. I, too, have been drinking water and habitually leaving glasses of water all over the place, making me think of the movie every time I go around picking up after myself.

In her case, the water she leaves everywhere saves the world when it turns out to be the downfall of the invading aliens. When the water is thrown on them, it burns through their flesh and kills them. In my case, my water didn't end up killing aliens or saving the world. It ended up burning through and killing my alarm clock.

I woke up one morning, for whatever reason, very flustered. I turned to hit snooze and knocked over my glass of water, which dumped right into the top of our alarm clock. I unplugged it immediately and turned it over, hoping to salvage it. After drying upside down for a few hours, it was clear the alarm clock was a loss. It would turn on and keep time, but wouldn't let me set the alarm, possibly the most important feature of the whole device.

I went to Target to pick up a new alarm clock. I bought a cool one that let you change the colors of the numbers and even turn off the light for total darkness. The catch: It only let you snooze three times. Well, after a few days of Alan cussing at the alarm clock for not going off continually, I took it back and traded it in for a new model. Ah! The frustration! On attempt two, I bought a battery-operated alarm clock. And not just battery as a backup, but battery ONLY. Needless to say, that was not going to work for us. So after a third trip to Target, I have now purchased a corded, repeating snooze, non-waterlogged alarm clock. It even has two alarms, so that I can set one for myself and one for Alan. Turns out that the third time was a charm with the alarm.

But as I was taking back version one, I got to wondering. Although it was clear that we needed more than three snoozes, should we really need that many? Isn't that a little much? Are we a little lazy? Are we the only people in the world that have a history of sleeping through three snoozes and not even realizing it? So, to satisfy my curiosity, I thought I'd take a poll of your snooze practices to get a feel for what's going on out there in the general sleep world. Just click your answer and click Vote. You can also go to View Results to see what everyone is saying...and to see if you're a weirdo too, although you probably already know that you are.

How many times do you hit snooze?

• None. I'm up and at 'em with the first alarm.
• Once or twice. I like that extra snooze time.
• On occasion, more than twice. Sometimes I just can't get out of bed.
• Regularly more than twice. I'm lazy and/or don't have to be anywhere at a certain time.

Created on October 11, 2007

View Results

more at twiigs.com...

Three words

In college, when I had some free time and wanted to procrastinate, I would fill out those "All About You"-type email surveys. I got this one as a bulletin on MySpace, and thought I'd fill it out for old times' sake. Plus, I thought it'd be fun to see how I do whittling it down to three words. See, I really am an editing nerd.

The rules: You have to use three words to answer each question. No more, no less. It’s harder than you think.*

1. Where is your cell phone?
In purse, maybe?

2. Your girlfriend/boyfriend/hubby?
Wonderful, hilarious Alan

3. Your hair?
A big mess

4. Where is your father?
In heaven above

5. Your favorite thing to do?
[Erin's explanatory note: many contenders here, all use three]
Travel with Alan
Hang with family
Play with Marti
Laugh with friends
Read a book
Watch The Bachelor

6. Your dream last night?
Don't remember one

7. Your favorite drink?
Right now, water

8. Your dream car?
Hybrid: Toyota Prius

9. The room you’re in?
Living room office

10. Your fears?
More vet bills

11. Who did you hang out with last night?
My dearest Alan

12. What aren’t you good at?
Fixing the toilet
Neither is Alan

13. Muffins?
Sometimes, if blueberry

14. One of your wish list items?
A new dresser

15. The last thing you did?
Answered question above

16. What are you wearing?
Nothing. Just kidding.

17. Your pet?
Loveable, snuggly Marti

18. Your computer?
Monitor needs enlarging

19. Your life?
Quite an adventure

20. Your mood?
Content and calm

21. Missing?
Family in Kansas

22. What are you thinking about right now?
See above question

23. Your car?
Needs oil change

24. Your work?
Super busy now

25. Your summer?
Gone, now fall

26. Your relationship status?
Married: Anniversary yesterday

27. Your favorite color(s)?
Shades of green

28. When is the last time you laughed?
Watching The Office

29. Last time you cried?
The other day

30. School?
I love crayons

*Erin's explanatory note: Not that hard. Quite enjoyable really. Ok, I'm done. Notice the threes. Ha ha ha.

Happy Anniversary!

On this, the most romantic of federal holidays, I would like to wish Alan a happy anniversary! Two years of wedded bliss and to many more!

The Rock

The next day, after a blister-inducing exploration of San Francisco, my mom, Kyle and I set out for a well-known landmark: Alcatraz. Alan didn't go because, after having swam 300 meters in Lake Shawnee one summer, he isn't that impressed with the one-and-a-quarter-mile swim it would take to escape from the prison in the freezing and very strong currents of the bay. I, however, was impressed with the prison. And by impressed I mean, "I would never want to serve time there."



When you got up to the prison, you were issued a headset that led you on a guided tour, giving first-hand accounts of escape attempts and tantrums over spaghetti. The standard cell:



If you were brave, you could get locked into one of the solitary confinement cells, in the dark, but we bypassed that option. Here the super cheerful recreation area:



The view of San Francisco from Alcatraz.



After the Alcatraz tour, my mom and I limped to Pier 39 to have lunch while Kyle called us wimps. Then, as I was going into the bathroom at the restaurant, I underestimated the heft of the door, didn't get it open all the way, and banged my knee into the corner of the door. Really, really hard. I was then seriously gimping around the rest of the day. We did some souvenir shopping, and while Kyle really wanted a souvenir "Alcatraz Psycho Ward Outpatient" shirt, he left with a pair of sunglasses instead. And because my mom and I were in such bad shape, we threw in the towel and passed up a trip to the top of Coit Tower and opted to head back home for a nap and ice packs instead.

A September to Remember

Alan and I have a few months of California living under our belts, and now we have successfully had two rounds of visitors out to see us. My mom and Kyle arrived on Thursday after spending a day at Pebble Beach. I took them on a thrilling tour of the apartment and the dog park, and then Alan and I took them out to eat and showed them a bit of campus. Mostly just the creepy parts: the mausoleum, the Angel of Grief and the cactus garden. We saved the big campus tour for Friday, when we went up in the Hoover Tower. This being my third time up, I learned that you can actually seen San Francisco from the tower. We ended up walking miles around campus. It was great.

In the Rodin Sculpture Garden. Mom, putting her hand upon a naked hip; Kyle, palming a head.



After lunch with Alan, we headed up to "the city" to show Kyle the famous Lombard Street and the Golden Gate Bridge. I think I was even more impressed with the bridge this time around. It's truly an amazing feat of engineering.





From the bridge we headed to our Fisherman's Wharf hotel. After a quick "break" (aka dropping off our bags) we headed off to explore the city by foot. We walked around North Beach (SF's Little Italy) and found Chinatown, which we had fun exploring.



Chinatown was pretty much exactly as I had imagined and seen in movies. We even saw two women having a turf war over which corner each one was allowed to pass out her restaurant pamphlets. I couldn't understand a word, yet knew they had to have been yelling Chinese curse words at each other. We continued on from Chinatown and kept walking...and walking...and walking. We definitely got to see a lot of the city, thanks to the young 23-year-old in the group. Old ladies prone to foot problems like my mom and I never would have made it alone.

Happy Birthday Miss Marti!

Two years ago today little Martikins came wriggling into the world. When she was born, Alan and I hadn't gotten married yet and didn't even know we'd be in the market for a little pug that had already been born. To celebrate Marti's special day, I'm going to take her to the dog park for an extra long time, and then maybe take her to Petco to pick out a toy. It'll be huge.

The birthday girl!


Cute little Marti with her hind legs demurely crossed.



Marti and her favorite duck. Notice the gouged-out eyes. That took her one minute to do.



You can't get more precious than this.



And to top off a Marti-filled post, I might as well share this video. I gave Marti broccoli as an experiment one day and she fell in love. It's a fantastic new toy for her. And yes, she does eat it eventually. Funny pug.

A Bed of Pillows

I got on the computer tonight to see if I could upload our whale watching video--I forgot to mention that Alan got the breach on video. But I can't upload it because it's a certain file type that I can't upload. Ah well, I'll just have to do it the old fashioned way: pull it out home-movie style for all of my guests in the future.

Anyway, I felt so unfulfilled and restless because of my failed video-uploading attempt that I had to get out of bed and blog about something. Marti, of course, is my fall back topic of choice.

Sometimes when I'm doing chores and and other various activities around the house, Marti will tire of following me around, watching my every move. I say "tire" because I think I literally exhaust her. When I notice that she's disappeared, I inevitably will go into the bedroom and find her doing something adorable. Tonight it was this:

A Whale of a Time

Alan and I got our first visitors to California this week when his parents came to town. It’s a welcome visit for several reasons: 1) It’s lovely to have people besides Marti to talk to and 2) We get to play host and tour guide, which means seeing our favorite sites and eating at our favorite spots while exploring new places and having adventures with the W clan.

Lar and Shar got to town on Saturday so we had a low-key meal at our favorite pizza joint. We had to make it an early night because on Sunday we had to get up at 5:30 so we could leave for Monterey to catch our whale-watching adventure. Now, I must preface this entry by saying that there is no way, even with my immense talent for writing and description (ha), that I can do justice to the awesomeness of the whales we saw. If you’re ever lucky enough to get to go on a whale-watching trip, I sincerely hope that you are as fortunate as we were.


Doped up on Dramamine and bundled up in a hooded sweatshirt and a jacket, we ventured out on to the open sea. I popped in my minty gum from the get-go to stave off any gnarly sea-sick taste that might occur. I took the advice of a wise sage to hold on to the rails, or bench, to tell my brain that I was OK. I don’t know if it was the Dramamine, the mint, the advice, or divine intervention, but I managed to avoid feeling sick—although I can’t say the same for others on board.

I’m going to say it was divine intervention, though. And here’s why. We cruised out onto the water for what seemed like an hour. At the beginning you’re looking out for otters and sea lions, basically any form of life you can get your eyes on. But after our biologist on board announced that she thought she saw whale spouts a mile and a half up ahead, I pretty much gave up hope that I would see anything on my own. When we reached the whales, we had to wait for them to surface. What happens is that they come up, stay near the surface to take about 5 or 6 breaths, and then dive back down for food for several minutes. They turned out to be humpback whales—and there were two of them. Since they move fairly slowly, it’s easy for the boat to stay with them. When they’re diving, you’re waiting anxiously for them to resurface again to get another glimpse. It was amazing. Then, it got even better.

On about the fifth time they resurfaced, the first whale to surface nearly took out our boat. Whether he was showing off or what, we’ll never know. I missed the action, but I turned and saw a huge splash, literally feet from the back of our boat. They were back up. Alan and I went to the other side of the boat. A couple of seconds later, the other came up and splashed out of the water—a semi-breach. Then, moments later, the other whale came flying out of the water, clearing the water completely, and made a huge splash. I can’t even tell you. I got a little choked up, I’m not gonna lie. To see a 40-50 foot whale, weighing upwards of 70,000 pounds, jump out of the water, doing what it just does naturally, it was amazing. Our biologist was about as shocked as we all were, telling us, “We can pretty much turn around and go home now; it’s not going to get any better than that.” I guess only about 1 in 10 trips get to see a breach. We ended up seeing several.


We stayed with the humpback whales for quite awhile, watching them surface and dive again and again. Then we heard a sighting of a pod of killer whales and headed off to find them. They had the same method as the humpbacks: surface for air for awhile, and then a big dive for food. Killer whales are much faster, so when they came up several minutes later, they could be quite a ways away and you had to speed up to them again. We stayed with them until we had to head back to land.

I was glad to get my feet back on land. And although I lost my sea legs quickly, I have a feeling those whales will hold a place in my memory as the most amazing site I’ve ever seen for much, much longer.

Messy Desk

My desk needs to be cleaned.

Pasta?

There’s a restaurant in downtown Palo Alto called Pasta?

No, that’s not a question. That’s the name: Pasta?

Still looks like I’m asking a question, I realize. But I’m not the one who named the restaurant. Each time Alan and I walked by Pasta-question-mark we’d make jokes and ask each other the same question over and over, while raising our hands in a questioning manner: Pasta?

Pasta?’s name reminds me of that Head-On commercial that plays during Wheel of Fortune (yes, still watching). The group that is collectively watching the woman apply Head-On goes, “Apply directly to the forehead????” and the announcer goes, “Apply directly to the forehead!!” and then the group goes, “Apply directly to the forehead!!” as if they’ve had a Head-On epiphany. That may seem unrelated to Pasta? but my point is this: There is a place and time for punctuation (as an editor I know this) and sometimes unnecessary punctuation only serves to annoy.

We decided to try Pasta? after making fun of it so much. First of all, my ravioli tasted almost exactly like those Weight Watchers Smart Ones I eat for lunch. Which is fine when you’re paying $2.50 for a quick-and-easy low-cal lunch, but not fine when paying $10 and expecting restaurant quality. Alan’s fettucine alfredo was also unappetizing, and he insisted my version is better, which, hello, my fettucine alfredo is tasty so that’s no surprise. Now, when we see Pasta? we say “no-exclamation-point” and keep right on walking.

P.S. Just found a fantastic review on this place, another location, but the comments apply nevertheless: "Pasta? is aptly named. It's shorthand for so many questions that you might have: Is this stuff really pasta? Why did I eat here?" The reviewer also said he usually raises his middle finger when walking past the place. Looks like he says "Pasta? No!" as well.

The Scarlet Letter...of sorts

If people out here in California knew about my previous poo practices, I have no doubt that I would be tarred and feathered, or at the very least branded with a letter P. In California, though, I have been angelic and faithful in cleaning up after Marti. While it's the least glamorous aspect of dog ownership, I never fail. And here's why:



You see, in California, people make a big stink (pun intended) when you fail to pick up after your dog. I'd actually noticed the recalcitrant dog owner not taking care of business, if you will, but I hadn't yet gotten worked up to the point of making a pooping-dog circle-with-a-line-through-it sign yet, let alone three. That's right: There are three of these signs up within 10 feet of each other.

Alan thinks the dog on the signs look kinda like Marti. And it does. But as an eye witness, I can attest that the dog on the sign should be much, much larger.

No Reward for the Kind

I’ve been out of town for a few days, so those of you begging me to post are finally getting your wish. I had to go to Kansas City for a work meeting on Monday and Tuesday, so I made a weekend of it. After a crazy streak of travel, I’m officially done with flying until late October. And after my flight last night, I think I could go a year without flying and be fine.

I was on Southwest and had checked in early, so I was in group A, which meant I’d get the pick of the litter when choosing my seat. I picked my aisle seat toward the front of the plane and settled in for the three-hour flight. The empty middle seat next to me got filled by the third-to-last guy to board the plane. Then there are two kids left to find seats. A 5-year-old and a young teenager traveling alone. The flight attendants call for volunteers to give up their seats so the kids can sit next to each other. No one responds. The flight attendant asks again. No one responds. Finally the flight attendant is like “Please people, they’re KIDS TRAVELING ALONE.” It was a bit ridiculous. So I reach up and ring my attendant button. The guy next to me is like, “They need two seats together” like he’s not willing to move. Buddy, you were just one of the last people to get their seats, in the MIDDLE SEAT. It can’t get much worse than that (I soon learned that yes, yes it can get much worse, which he must have known). The girl caddy-corner from me volunteered to give up her seat so that the kids can at least see each other and talk. I then relocated to what I call “Hell on a Plane.”

I should have known. I should have known. Of course the only seats left on the plane are going to a) be middle seats and b and more importantly) next to people that the general public chose not to sit next to unless forced. Because the kid that I was forced to sit next to was a kid whose row I quickly passed up when I was finding my original seat. He was probably about 12, chubby and had trouble written all over him. In the course of the flight I found out that he can’t sit still, likes to kick and pester people, has a small bladder and smells foul. With a capital F.

The kid knew the two girls and grandma in front of us, and I soon knew why they’d stuck him in another row by himself. So, so luckily, I had a portable DVD player so I was able to stick on my headphones after I got tired of him constantly leaning over to look at my issue of O magazine. He proceeded to touch my untouched box of food, trying to get my attention to ask, probably, “Why the heck aren’t you eating this?” or “Can I have this?” The other kid to my right, luckily, was a gem. He was my ally during the flight, one of those people who is a kindred spirit because, although his luck wasn’t nearly as bad as mine, he still had a sense of smell and could feel the vibrations from the constant kicking. He would roll his eyes with me as we put up our tray tables and got out for Chump to go to the bathroom—twice. He held my DVD player when the girl in front of me dropped her pen and just KNEW that it was under her seat and could I please look for it?

My DVD player’s battery eventually died—after an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm in which Larry puts an “inappropriate” tape into a VCR and inappropriate scenes begin playing on my small screen. I felt a little bad, because the kid probably shouldn’t have seen what he did, but really, how was I to know that CYE would start showing a little skin? After the battery died, I pulled out my iPod as quickly as I could to avoid as much contact as possible. The headphones have never come in so handy, because even with them on, I knew that he never stopped talking out loud, trying to get someone to give him attention.

When the plane finally landed, Chump wanted to get off as quickly as possible. That entailed saying “Excuse me!” while trying to push me aside and out of his way when no one was even close to being able to move off the plane. I’m pretty proud of myself for being as calm and patient as I was during the whole flight. After that experience, I figure I’ve paid my dues. I should have at least a year of wonderful seatmates coming my way.

Me in the Kitchen

As I've mentioned before, cooking and I don't always get along. A couple of weeks ago, I did make a mean pot of chili, no recipe needed. I was pretty proud of myself, chopping onions and peppers and throwing ingredients willy-nilly into the mix. It came out deliciously spicy, and I'm hoping I can recreate it.

However, the gold standard of all baking perfection, the Chocolate Chip Cookie, has evaded me for a couple of years now. I follow the recipe to the letter, yet my cookies consistently fall flat. Before, I could blame my oven for my baking woes. But now that I've moved to a different oven, I can hardly point the finger at the appliance. After all, when you're pointing your finger at something, there are three more fingers pointing right back at you.

I've tried butter instead of margarine and vice versa. I've gotten new baking soda. I've mixed ingredients according to package instructions. For a while I was convinced that every time I was forgetting to add the 1/4 cup when the recipe called for 2-1/4 cups of flour, but I've been extra careful on that step for awhile now. The only thing I haven't tried is new measuring spoons.

I can't complain too much though because luckily, the pancake-flat cookies always taste delicious. My most recent batch of cookies was a near success. The first two cookie sheets came out in utter perfection. Beautiful cookies, not too flat, not too fat. But the third and fourth cookie sheets came out as thin as paper and crumbled to the touch once cool. And they came from the same batch! I'm baffled. Here, my poor, pathetic, delicious cookies.



As you can see, there are a few wonderful separate cookies in there. But the rest of it is one crumbled cookie mess. It just meant I had to take more caution when transporting them to eat them at my desk. And Marti doesn't care what the cookies look like. She wants one. NOW. Here she is, using her paw to reel in my hand in hopes of getting a cookie. This is how she tries to fish for food, whether it's cookies or broccoli.

Wheel of F_rt_ne

Luckily, Alan’s grant will be submitted next week, so my lonely nights should soon be ending. Or getting a little less lonely, anway. Our nights right now consist of Alan coming home at about 6:30, eating dinner, watching Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, and then Alan heading back up to work. Sounds dorky and boring, I know. But these shows have become the highlight of the night and have given us many laughs over the past week or so.

First, Jeopardy! has been the celebrity version for the past week, which means: Much easier! We spit out answers left and right and feel really smart. We pretend it’s the real version.

But Wheel of Fortune is where the fun begins. A few weeks ago on Friends Week the puzzle was:
All you can eat tac_ bar

Two minds are better than one, so the friends opt to solve the puzzle…and can’t get it! It came out as “All you can eat taaaaacccc bar!” Too funny. (If you still haven’t guessed: Taco. Taco, people!)

Now, when solving Wheel of Fortune puzzles at home, it’s common to shout out guesses in the hopes of getting it right. Which is what Alan does. But on some occasions, I know that his shout-out is what he really thinks is the correct answer. The clue:
__tter_ups

In his most amazing guess ever, Alan shouts, with conviction: OTTERPUPS! Oh. Of course. Otterpups. As in offspring of otters. That’s right. Because we all know about lioncubs and humanbabies and such.

The answer is actually “buttercups.” I hardly got any glory for guessing, but that was only because I couldn’t stop crying, I was laughing so hard at OTTERPUPS!

And because you’re in a hurry to guess, you don’t always get to put a lot of thought into your guess. In this clue, Alan and I both made terrible guesses. Category: Living Thing

Fini__y
_a_s

I yell, “Finicky Lass!” while Alan shouts, “Finicky Mass!” while the guy on the show yells, “Finicky Cats!” which of course makes way more sense than our guesses. I didn’t realize that the second “s” in lass should have been up there if that was right; Alan’s scientific rationalization that “mass” could be a living blob of some sort; why it would be finicky, only Alan knows. We obviously aren’t that great at Wheel of Fortune. I guess that’s why we’re at home, not at the wheel, winning thousands of dollars.

My Puppy and Me

The daily excursion to the dog park is now an unbreakable habit. Even if I'm not planning to go, if it's around 5 o'clock, Marti will start walking in that direction. And since it's a great way for her to wear herself out and get all of her business done, it's hard to find reasons not to go.

Alan has never been a fan of the dog park. He thinks dog park people are weird. Granted, some of them are weird. There are the ones who take their dogs to daycare; some who go to the dog park twice a day; some who don't even own dogs. But mostly, they are people, like me, who love their dogs and want to get their dogs out to exercise. The dog park culture is highly amusing, though. There are rules of etiquette; the cardinal rule being Always Pick Up After Your Dog. Also important is Ask Before You Give Other Dogs Treats. It also happens that you learn all the dogs' names before you actually learn any of the humans' names. I know Buster, Luca, Bogey, Otto, Sierra, and Champ, but I don't know any Sue, Martha or Kevin.

When Alan's at the dog park he's like a dog trapped in a cage. He's plotting his escape route. Just look at the fire, the passion, the excitement on his face.



Marti doesn't understand what Alan's problem is. The dog park is THE BEST PLACE TO BE, EVER. Except maybe bed. Marti has a blast at the dog park.



And everyone at the park knows that Marti is the most submissive pug ever. Her handshake-nice-to-meet-you consists of lay-down-roll-onto-back-and-allow-sniffing. Which is fine. I mean, it's better than some of these little bullies out there. That sounds really "parenty," but no one likes to see their baby getting pushed around.

Here's Bogey, the behemoth of the dog park.



And here's Marti's latest stalker, Buster. The first time Buster met Marti, you couldn't get him out of this position. Marti says, "I have a boyfriend in Kansas; you're not Chuck!"