on friends

I cant help this new great mood I've been in for a while now. Im not sure how its occuring because I've been really, really sick for..a while now. But nonetheless, there's a spring in my step even on the gloomiest, rainiest days. And as those of us who live in New England know, a New England winter is one of the gloomiest around. We're in serious competition with "Old England" and Ireland. I can't even fathom a winter in Siberia, but I bet its really bad.

Im happy even though I've been really missing the friends I've lost touch with along the way these past few years. Everyone dispersed all over the Country and while we all try keep in touch, its not the same. How can it be? Lives shift and split off into lives of everyones own creation, and we cannot carry every single person we've adored along with us. Sadly. But you have the memories of those days...and the way they made you feel, and how they helped you to become the person you are today. And you always have the hope that your paths will cross again somehow. And that hope makes us happy.

3 shall be the count, and the count shall be 3.

For a whole day I considered adopting a pound puppy. Gunther could use a friend and a stray dog could use a home. But then, Gunther ate another pair of my shoes (sneakers this time) and so the count of this household shall remain at 3.
Perhaps when we dont live in an attic apartment, 4 would be a more appropriate number.
.
I feel guilty that I havent adopted a dog. It must be how Angelina Jolie feels everytime she gets pregnant. She has a 3:1 ratio so far. So, if she's pregnant again, we can expect her to adopt 3 more international orphans by 2010. God bless that woman, at least she's consistent. I do feel for Jen Aniston sometimes, but then again...none of these people know I exist so my thoughts are void and I dont even know why I wrote this paragraph. I do this sometimes. Oh well.

Some good news is that winter seems to be moving along at a fast pace. February is almost over, then March, then some rain in April..and voila! Spring. I must be growing up because Im already planning my flower garden. Im going to get ambitious with some wisteria and morning glories and a trellis. So, expect an entry in May about a tragedy involving some wisteria, morning glories, and a trellis.

Maybe I'll just buy some fresh cut flowers and stick them in the soil outside and try to fool myself.

Sounds good.

I love my dog, I love my dog, I love my dog...

Gunther and I have been having "bonding issues" lately. You've heard of a very real issue called post-partum depression, which occurs in some women after the birth of their baby. Perhaps they feel a diconnect between them and their infant, a resentment they cannot define, etc. However, you may not have heard of post-puppy depression. Let me assure you, it exists, and it exists in me. I love Gunther, I do. But he prefers his Daddy. A lot. WAY more than his Mommy. He actually prefers his Uncle and his Grandparents more than his Mommy. I'm not sure why this is. I totally adore him. Sort of.

Ok, here's the thing. He eats everything I ever loved. My chocolate brown 40's style heels? Gone. In pieces. My family heirloom quilt? Ripped and peed-upon. My undergarments, a far distant memory. I dont know how he does it, but its only my things. Never not once has he touched anything that ever belonged to my boyfriend. Keep in mind, we share a closet.

So its hard to feel the love. He's so small. He's so cute and cuddly. But its his insatiable need to destroy that is tearing us apart. Tonight, he came plodding into the bedroom so nicely and quietly. He looked up at me with these little sad eyes like "please pick me up and hold me?" How could I resist? I felt..motherly! Oh, so this is what its like, I thought, to feel unwavering affection for a child. I was thrilled. I scooped him up and held him close. I put him on the bed with me as I watched a movie.( I have not seen my boyfriend since he bought a Xbox360 a few weeks ago. I believe he is alive and well, I slide food trays under the door to him in the living room. He grunts a thankful grunt and returns back to saving digital people or something like that. Something crucial, I hope. I love him, I hope he comes back. But this is beside the point.) So here we are, mother and son, cuddling and watching a delightful romantic comedy..and then....and then......

It feels warm..and....damp? Like...pee...but..NO, no...he wouldnt have peed on the bed.

Wait...wait a minute..it smells like...

URINE.

And thats that. He peed on the bed. In the middle of our best moment. I love my dog, I do.

So after the trauma and the yelling and the summoning the other half from the dark recesses of the "xbox" living room, and the cleaning and the discussion of just who would foot the dry cleaning bill...the dog has the nerve to come up to me and lick my foot. Which is cute, because he is foot-sized. How can you not love him? How could I really be so disconnected from that?
Currently he is asleep on my lap and I think..I just really hope...that our bonding has now begun. And I do so love him.

Clancy the Wonderdog.

I was thinking about really happy things this morning, and here's what came to mind: Clancy the Wonderdog. Take a good look at him, folks. This pesky pup lived to be 17 years old. Which, I believe in dog years made him something like 3 Million Human years or something like that. Whatever, I'm not good at math. Anyway, this picture is of me (nice bangs, yeah?) and Clancy at our old home in Wickford.

Not much else to say, but that picture sure holds a lot of happy in it.

Melancholy January

I tried. I tried really, really hard to be optimistic about January. I tried SO hard to manifest spring-time that I made myself violently ill and was out of work for a total of 5 days spanning two weeks. And on top of that, Heath Ledger goes and dies. I know tragedy is everywhere and there are global occurances of genocide, disease, poverty...it goes on and on and on. Sometimes its all too big to wrap your head around. But for some reason, hearing about the loss of a truly talented and seemingly gentle and kind young soul like that was just so sad and depressing. He passed on the anniversary of my Grandma's death. Happy January 22. Not really.

But then again...

My cousin Brandy had her first baby. A little 6 lb darling named Jake. on January 22. So there's the happy I was looking for. Thank god for Baby Jake. He got in right under the wire and redeemed January.

We're irish, we're genetically morbid.

I know there are two different types of people in this world: those who believe in signs and those who don't. Its similar to those who favor the theory of coincidence and those who favor the theory of fate. There are times I am not sure which side of this debate my beliefs land on. Or, I was unsure, until I lost my Grandma last year to cancer. I should start by saying that my Grandma was one of those women who had an absolutely unshakable faith in God and the general goodness of mankind. She was an extraordinary woman, strong in her love for family and life, adventure and humor. She was exactly the kind of woman I aspire to be like everyday, and know I will be lucky to become 1/4 of the woman she was. I miss her like you would'nt believe.

What this has to do with signs and fate is that I swear she finds ways of talking to me still. She talks to all of her loved ones, I think, daily. She never appears as an aparition, there are no hauntings, no paranormal activities. She simply says hello. On my worst days, I always see a rainbow when I'm driving. Then, usually seconds after I see it...one of our favorite songs will come on the radio. I have XM Satellite and usually listen to the station that plays 1940's music...her favorite. Perhaps I am just looking for a way to communicate with her. Maybe I always listen to the 40's station because it reminds me of her....maybe I see rainbows because I always feel down when it rains. But I feel her, I guess...is the important part. And whether coincidence, or fate..sign or not....I feel better.

The picture I posted is from this past fall, up at my Great Uncle's farmhouse in Upstate New York. It is called by those lucky enough to have been there, simply, "The Farm". It was my Grandma's favorite place. My Aunts and Cousins and my Mom had been talking about her for hours it seemed on that day. It was our first time back to "The Farm" since my Grandma had passed. We all had tears in our eyes from laughing about the wonderful time we had with her when she was with us....and then we looked out the window and saw this absolutely crystal clear rainbow over the fields behind the nearly 300 year old farmhouse. I guess she just wanted to let us know she was still with us.

Death is something that is inevitable and the Irish are notoriously fanscinated by it. I suppose living in a country shrouded in fog and rain most of the time will do that to a culture of people. My Grandma, who was 100% Irish and proud of it...never EVER let death get her down. And she had to bury a son, a daughter, and a husband in her lifetime. I spent most of last year destroyed and depressed over losing her, and it was only recently that I realized she would be so mad at me if she could see me. And maybe she does, and she sends those signs to tell me to lighten up.

We lost her last January, and now..a year later...things are starting to feel..well, lighter.

little secrets

The thing about living two and a half floors above an old historic street is that I always feel like our apartment is a secret, and only we (and the pizza guy) know about it. Its easy to imagine what this town felt like 200 years ago, and even easier still to imagine what this house was like.
I think you'd have to see it to believe it. But I am certain that no matter where I go, or what other houses I may live in...no house will have a spirit quite like this one. Even the mice are friendly, and respectful. We have only seen one (Squeekers, we call him). Gunther seems to notice every creek and shift of the old wooden bones of this house. I just hope Gunther and Squeekers never meet, because I think I know who would emerge victorious from that encounter, and it wouldnt be my secret wall-dwelling friend with a penchant for cheese.

Si te hace feliz

Two years ago, I made a promise to myself to become fluent in French. I bought tapes, signed up for French Class, the works. What I failed to comprehend was that the french language, like so many french things, is complex, difficult, and snobby. Well, I threw that "snobby" comment in because I'm still bitter. Thing is, I just cant grasp it. Its almost too beautiful a language for me. Its the CoCo Chanel of languages. I'm really a Gap girl at best. Maybe Banana Republic. At least for now.



Who is Huckabee and how did they let him up past the Mason-Dixon line?

First kisses and Cosmetic Dentistry

I got to thinking about kisses today. I spend around 2 hours a day in my car commuting to my jobs, and trust me, you get to thinking about a lot of completely random, unrelated stuff. Other topics in my head were, "How old is Sean Kingston?", "Is steak necissarily fattening if on a salad?" and "If I WERE going to get full sleeve tattoos, would they be in color or black and grey?" and finally, "What first kiss would I technically consider my first kiss?" While all these topics are completey riveting and worthy of further exploration, I do have a bit of trouble defining my first kiss. Here's why:

1.) Im pretty sure I kissed all of the boys in my preschool class. I definitely tried to, at least. Do those kisses count as a first kiss?
2.) I kissed most of the boys in my 3rd and 4th classes...and my 5th and 6th....but that was only under the safe and perhaps disqualifying blanket of the "spin the bottle" clause, (wherein all kisses are devoid of meaning seeing as how at least 1/2 of the participants are in fact participating against their own free will or better judgement.) Do these kisses count as a first kiss?
3.) The first boyfriend I ever kissed ended up being gay.
4.) The second boyfriend I ever kissed ended up being gay.
5.) The third boyfriend I ever kissed ended up being gay.
......Hmmm. Not a promising line up of contenders for the "first kiss" title.
6.) The first real kiss (being french, as some use this to define a true kiss) resulted in 2 sessions of somewhat excruciating cosmetic dental surgery. Here's how this went down. Boy meets girl, girl meets boy. Boy and girl talk constantly on America Online (this was about 1996-the apex of AOL's glory before the world discovered a loophole and it became obsolete.) Boy and girl go on class trip to Washington D.C. and finally (being 15 and full of awkward angst ridden need for PDA but being woefully incapable of excecuting it with one ounce of class or sophistication)...kiss. Except girl was not ready for it. And boy took a running start toward girl. From about 25 yards away...on a rooftop...at night. Boy smacks mouth against girl's mouth, chips off a large portion of girls front tooth. Cosmetic dentistry ensues. So surely, this cannot count as the first kiss.

On the other hand, my other real first kiss (I was 16) was with a boy I very much adored and was so wonderful I cannot even bring myself to tell it's tale because I feel the need to keep it, like a love letter, locked away in a secret place only I know of. But, I've decided to count that kiss as my first kiss. The other first kisses are simpy amusing, at best.

Oh, and Sean Kingston is 17, Steak is not infact less fattening if used on a salad, and I would never, EVER get sleeve tattoos on my arms.