** My blog is a bit like a newsstand tabloid - when newsbreaking stories hit, you backburner those previous blog postings you wanted to post. And yes, I'm 4-5 posts behind - a few more glasses of wine, peaceful evenings where I can write and you too can read about The Bomb Bag, The Travel Curse Taxi Style, The Travel Curse Again, etc. Tonight, that would be newsbreaking story - not as cool as Angelina having twins, but chaotic none the less. Enjoy! **
The Tornado Watch
Most people embrace each day with a smile and hope for the best that life will bring them. While I share in this optimistic view of life, the truth is instead of embracing each day, I usually brace for my day steeling my nerves and readying myself for the inevitable chaos that will ensue. Today was no exception.
This evening, as a family fun outing, we planned a Cubs game to see our beloved Cubbies play hard towards the hope of a World Series title. The game started at 6:08 p.m., thanks to ESPN, and of course, I was running late home from work…with the tickets. Once I arrived home, Dave and the kids were packed up and ready to go, complete with mitts (in case of a foul ball), healthy snacks (to counter the cotton candy they would be eating) and tickets to awesome seats where we could yell out to the players and they could actually hear us.
The benefits of living one block from Wrigley Field are numerous. We can hear the ballgame from inside our house, with the windows closed. We can set up a lemonade stand for the kids and make $50 (although Delaney last week asked if she could sell beer instead, she thought she could make more money – unfortunately all of her profits would have gone towards her bail). We can sell parking spots and let the kids earn extra money. The list goes on and on. The biggest benefit of living close to the Field, however, is when we are at a game. The typical plan is we take the kids to the game, and once one or more of the kids start to freak out, I take them home leaving Dave, his beer, and the Cubs to enjoy the rest of the game.
This evening, during the top of the 5th inning, Max started rumbling of wanting to go home. OK, he actually had to go to the bathroom, but none the less, “I want to go home!” was heard around the ballpark. Looking for an excuse to leave the chaos of the game and go home to some peace and quiet, I quickly volunteered to find the next pedi-cab to take me the one block home (alright, truth is, I’m lazy – or, I think having a guy ride me home on a bike is pretty cool, one of the two). Just as we were pulling in to our home, the heavens opened and the rain poured down. I’m sure airplane passengers everywhere were wondering if I was flying and thus the reason for the storms. What can I say, not today.
After 15 minutes behind me, Dave, Delaney and Jack come racing home soaking wet, leaving my brother in law Mike, and his fiancé Lindsay, at the game. As Dave said, “We don’t do rain delays – we wait those out at home.” And so we began to settle in for a early evening, a bottle of wine, and most importantly, my just delivered People magazine with Brangelina and the twins on the cover. Yippee! I had settled in to reading my 19-page spread of the Lady who lived in a Shoe, aka, Angelina, when we heard the most peculiar sound.
“Su – do you hear what I hear?” “I think I do – it’s either the party siren or we have a tornado barreling down on us.” “Get the kids, go to the basement.” “Right-o, I’ll run upstairs and see if I can snatch them away from the entertainment of SpongeBob Squarepants.” “Kids – to the basement…I think. I can’t remember what I learned in 4th grade about tornados. But I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be in the basement.” Let see, flooding – go to the top floor. Earthquake – stand between a door. Snowstorm – pile on the fleece and dress in layers. Tornado – bottom floor? Basement? Get away from the mobile homes? Crap – I don’t remember! “Delaney, quick – what did you learn in 3rd grade about tornados? Or is that 5th? Are you smarter than a 5th grader?” “Mommy, go to the basement, and wait 20 minutes after the tornado comes to make sure we’re safe.” “OK, RUN to the basement! Go to the bedroom down there, I’ll protect you…after I get a few things.”
So, after the kids make their way to the protection of a mattress in an interior room (heard that was important), I run to grab a few things while Dave either opens or closes the windows, I still don’t remember what you’re supposed to do with the windows and frankly, I wasn’t paying attention.
While the kids were huddled on the bed, and we were listening to the AM radio, it felt a bit like Y2K. Remember that? The earth was supposed to implode, but I was ready with my cans of baked beans, water bottles and duct tape. Frankly, I could have sold that duct tape to the airlines for the work they did on the broken nose gear. Anyway, as I’m listening to the radio, I hear them say, “Go to the basement and put your hands on your head.” I look over and what are my kids doing, yep, they have their hands on their head. “Mommy – PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!” “But guys, if my hands are on my head, I can’t reach my glass of wine and I’m really thirsty!” Then I hear Delaney say, “I don’t feel so good.” Great, it’s a freaking tornado and Delaney has Tornadoitis. For all those medical types that are reading this, don’t pretend you don’t know what Tornadoitis is. It’s the immense fear of Tornados that makes you sick to your stomach. Yes, you guessed it – my precious, sweet daughter Delaney decided at that moment to throw up the contents of Wrigley Field concessions - the hot dog, malted chocolate ice cream, cotton candy, peanuts...and the carrots that Dave packed. UGH! Throw-up cleaning supplies were not on my list of Tornado-prepardeness!
I’m sure as you are reading this you are beginning to wonder where Dave is. I, too, was beginning to wonder where Dave was. “Dave, where are you? If we’re going to die, could you at least come down here and join us?” “I was thinking I would stay by the door and just in case Cubs fans needed a basement to run to, we could let them in.” O.K., in theory, nice. In reality, come on! This is not the Titantic, all I need is 35,000 screaming Cubs fans in my basement. I already have one puking kid, I don’t need more! “Dave, umm…, I think that’s a bad idea. Not a big fan of throwing a party right now. I only have one bottle of wine and it has my name on it.”
And I’m sure many of you are wondering what is in my Tornado-prepardness-kit. Frankly, I was working by the seat of my pants, so I only took the things that were important to me:
· Kids - Dave clearly was more concerned about helping his fellow baseball loving pal
· Bottle of wine - hey, I might get thirsty, and I had just opened it
· Jill’s Orzo Pasta Salad – yum, it’s really good, even better on the second day
· Computer – constant access to all things important like weather.com
· Cell Phone – my new iPhone did me no good as I got no reception in the basement
· New People Magazine – hey, if I’m going to die, I want to know what those twins look like!
That’s it. That’s what I took to sweat through the tears and fears of my first siren-blasting Tornado Warning in the city. Completely pathetic, but I know some of you girls out there are thinking I had the making of a nice night in. Mike and Lindsay took shelter at the stadium, in which they locked the gates. First time in 40 years. Dave held firm by the door and popped his head downstairs occasionally to make sure we were okay. And now? Well, the kids are asleep on the 2nd floor and we have started our flood preparations – moving everything off the floors, saving the Wii and all other important items in our basement. While many times I feel like Old Mother Hubbard who lived in a Shoe, days like today, I feel a bit more Noah’s wife while we wait out the storm.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Poisoned Client
** I momentarily interrupt June to bring you July...while sitting CURSED at the Harrisburg Airport, waiting patiently to find out if our 3 hour delay will turn into a cancellation...and you thought I was kidding about the curse....**
The Poisoned Client
While my travel curse is known from coast to coast, continent to continent, my ‘poisoned client’ curse is only now picking up steam.
In my line of work, I do a good amount of travel and a fair amount of client entertaining. As we’re in the food business, we tend to skip the “Let me impress you with a McDonald’s Happy Meal dinner” and at least go to somewhat nice restaurants that likely have passed any recent health inspections.
Last year my client Cathy brought her new hire Kate to the photo shoot. Kate was 7 months pregnant, one month on the job, and in the process of transferring to Camden from Chicago. Needless to say, a nice dinner out to toast the success of our photo shoot was embraced by all, especially Kate. We decided nothing said, “Open your wallet, you’re on expenses” quite like Crofton on Wells. Crofton on Wells is at least 10 steps above McDonald’s, and just slightly below serious fine dining in Chicago – regardless, a well known restaurant with a well know chef.
Anyone that knows me, has dined with me, or even thinks about dining with me knows what a pain in the a** dining companion I can be. I admit it, I’m a high maintenance food substitution snob. A recent true lunch order at Ruby Tuesdays, “Can I have the mini burgers please, no meat though, sub with sautéed mushrooms instead, no ketchup, no mustard, and if you put a pickle on the plate, I will freak out.” I’m fairly certain our waitress rolled her eyes at this point and muttered under her breath, “Great, one of those….” So at Crofton on Wells, imagine my co-workers surprise when I order a meal without substitutions and sit back to hear Kate order the following, “I’d like the scallops but no mussel reduction sauce. I’m allergic to shellfish, so can you sub the sauce with a different sauce.” Ah, a girl after my own heart!
Dining with a bunch of foodies has its challenges. Not knowing what a morel is in front of your dining companions can be embarrassing, or how about ordering your steak well done instead of medium rare, salting your food before tasting it, etc. But frankly, ordering the scallops while subbing the reduction sauce due to a shellfish allergy is a major faux pas – scallops are shellfish so this simple, yet complicated order either infers that 1. Kate is a liar, she’s not allergic or 2. Kate is not a foodie, she doesn’t know what classifies as shellfish.
The next morning Cathy walks in to the shoot…but where is Kate? Apparently at 3:00 a.m., Kate is rushed to Northwestern Memorial Hospital with, you guessed it, food poisoning. My co-workers and I are all in shock, and one by one they all start pointing fingers at me, “It’s you, Su! You are the curse…you tried poisoning your client! How could you?” So unfair – she ordered shellfish, and said she was allergic to shellfish, what do you expect? And unfortunately for Cathy, dinner at Crofton on Wells was the last time she ever saw Kate again. Kate never transferred to Camden, had her baby in Chicago, and promptly resigned which only cemented my reputation of “Su – the Client Poisoner”.
I have managed to skate by poison-free for the past year, until last night. You see, I’m in Philly and yes, I took my client Liz out to dinner last night. Liz is not only a great client, but a ton of fun to hang out with as well. We had a great dinner at El Vez, great conversation, but apparently bad chicken. Liz was beginning to look at little flush by the end of our dinner, her stomach in knots (she swears it wasn’t because we negotiating contracts) and the sweat beads started to form by the time the bill came.
This morning I received a phone call from Liz, “Su – hey, I just wanted to check up on you and see how you were feeling.” Huh? Oh, crap…. “Liz, you didn’t by chance get FOOD POISONING last night, did you?” “Yes, I was praying to the porcelain gods, flu-like symptoms, fevers, night sweats, worst night of my life.” “Umm…do you feel better today, maybe going into the office? “ “Yes, much better this morning, just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Well, as luck would have it for me, I did not get food poisoning. Although God has found humor to torture me in other ways with food, which is a story for another day.
While Liz is not planning on resigning (or at least, I’m unaware of it), she is moving off of her business and into a new position. Food poisoning + last day of current position = “You must have had dinner with Su.
The Poisoned Client
While my travel curse is known from coast to coast, continent to continent, my ‘poisoned client’ curse is only now picking up steam.
In my line of work, I do a good amount of travel and a fair amount of client entertaining. As we’re in the food business, we tend to skip the “Let me impress you with a McDonald’s Happy Meal dinner” and at least go to somewhat nice restaurants that likely have passed any recent health inspections.
Last year my client Cathy brought her new hire Kate to the photo shoot. Kate was 7 months pregnant, one month on the job, and in the process of transferring to Camden from Chicago. Needless to say, a nice dinner out to toast the success of our photo shoot was embraced by all, especially Kate. We decided nothing said, “Open your wallet, you’re on expenses” quite like Crofton on Wells. Crofton on Wells is at least 10 steps above McDonald’s, and just slightly below serious fine dining in Chicago – regardless, a well known restaurant with a well know chef.
Anyone that knows me, has dined with me, or even thinks about dining with me knows what a pain in the a** dining companion I can be. I admit it, I’m a high maintenance food substitution snob. A recent true lunch order at Ruby Tuesdays, “Can I have the mini burgers please, no meat though, sub with sautéed mushrooms instead, no ketchup, no mustard, and if you put a pickle on the plate, I will freak out.” I’m fairly certain our waitress rolled her eyes at this point and muttered under her breath, “Great, one of those….” So at Crofton on Wells, imagine my co-workers surprise when I order a meal without substitutions and sit back to hear Kate order the following, “I’d like the scallops but no mussel reduction sauce. I’m allergic to shellfish, so can you sub the sauce with a different sauce.” Ah, a girl after my own heart!
Dining with a bunch of foodies has its challenges. Not knowing what a morel is in front of your dining companions can be embarrassing, or how about ordering your steak well done instead of medium rare, salting your food before tasting it, etc. But frankly, ordering the scallops while subbing the reduction sauce due to a shellfish allergy is a major faux pas – scallops are shellfish so this simple, yet complicated order either infers that 1. Kate is a liar, she’s not allergic or 2. Kate is not a foodie, she doesn’t know what classifies as shellfish.
The next morning Cathy walks in to the shoot…but where is Kate? Apparently at 3:00 a.m., Kate is rushed to Northwestern Memorial Hospital with, you guessed it, food poisoning. My co-workers and I are all in shock, and one by one they all start pointing fingers at me, “It’s you, Su! You are the curse…you tried poisoning your client! How could you?” So unfair – she ordered shellfish, and said she was allergic to shellfish, what do you expect? And unfortunately for Cathy, dinner at Crofton on Wells was the last time she ever saw Kate again. Kate never transferred to Camden, had her baby in Chicago, and promptly resigned which only cemented my reputation of “Su – the Client Poisoner”.
I have managed to skate by poison-free for the past year, until last night. You see, I’m in Philly and yes, I took my client Liz out to dinner last night. Liz is not only a great client, but a ton of fun to hang out with as well. We had a great dinner at El Vez, great conversation, but apparently bad chicken. Liz was beginning to look at little flush by the end of our dinner, her stomach in knots (she swears it wasn’t because we negotiating contracts) and the sweat beads started to form by the time the bill came.
This morning I received a phone call from Liz, “Su – hey, I just wanted to check up on you and see how you were feeling.” Huh? Oh, crap…. “Liz, you didn’t by chance get FOOD POISONING last night, did you?” “Yes, I was praying to the porcelain gods, flu-like symptoms, fevers, night sweats, worst night of my life.” “Umm…do you feel better today, maybe going into the office? “ “Yes, much better this morning, just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Well, as luck would have it for me, I did not get food poisoning. Although God has found humor to torture me in other ways with food, which is a story for another day.
While Liz is not planning on resigning (or at least, I’m unaware of it), she is moving off of her business and into a new position. Food poisoning + last day of current position = “You must have had dinner with Su.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Stairs
The Stairs
June 14th
After living in our current home for 11 years, you would think that I would notice that our brick façade on our front stairs did not match the brick on our home. Clearly, I’ve spent way too much time on the front porch drinking with neighbors, in which our stairs become slightly fuzzy and everything looks like it matches, instead of pondering what life would be like with stairs that matched. Dave, on the other hand, has apparently spent years letting our unmatched stairs fester in him like a splinter you can’t get out without undergoing expensive surgery.
So, in an effort to appease little Dave whispering in big Dave’s ear “The stairs suck – do something about it” – we did just that, we contracted with an Southside Irish concrete and masonry company and tore out the old mismatched stores for the new and improved version.
After a week of demolition, we were now ready to pour the concrete to finish Dave’s legacy. The kids placed mementos into the concrete to forever let any future archeologist know that Thomas the Train, Transformers, and a picture of a flower were left behind by pioneering Wrigleyville children. And so it was, that the new stairs were poured, life was good, and we went on our merry way to take the kids to soccer.
At this point, I have to interject a side story about our wonderful neighbor Jill. First of all, we love Jill and her family – they have made living on our block really terrific and they are wonderful friends. Jill – you know I love you, so calling you out on this blog is really just affirmation of how I feel about you. I digress. Many years ago an animal crawled into Jill’s backyard, clearly suffering and on it’s last legs. Jill’s kids lovingly cared for this animal, even taking Mike’s expensive Italian gloves to place the animal inside of the cat carrier. After feeding, petting, and talking the animal to “keep fighting the good fight”, Jill found out our other neighbor Julie was going to the animal shelter. Would Julie be willing to take the new-found sickly pet to the animal shelter? Of course! Imagine Jill’s surprise (and all of us who know the story) when Julie called to say, “Jill – remember that sickly pet you sent with me to the shelter? Well, they told what type of animal it is. That would be your common-everyday-I-live-in-Chicago CITY RAT! The rat clearly ate the poison that our city put in the alley, to you know, KILL the rats.” This back story is important how? Read on.
While returning home from the soccer game, we received a phone call from Jill. “Su, I hate to tell you this, but someone carved a picture and wrote something in the concrete while it was drying.” “What – well, what did they write?” “I can’t really tell, but it looks like a tree and two clouds, and it says something underneath I can’t quite make out.” “OK, we’ll be right home.”
After returning home, and seeing Dave’s legacy destroyed in one act of vandalism, we immediately recognized what was drawn, and frankly what was said. “Umm…Jill. I know you have five kids, did you conceive all five in the dark? That’s a giant male anatomy on our second stair.” And what’s written underneath, of course, “Ha, Ha, F***ers.” So is it any surprise, that this act of “humor” cemented us putting the house on the market? Ah, and June isn’t even finished yet!
June 14th
After living in our current home for 11 years, you would think that I would notice that our brick façade on our front stairs did not match the brick on our home. Clearly, I’ve spent way too much time on the front porch drinking with neighbors, in which our stairs become slightly fuzzy and everything looks like it matches, instead of pondering what life would be like with stairs that matched. Dave, on the other hand, has apparently spent years letting our unmatched stairs fester in him like a splinter you can’t get out without undergoing expensive surgery.
So, in an effort to appease little Dave whispering in big Dave’s ear “The stairs suck – do something about it” – we did just that, we contracted with an Southside Irish concrete and masonry company and tore out the old mismatched stores for the new and improved version.
After a week of demolition, we were now ready to pour the concrete to finish Dave’s legacy. The kids placed mementos into the concrete to forever let any future archeologist know that Thomas the Train, Transformers, and a picture of a flower were left behind by pioneering Wrigleyville children. And so it was, that the new stairs were poured, life was good, and we went on our merry way to take the kids to soccer.
At this point, I have to interject a side story about our wonderful neighbor Jill. First of all, we love Jill and her family – they have made living on our block really terrific and they are wonderful friends. Jill – you know I love you, so calling you out on this blog is really just affirmation of how I feel about you. I digress. Many years ago an animal crawled into Jill’s backyard, clearly suffering and on it’s last legs. Jill’s kids lovingly cared for this animal, even taking Mike’s expensive Italian gloves to place the animal inside of the cat carrier. After feeding, petting, and talking the animal to “keep fighting the good fight”, Jill found out our other neighbor Julie was going to the animal shelter. Would Julie be willing to take the new-found sickly pet to the animal shelter? Of course! Imagine Jill’s surprise (and all of us who know the story) when Julie called to say, “Jill – remember that sickly pet you sent with me to the shelter? Well, they told what type of animal it is. That would be your common-everyday-I-live-in-Chicago CITY RAT! The rat clearly ate the poison that our city put in the alley, to you know, KILL the rats.” This back story is important how? Read on.
While returning home from the soccer game, we received a phone call from Jill. “Su, I hate to tell you this, but someone carved a picture and wrote something in the concrete while it was drying.” “What – well, what did they write?” “I can’t really tell, but it looks like a tree and two clouds, and it says something underneath I can’t quite make out.” “OK, we’ll be right home.”
After returning home, and seeing Dave’s legacy destroyed in one act of vandalism, we immediately recognized what was drawn, and frankly what was said. “Umm…Jill. I know you have five kids, did you conceive all five in the dark? That’s a giant male anatomy on our second stair.” And what’s written underneath, of course, “Ha, Ha, F***ers.” So is it any surprise, that this act of “humor” cemented us putting the house on the market? Ah, and June isn’t even finished yet!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The Windy City
**Finally, I'm starting with June - June 13th to be specific....**
The Windy City
There are many urban, and true, legends of how Chicago got it’s nickname. The gusts of wind that come off of Lake Michigan and freezes the snot inside your nose in one theory. The other is attributed to the long winded speeches of local politicians – although I’m not sure if Mayor Daley can actually string together enough coherent sentences to be considered long winded (don’t worry, I really do love Mayor Daley!). The truth however behind the reason we are called the Windy City lies within the 2” root system of our trees.
It’s June 13th and nothing says summer and school’s out like a trip to DQ with the kids, when my phone rings. “Hey Su, it’s Tracy.” Tracy is our awesome neighbor who keeps an eagle eye for all things deemed important on our neighborhood and has come to our rescue more than once. “Hate to tell you this, but remember that tree in front of your house? Yeah, well, it’s on top of Jennifer’s car.” What? Grr…and thus is the story of living in the Windy City, where anyone can merely blow on a tree around our house and feel like David knocking out Goliath with a sling shot. Let me explain.
Many, many years ago, while our garage was being repaired, our neighbor allowed us to park our new car on their parking pad. While having dinner and looking out the back window, Dave notices that there is a slight breeze in the air. Well, that ‘breeze’ picked up a 50’ tree, with a 2” root system and promptly crushed our new car of two weeks in half, totaling it.
Last year, Jack lost his toe-nail. After putting his toe-nail under his pillow (eewww….) and waiting for the toe-nail fairy to arrive, we hear a loud thumb and crash in the front of the house in the early, wee hours of the morning. Yes, it appeared that the toe-nail fairy crashed into yet another 50’ tree with a 2” root system and toppled the tree over like a toothpick.
So there you have it – the real reason why Chicago is called The Windy City is merely a mirage; it’s all because the trees fall down (but apparently only at our house) just by looking at them the wrong way. And yes, we blame it on the wind…err, The Windy City.
The Windy City
There are many urban, and true, legends of how Chicago got it’s nickname. The gusts of wind that come off of Lake Michigan and freezes the snot inside your nose in one theory. The other is attributed to the long winded speeches of local politicians – although I’m not sure if Mayor Daley can actually string together enough coherent sentences to be considered long winded (don’t worry, I really do love Mayor Daley!). The truth however behind the reason we are called the Windy City lies within the 2” root system of our trees.
It’s June 13th and nothing says summer and school’s out like a trip to DQ with the kids, when my phone rings. “Hey Su, it’s Tracy.” Tracy is our awesome neighbor who keeps an eagle eye for all things deemed important on our neighborhood and has come to our rescue more than once. “Hate to tell you this, but remember that tree in front of your house? Yeah, well, it’s on top of Jennifer’s car.” What? Grr…and thus is the story of living in the Windy City, where anyone can merely blow on a tree around our house and feel like David knocking out Goliath with a sling shot. Let me explain.
Many, many years ago, while our garage was being repaired, our neighbor allowed us to park our new car on their parking pad. While having dinner and looking out the back window, Dave notices that there is a slight breeze in the air. Well, that ‘breeze’ picked up a 50’ tree, with a 2” root system and promptly crushed our new car of two weeks in half, totaling it.
Last year, Jack lost his toe-nail. After putting his toe-nail under his pillow (eewww….) and waiting for the toe-nail fairy to arrive, we hear a loud thumb and crash in the front of the house in the early, wee hours of the morning. Yes, it appeared that the toe-nail fairy crashed into yet another 50’ tree with a 2” root system and toppled the tree over like a toothpick.
So there you have it – the real reason why Chicago is called The Windy City is merely a mirage; it’s all because the trees fall down (but apparently only at our house) just by looking at them the wrong way. And yes, we blame it on the wind…err, The Windy City.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Ashes
** I know, I know, I'll get to June eventually...maybe before August is even here."
The Ashes
This evening, I took great effort to actually, surprisingly, make dinner as Dave and I were both home for the night. You would think after looking at recipes 8-10 hours, all day long, I would actually know what’s for dinner. I dunno – something is not sinking in because I never seem to know what I’m going to make at night.
I digress. After getting dinner in the oven, kids calmed down on the couch, Dave comes walking through the back door and leaves a gift bag on the kitchen table. “Hey honey, what’s in the bag? Did you bring me home something special.” “Well, yes, I did bring you home something special.” “Well, let me see – what is it?” “It’s K.C.” “It’s K.C.? Ohhhhhh…it’s K.C. Geez, do you think you have to leave her in the kitchen?” “Please Su, grow up.”
I have an aversion to ashes. It’s true – but there is a reason. Well, perhaps not a rational reason, but I prefer that the dead meet the earth intact, no need to burn remains, human or not, so we can carry vials of our dearly departed around our neck, in canisters that might be mistaken as ash trays, or decorative vases that you might accidentally water, and in that case, you don’t have ashes, you have mud. Cremated mud…ick.
About five years ago, I had my first experience with ashes. I’ve been fortunate in my life, that while our lives seem to be like Mercury constantly in retrograde, we’ve been blessed with few deaths among family, friends or even furry friends. But five years ago, I came face to face with “The Ashes” and it’s scared me from having K.C. rest comfortably on our kitchen table.
In 2003, after returning home from work, I came through the front door and picked up the mail, including a brown, paper-wrapped box from UPS. Hmm, I wonder what’s in the UPS box. I turn the box over, only to read the following, “Human Remains. Handle with Care.” I highly suspect screaming and dropping the box on the floor does not qualify as “handling with care” but when you aren’t expecting a dead person to show up at your door step, you never know how you’ll react. “Dave – someone sent us a DEAD person’s ashes TO OUR HOUSE!” “Oh, Grandma came?” “Umm, what do you mean ‘Grandma came?’” And so it goes that Dave’s deceased Grandma of seven years was making the tour and came to our house. I asked Dave to kindly remove Grandma from the kitchen table (I’m sensing a pattern here) and Dave obliged putting Grandma in a safe and loving part of our house.
Many months later, after being told, that Grandma had been sent to her final, final resting place (our home was merely a pit stop on the way to eternal happiness) I found myself in my closet looking for a pair of shoes that I had not worn in some time. I moved a box to get to the shoes, got myself dressed and then looked at the box, which had the all too familiar markings, “Human Remains. Handle with Care.” Geez, I thought Grandma left, now she’s one my shoes? Ugh. “Dave, what’s up – Grandma’s still here…on my shoes no less, Grandma has over-welcomed her stay, she needs to leave.” “Alright, alright, I’ll call my mom.” And arrangements were made to have Grandma transported to Indiana where she could have a proper final resting place.
Each year, we send one kid to hang out with Dave’s parents for a week. It’s a great chance for them to have one on one time, and gives us a momentary break from the chaos of three children. Such was the case in 2004 (notice this is one year later) when I drove Delaney to a half way point in Indiana and met at the local McDonald’s. I was never so happy to see a bathroom, and Dave’s mom was very happy to see her granddaughter. “You go, I’ll take care of getting Delaney in the car so we can leave.” When I returned home that evening, child-less, Dave said, “Did my mom get everything out of the car?” “I assume she did – I mean she did take Delaney, her car seat, and assorted gear for a week ‘o fun.” “Oh, O.K., I was actually wondering if she took Grandma.” “WHAT?” “Umm…yeah, I put Grandma under the driver’s seat and asked my mom to make sure she took Grandma out of the car.”
And now you know why, right or wrong, I have a problem with ashes. K.C.’s ashes were given to Kathy tonight, with Kathy saying, “You are welcome to borrow the ashes if you ever need to.” A time share dog is one thing, time share ashes? Not my thing. “That’s okay Kathy, I have issues with ashes. You go ahead and keep them.”
The Ashes
This evening, I took great effort to actually, surprisingly, make dinner as Dave and I were both home for the night. You would think after looking at recipes 8-10 hours, all day long, I would actually know what’s for dinner. I dunno – something is not sinking in because I never seem to know what I’m going to make at night.
I digress. After getting dinner in the oven, kids calmed down on the couch, Dave comes walking through the back door and leaves a gift bag on the kitchen table. “Hey honey, what’s in the bag? Did you bring me home something special.” “Well, yes, I did bring you home something special.” “Well, let me see – what is it?” “It’s K.C.” “It’s K.C.? Ohhhhhh…it’s K.C. Geez, do you think you have to leave her in the kitchen?” “Please Su, grow up.”
I have an aversion to ashes. It’s true – but there is a reason. Well, perhaps not a rational reason, but I prefer that the dead meet the earth intact, no need to burn remains, human or not, so we can carry vials of our dearly departed around our neck, in canisters that might be mistaken as ash trays, or decorative vases that you might accidentally water, and in that case, you don’t have ashes, you have mud. Cremated mud…ick.
About five years ago, I had my first experience with ashes. I’ve been fortunate in my life, that while our lives seem to be like Mercury constantly in retrograde, we’ve been blessed with few deaths among family, friends or even furry friends. But five years ago, I came face to face with “The Ashes” and it’s scared me from having K.C. rest comfortably on our kitchen table.
In 2003, after returning home from work, I came through the front door and picked up the mail, including a brown, paper-wrapped box from UPS. Hmm, I wonder what’s in the UPS box. I turn the box over, only to read the following, “Human Remains. Handle with Care.” I highly suspect screaming and dropping the box on the floor does not qualify as “handling with care” but when you aren’t expecting a dead person to show up at your door step, you never know how you’ll react. “Dave – someone sent us a DEAD person’s ashes TO OUR HOUSE!” “Oh, Grandma came?” “Umm, what do you mean ‘Grandma came?’” And so it goes that Dave’s deceased Grandma of seven years was making the tour and came to our house. I asked Dave to kindly remove Grandma from the kitchen table (I’m sensing a pattern here) and Dave obliged putting Grandma in a safe and loving part of our house.
Many months later, after being told, that Grandma had been sent to her final, final resting place (our home was merely a pit stop on the way to eternal happiness) I found myself in my closet looking for a pair of shoes that I had not worn in some time. I moved a box to get to the shoes, got myself dressed and then looked at the box, which had the all too familiar markings, “Human Remains. Handle with Care.” Geez, I thought Grandma left, now she’s one my shoes? Ugh. “Dave, what’s up – Grandma’s still here…on my shoes no less, Grandma has over-welcomed her stay, she needs to leave.” “Alright, alright, I’ll call my mom.” And arrangements were made to have Grandma transported to Indiana where she could have a proper final resting place.
Each year, we send one kid to hang out with Dave’s parents for a week. It’s a great chance for them to have one on one time, and gives us a momentary break from the chaos of three children. Such was the case in 2004 (notice this is one year later) when I drove Delaney to a half way point in Indiana and met at the local McDonald’s. I was never so happy to see a bathroom, and Dave’s mom was very happy to see her granddaughter. “You go, I’ll take care of getting Delaney in the car so we can leave.” When I returned home that evening, child-less, Dave said, “Did my mom get everything out of the car?” “I assume she did – I mean she did take Delaney, her car seat, and assorted gear for a week ‘o fun.” “Oh, O.K., I was actually wondering if she took Grandma.” “WHAT?” “Umm…yeah, I put Grandma under the driver’s seat and asked my mom to make sure she took Grandma out of the car.”
And now you know why, right or wrong, I have a problem with ashes. K.C.’s ashes were given to Kathy tonight, with Kathy saying, “You are welcome to borrow the ashes if you ever need to.” A time share dog is one thing, time share ashes? Not my thing. “That’s okay Kathy, I have issues with ashes. You go ahead and keep them.”
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The Travel Curse
** Once again, I had hoped that July would be relatively calm so I could back track to June, but alas, nothing but chaos reigns in my life and June will have to wait until the eye of the storm is overhead, instead of the hurricane force winds that continually surround me. Read on – enjoy! **
The Travel Curse
I’m not sure when exactly my curse started and why the travel gods decided that I would be their travel virgin that they would sacrifice and bestow all sorts of travel calamity on. I believe I am the first Bermingham with the true curse, which likely coincided with my dad’s retirement as a United pilot. The curse is known far and wide, among family, friends, colleagues, and even strangers. I have been told, likely true, that there is the curse by association – merely being in the air at the same time that I am raises the probability of flight delays, cancellations, emergency landings, mechanical failures, etc. In fact, I’m fairly certain that the passengers on Lost’s Oceanic Flight 815 went down simply because I was somewhere in the air, or on the plane on that fateful, television day.
The curse generally, but not always, leaves me alone when traveling on pleasure. It rears its ugly head on business trips to the point where co-workers literally will not fly with me on the same plane. Seriously, you think I’m joking – I’m not. It also typically only strikes on one leg of a round trip – if I have a pleasant trip outbound, my inbound flight will be equivalent to travel hell and vice versa.
And such is the back story on my curse du jour. I am actually typing this while I am 35,000 feet in the air returning from Portland, OR. In other words, by simply typing about my curse, I doing the equivalent of thumbing my nose at the travel gods and saying, “Ha, Ha, I win!”
Yesterday, after work, I put packed away my business attire, threw on my “Sherpa Su” attire and headed to the airport to pick up Jack and Delaney from a short visit with my parents. Like any good Sherpa, I loaded my back with their “bag o fun”, schlepped backpacks, water bottles, Nintendo DS, iPods and assorted other necessary items to drag them up the 35,000 mountain of “You may now remove your seatbelts and pound your head against the seat in front of you” and dropped them off with Grandpa John and Grandma Lee – and promptly turned around and went back home so I would not miss one exciting moment in the office. And after yesterday’s travel curse, I’m fortunate to know that today I can travel in peace and make it back to Chicago in one piece.
Let’s get back to yesterday, back-to-the-future style. United has adopted the “We want to keep you informed – we’ll pound you with information so you can stop asking all of your whiny questions” mantra. In my opinion, sometimes less is more. There are many things in life I would prefer to be utterly naïve on – like how I was conceived, finding out someone in my office completely drops his pants to his ankles to take a leak, learning that Delaney likely has worms, etc. United should go back to the creeping delay, pissy gate agents, and leave all of us in the dark.
After boarding our flight on-time (after all, this was technically a pleasure flight, the gods generally leave me alone), and scooting back from the gate, we go and sit in the penalty box, also known as plane purgatory – you’re not sure how you got there, and you’re not sure if you are ever going to get out.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking – we have a small mechanical problem that we are addressing and we should get back to you in the next 20-30 minutes with our new departure time.” So, the obligatory 20-30 minutes goes by, and then the messages become increasing more detailed. I’m fairly certain the captain was playing a practical joke on the co-pilot and injected him with a high dose of truth serum just to freak all of us passengers out. “Hi folks, this is your first officer speaking. Well, it does look like we have a problem. You see, a rock hit the nose gear of the plane. And not just a small rock, a BIG rock, and now we’ve got fiberglass cracking all over the place and you don’t want to be in the air at 35,000 feet going 500 miles an hour with fiberglass falling off the airplane. That could be VERY dangerous. So, we’re going to move ourselves to a gate so we can have some more mechanics look at the problem and I’ll get back with y’all in the next 45-50 minutes.” I know, you think I’m joking, you thinking I’m making this stuff up for comedic value – umm…no. Seriously, that’s what he said. Read on.
“Hi everyone, this is your first officer again. Well, we got out the digital camera and took a picture of the nose gear and we’re sending that photo to San Francisco so the FAA can evaluate the condition of the plane. Then we’ll find out if we can slap on some duct tape and roll out of here or have to replace the nose gear. I’ll get back to you in another 45-50 minutes.” Did he really just say duct tape? Come on – I know duct tape has a million uses. Like hemming your pants when you’re too lazy to go to the cleaners, rolling it up into balls to hit each other with, taping your kids mouth shut when they’re a little too loud, (Noelle – I know you work for the DCFS, I was JOKING!)…you get the picture. But where on the packaging does the duct tape say, “And when in crisis, will fix commercial airplanes.” I sincerely hope the duct tape in question is not the same variety I buy at Home Depot – although if it is, I’m shocked we don’t have a line item on our airline tickets noting, “Duct Tape premium”, right next to “You’re traveling with luggage? That’ll be $100”.
“Hi y’all – this is your first officer again. Well, the FAA looked at the pictures and remember when I mentioned that fancy tape, well, we’re just going to patch this plane right up and get us out of here. Sorry for the 3-hour delay.” Fancy tape? Fancy tape in my world is double-sided tape, or white-out tape, not tape that can band-aid the front of an airplane traveling 4 hours to Portland. And oh yeah, you didn’t mention fancy tape, you mentioned household strength, gray duct tape. Yeah, duct tape that is going to hold this tin can together. By the way, that 3-hour delay now qualifies me as a cast member of Gilligan’s Island.
And just to make my 3-hour delay in my window seat (not ideal for a girl with a small bladder) plus my 4-hour plane ride that much more enjoyable – I get the joy of sitting next to the hippie couple. They look kinda like the crunchy Oregon tree-hugger hippies that crossed paths one too many times with the Unibomber. And Mr. Hippie, my middle-seat companion, is wearing a freaking skirt. A skirt! Geez, I hope he’s wearing underwear under there. And of course, they have managed to sleep through the 3-hour delay, the 4-hour flight to make me want to burst like a kid learning how to potty train.
And that my friends, is a typical story of one of many travel curses. I am looking for a remedy to the curse, I believe it involves finding a new travel virgin to sacrifice to the travel gods, while mixing used ticket stubs with small bottles of vodka in an airplane toilet while chanting, “Curse Be Gone!” 100 times while seated, with my seatbelt on.
For those of you that have experienced, or can confirm my curse first hand, feel free to post a message on this blog.Next up – “The Windy City” from mid-June, unless of course my current life is more exciting than my past tense version of events.
The Travel Curse
I’m not sure when exactly my curse started and why the travel gods decided that I would be their travel virgin that they would sacrifice and bestow all sorts of travel calamity on. I believe I am the first Bermingham with the true curse, which likely coincided with my dad’s retirement as a United pilot. The curse is known far and wide, among family, friends, colleagues, and even strangers. I have been told, likely true, that there is the curse by association – merely being in the air at the same time that I am raises the probability of flight delays, cancellations, emergency landings, mechanical failures, etc. In fact, I’m fairly certain that the passengers on Lost’s Oceanic Flight 815 went down simply because I was somewhere in the air, or on the plane on that fateful, television day.
The curse generally, but not always, leaves me alone when traveling on pleasure. It rears its ugly head on business trips to the point where co-workers literally will not fly with me on the same plane. Seriously, you think I’m joking – I’m not. It also typically only strikes on one leg of a round trip – if I have a pleasant trip outbound, my inbound flight will be equivalent to travel hell and vice versa.
And such is the back story on my curse du jour. I am actually typing this while I am 35,000 feet in the air returning from Portland, OR. In other words, by simply typing about my curse, I doing the equivalent of thumbing my nose at the travel gods and saying, “Ha, Ha, I win!”
Yesterday, after work, I put packed away my business attire, threw on my “Sherpa Su” attire and headed to the airport to pick up Jack and Delaney from a short visit with my parents. Like any good Sherpa, I loaded my back with their “bag o fun”, schlepped backpacks, water bottles, Nintendo DS, iPods and assorted other necessary items to drag them up the 35,000 mountain of “You may now remove your seatbelts and pound your head against the seat in front of you” and dropped them off with Grandpa John and Grandma Lee – and promptly turned around and went back home so I would not miss one exciting moment in the office. And after yesterday’s travel curse, I’m fortunate to know that today I can travel in peace and make it back to Chicago in one piece.
Let’s get back to yesterday, back-to-the-future style. United has adopted the “We want to keep you informed – we’ll pound you with information so you can stop asking all of your whiny questions” mantra. In my opinion, sometimes less is more. There are many things in life I would prefer to be utterly naïve on – like how I was conceived, finding out someone in my office completely drops his pants to his ankles to take a leak, learning that Delaney likely has worms, etc. United should go back to the creeping delay, pissy gate agents, and leave all of us in the dark.
After boarding our flight on-time (after all, this was technically a pleasure flight, the gods generally leave me alone), and scooting back from the gate, we go and sit in the penalty box, also known as plane purgatory – you’re not sure how you got there, and you’re not sure if you are ever going to get out.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking – we have a small mechanical problem that we are addressing and we should get back to you in the next 20-30 minutes with our new departure time.” So, the obligatory 20-30 minutes goes by, and then the messages become increasing more detailed. I’m fairly certain the captain was playing a practical joke on the co-pilot and injected him with a high dose of truth serum just to freak all of us passengers out. “Hi folks, this is your first officer speaking. Well, it does look like we have a problem. You see, a rock hit the nose gear of the plane. And not just a small rock, a BIG rock, and now we’ve got fiberglass cracking all over the place and you don’t want to be in the air at 35,000 feet going 500 miles an hour with fiberglass falling off the airplane. That could be VERY dangerous. So, we’re going to move ourselves to a gate so we can have some more mechanics look at the problem and I’ll get back with y’all in the next 45-50 minutes.” I know, you think I’m joking, you thinking I’m making this stuff up for comedic value – umm…no. Seriously, that’s what he said. Read on.
“Hi everyone, this is your first officer again. Well, we got out the digital camera and took a picture of the nose gear and we’re sending that photo to San Francisco so the FAA can evaluate the condition of the plane. Then we’ll find out if we can slap on some duct tape and roll out of here or have to replace the nose gear. I’ll get back to you in another 45-50 minutes.” Did he really just say duct tape? Come on – I know duct tape has a million uses. Like hemming your pants when you’re too lazy to go to the cleaners, rolling it up into balls to hit each other with, taping your kids mouth shut when they’re a little too loud, (Noelle – I know you work for the DCFS, I was JOKING!)…you get the picture. But where on the packaging does the duct tape say, “And when in crisis, will fix commercial airplanes.” I sincerely hope the duct tape in question is not the same variety I buy at Home Depot – although if it is, I’m shocked we don’t have a line item on our airline tickets noting, “Duct Tape premium”, right next to “You’re traveling with luggage? That’ll be $100”.
“Hi y’all – this is your first officer again. Well, the FAA looked at the pictures and remember when I mentioned that fancy tape, well, we’re just going to patch this plane right up and get us out of here. Sorry for the 3-hour delay.” Fancy tape? Fancy tape in my world is double-sided tape, or white-out tape, not tape that can band-aid the front of an airplane traveling 4 hours to Portland. And oh yeah, you didn’t mention fancy tape, you mentioned household strength, gray duct tape. Yeah, duct tape that is going to hold this tin can together. By the way, that 3-hour delay now qualifies me as a cast member of Gilligan’s Island.
And just to make my 3-hour delay in my window seat (not ideal for a girl with a small bladder) plus my 4-hour plane ride that much more enjoyable – I get the joy of sitting next to the hippie couple. They look kinda like the crunchy Oregon tree-hugger hippies that crossed paths one too many times with the Unibomber. And Mr. Hippie, my middle-seat companion, is wearing a freaking skirt. A skirt! Geez, I hope he’s wearing underwear under there. And of course, they have managed to sleep through the 3-hour delay, the 4-hour flight to make me want to burst like a kid learning how to potty train.
And that my friends, is a typical story of one of many travel curses. I am looking for a remedy to the curse, I believe it involves finding a new travel virgin to sacrifice to the travel gods, while mixing used ticket stubs with small bottles of vodka in an airplane toilet while chanting, “Curse Be Gone!” 100 times while seated, with my seatbelt on.
For those of you that have experienced, or can confirm my curse first hand, feel free to post a message on this blog.Next up – “The Windy City” from mid-June, unless of course my current life is more exciting than my past tense version of events.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Timeshare Dog - K.C.
** I had planned on starting in June and catching up to today, but alas, some events can't wait to be told, so I'm sure my posts will be out of chronological order...but you're all smart, educated people. Keep up - follow along. **
I vowed to my girlfriends tonight that I would not rush home and send a post and call them by name…umm, sorry Megan, Meg and Molly. But three drinks after dinner and voila, here I am typing my little heart out.
At dinner tonight, Molly regaled us with stories of her very sick Uncle in New York, with his very sick dog that needed to be put down and the wrangling to get her Uncle’s partner to do a power of attorney to put down the dog while her uncle was in ICU leaving Molly and her brother to share the news of the dog’s passing while running to catch a flight. As Megan said, “Why didn’t you just go to another vet and pretend it was your dog and not your Uncle’s?” Duh…. Regardless, I shared the following story with the girls – little did I know that the story was virtually unfolding while I was drinking.
15 years ago, I ventured past the suburban sprawl of a strip mall showing cute puppies to pet, and lo and behold, I decided that I needed a dog. Which dog did I pick? Why of course, a Shih Tzu, because affectionately, it could be referred to as a “Sh** Su” and seemed rather appropriate. I named her K.C., which was short for Killer Canine, because frankly, she was an enormous fur ball and anything but killer, and barely canine – she could have passed for a furry city rat at the time.
For many years, K.C. was my constant companion. She moved from one state to another with me, helped me through a divorce, was with me when I met Dave and transitioned from a Chicago suburban and Milwaukee dog to learning to pee and poop on city concrete. Ah, the life of a city living!
Dave and I were fortunate enough to rent in Chicago with awesome landlords, that not only let us have a dog (BTW, small dogs aren’t Dave’s thing, but he liked me enough to put up with it and learned to see K.C. as a big dog with his 3-D glasses on) but was willing to watch the dog when we were away.
Once we had kids, K.C. took second billing and suddenly we became the owners of a time-share dog. A what? Yes, a time share dog. In case you are unaware of what a time share dog is, let me tell you about it. Kathy, our former landlord, agreed to take K.C. in full time, while we agreed to pay for all vet bills and maintenance for K.C. Whenever Kathy would leave town, we would get K.C. for a visit, and the kids actually, legitimately, thought we owned a dog. The 4-week a year dog would end up in the family Christmas letter, in the kids pictures, and most importantly, the day to day task of caring for the dog fell to Kathy who embraced this idea whole heartedly. I suppose it’s like having joint custody without the fall-out of a divorce – who knew that the time share scenario would work so well…unless of course, it was an $400 vet bill, an $800 tumor removal, etc… I’m sure if we added the annual costs for K.C. vs. the time we had her, she was an expensive 4-week a year dog!
We had K.C. this past week at our house while Kathy was away on vacation. Mind you, K.C. is OLD – no longer running up and down the stairs, preferring to be held up to and off of the bed. As Dave and I were sleeping the other night, we heard a thud in the middle of the night. Yes, K.C. fell off of the bed (shh…don’t tell anyone…). I turned to Dave and asked (at 2:00 a.m.) – “You didn’t just kick the dog off of the bed, did you?” “Listen, I turned over, and the dog is on the floor. They are not mutually exclusive.” “Dave, you cannot use big words with me at 2:00 a.m., I actually have to think about what you said.” “Listen – I just picked up K.C., she seems fine – in fact, I think K.C. is half cat. Yes, she has nine lives, and it appears that she landed on her feet.” And so it was, K.C. seemed A-OK…and Dave promptly did the same thing the next night, with the exact same results.
After Kathy picked up K.C. last night – and K.C. could not have been more thrilled – I commented to Kathy that I thought perhaps K.C. was depressed being at our house. Chaos, commotion, Dave kicking her off the bed, etc. She seemed so excited to be escaping the prison of our home, it was palatable.
This evening, when I returned home, Dave met me at the door with the following news, “I just got home from Kathy’s, K.C. passed away this evening.” “What – you mean she didn’t have nine lives – you killed her didn’t you?” “No, I did not, she passed away peacefully at Kathy’s.” “You’re lying, I see a smile lurking behind those sad eyes…and I’ve been drinking which is so unfair, because I don’t know if you’re being truthful or lying.” “I’m not lying – in fact, I brought K.C. home. She’s on the kitchen table.” “Geez! On the table? OMG!”
And while I sincerely thought I would minimally see my 40th with K.C. celebrating alongside, and possibly even hitting menopause with K.C. curled up in the corner, her nine cat-like small-dog lives expired tonight. At literally the same time I was talking about K.C. “The Time Share Dog” with my girlfriends. Who knew….
So – may K.C. rest in peace. She was a wonderful dog, a great companion, and lived a happy life among multiple households, many homes, etc. And may Dave feel just a tad bit guilty for kicking her off the bed in the final week of her life.
I vowed to my girlfriends tonight that I would not rush home and send a post and call them by name…umm, sorry Megan, Meg and Molly. But three drinks after dinner and voila, here I am typing my little heart out.
At dinner tonight, Molly regaled us with stories of her very sick Uncle in New York, with his very sick dog that needed to be put down and the wrangling to get her Uncle’s partner to do a power of attorney to put down the dog while her uncle was in ICU leaving Molly and her brother to share the news of the dog’s passing while running to catch a flight. As Megan said, “Why didn’t you just go to another vet and pretend it was your dog and not your Uncle’s?” Duh…. Regardless, I shared the following story with the girls – little did I know that the story was virtually unfolding while I was drinking.
15 years ago, I ventured past the suburban sprawl of a strip mall showing cute puppies to pet, and lo and behold, I decided that I needed a dog. Which dog did I pick? Why of course, a Shih Tzu, because affectionately, it could be referred to as a “Sh** Su” and seemed rather appropriate. I named her K.C., which was short for Killer Canine, because frankly, she was an enormous fur ball and anything but killer, and barely canine – she could have passed for a furry city rat at the time.
For many years, K.C. was my constant companion. She moved from one state to another with me, helped me through a divorce, was with me when I met Dave and transitioned from a Chicago suburban and Milwaukee dog to learning to pee and poop on city concrete. Ah, the life of a city living!
Dave and I were fortunate enough to rent in Chicago with awesome landlords, that not only let us have a dog (BTW, small dogs aren’t Dave’s thing, but he liked me enough to put up with it and learned to see K.C. as a big dog with his 3-D glasses on) but was willing to watch the dog when we were away.
Once we had kids, K.C. took second billing and suddenly we became the owners of a time-share dog. A what? Yes, a time share dog. In case you are unaware of what a time share dog is, let me tell you about it. Kathy, our former landlord, agreed to take K.C. in full time, while we agreed to pay for all vet bills and maintenance for K.C. Whenever Kathy would leave town, we would get K.C. for a visit, and the kids actually, legitimately, thought we owned a dog. The 4-week a year dog would end up in the family Christmas letter, in the kids pictures, and most importantly, the day to day task of caring for the dog fell to Kathy who embraced this idea whole heartedly. I suppose it’s like having joint custody without the fall-out of a divorce – who knew that the time share scenario would work so well…unless of course, it was an $400 vet bill, an $800 tumor removal, etc… I’m sure if we added the annual costs for K.C. vs. the time we had her, she was an expensive 4-week a year dog!
We had K.C. this past week at our house while Kathy was away on vacation. Mind you, K.C. is OLD – no longer running up and down the stairs, preferring to be held up to and off of the bed. As Dave and I were sleeping the other night, we heard a thud in the middle of the night. Yes, K.C. fell off of the bed (shh…don’t tell anyone…). I turned to Dave and asked (at 2:00 a.m.) – “You didn’t just kick the dog off of the bed, did you?” “Listen, I turned over, and the dog is on the floor. They are not mutually exclusive.” “Dave, you cannot use big words with me at 2:00 a.m., I actually have to think about what you said.” “Listen – I just picked up K.C., she seems fine – in fact, I think K.C. is half cat. Yes, she has nine lives, and it appears that she landed on her feet.” And so it was, K.C. seemed A-OK…and Dave promptly did the same thing the next night, with the exact same results.
After Kathy picked up K.C. last night – and K.C. could not have been more thrilled – I commented to Kathy that I thought perhaps K.C. was depressed being at our house. Chaos, commotion, Dave kicking her off the bed, etc. She seemed so excited to be escaping the prison of our home, it was palatable.
This evening, when I returned home, Dave met me at the door with the following news, “I just got home from Kathy’s, K.C. passed away this evening.” “What – you mean she didn’t have nine lives – you killed her didn’t you?” “No, I did not, she passed away peacefully at Kathy’s.” “You’re lying, I see a smile lurking behind those sad eyes…and I’ve been drinking which is so unfair, because I don’t know if you’re being truthful or lying.” “I’m not lying – in fact, I brought K.C. home. She’s on the kitchen table.” “Geez! On the table? OMG!”
And while I sincerely thought I would minimally see my 40th with K.C. celebrating alongside, and possibly even hitting menopause with K.C. curled up in the corner, her nine cat-like small-dog lives expired tonight. At literally the same time I was talking about K.C. “The Time Share Dog” with my girlfriends. Who knew….
So – may K.C. rest in peace. She was a wonderful dog, a great companion, and lived a happy life among multiple households, many homes, etc. And may Dave feel just a tad bit guilty for kicking her off the bed in the final week of her life.
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