Feb 29, 2008 :: Secondary Contrast. El Myr bathroom, L5P

In my head I can hear the little color song we learned in elementary school art class. "Red, yellow and blue. Red, yellow and blue. The first three colors, the primary colors, are red, yellow and blue." Miss Booth, a soft, be-aproned woman taught us this, in the big old room at North Dearborn Elementary--the room that smelled of melted crayons and wet clay. Unfortunately, even given the second verse of the song, no matter how much my rational mind knows that purple and yellow are opposites on the color wheel, I cannot make that right in my head. Never have been able to. Green and purple work so much better against one another (a solid 8 and 7, respectively, in my synesthesia-addled mind). And when the two colors are together, I want a picture. Or, as the reality may be soon, a house painted in those two colors. (Well, sort of. The main color will be "vintage map," a sea-soft blue-green so institutional I can nearly smell the floor wax and ditto ink. But the trim, that's going to be purple. Way purple.)

Anything's better than lemon yellow. I nearly lose my lunch every time I see the exterior of my butter-colored house. As much as I love purple and green, I can't tolerate yellow. Maybe that's my problem--and why I can't just follow the song?



Feb 27-point-five, 2008 :: Surprise!

Blake and I walk into the indie-rock burrito bar. The room is full of scruffy hair, black jeans, elaborate tattoos and vintage sneakers. A contingency of emo kids barely old enough to buy their PBRs sulk stylishly in a corner. The Rent Boys play on the jukebox. The air is layered with ten coats of obscurity and the smoke of a thousand Parliament lights. We move toward a table of 30-something musicians discussing a re-mastered Cheap Trick album, and Blake strikes up a conversation with D, merch-guy and guitar tech for a grammy-nominated, hometown cookie-monster-vocal metal band gone international.

Blake: We're getting married!
D: I'm going to jail!
Blake: ...Um, Wow...
D: Yeah. Wow to you too...


Feb 27, 2008 :: I thought this was called an Easter Lilly.

...which would have meant that it has no apparent reverence for the religious calendar, or that our climate here makes spring flowers in February less of a weirdness than one might expect. Anyway, it's a Daffodil, folks. I'm bad with names--people and flora.

The picture is a cheat, anyway. I took it yesterday, a day that it was not snowing. Right now, the white stuff is blowing around outside, messing with morning commuters. Now, nothing. This 'tween season is killing me.

I have little to say at the moment, interestingly. Let's see if I can dredge something up.

I dreamed I was pregnant the other night. Apparently this means a creative burst and/or a beneficial change is about to happen. Sounds good to me.

I used to play music in this band called The Forever War. We did exactly two shows. One of them apparently went over really well. (Scroll down to about the end of the page. There you'll find a photo of me playing coronet in a dark club and a rather great review.)

I sent my taxes off to be done yesterday, called in a bunch of overdue invoices, and filed my homestead exemption. I feel all administrative and on it. We'll see how long that lasts.



Feb 25, 2008 :: They're watching, you know.

Shortness for today (I have been quite windy lately, haven't I?). Topic: photography. Why: I spent the afternoon Sunday with Stephanie at the studio she works for (the photo above is of a piece of their front door. The place is a nice walk from my house, too, which is awesome), waiting on a bunch of cross-dressing glam-boys from the "house of Blahnik," and "house of Revlon" (among others) to show up for their portrait. To my distinct disappointment, they did not. But that's entirely another story. The whole thing is, for sure.

(1) I love staircases & viney painting. A bunch.
(2) Designers rule.
(3) "Vintage" is becoming overplayed. Too bad it's so awesome anyway.
(4) I need to find $125 for this immediately.



Feb 24, 2008 :: Sun Shine, Cabbagetown Park Amphitheater

On this lovely Sunday, I took it easy. Blake is playing out of town (driving back today), the weather is cold and a bit dreary, and Jane and I are feeling lazy. So, we just took in the neighborhood with the nice Canon tucked under my arm. I found the big chalk sun above scribbled on the circular plot of concrete just above the amphitheater--a nice, happy place close to home. Interestingly, I hadn't meant to do this, but I found myself there for a purpose.

I've been thinking, between the thousand other things in my head, about where I'd like to get married next year. I fully understand that it seems like a long time from now, but also that time will creep by in that super-sonic speed it seems to travel as I look back on whirrs of memory. It's been six months that I've lived on Tennelle? Seems like six minutes now. So, I'm trying to stay ahead of the planning (and the $$ we'll hopefully not spend) and get things nailed down, at least in principle, as fast as I can.

I've been thinking about the idea of a guerrilla wedding. We're being married by a jew/buddhist monk/internet reverend, so tradition and ceremony aren't a concern. I'd like it to be outside, if at all possible. I'd like little (if any) pomp and circumstance, including a lack of formal seating, long-winded verses and weepy moments. And ideally, I want our friends and family to stand around, have someone grab a witness at the last minute, and get on with the show. All of 15-20 minutes, start to finish, so we can get on with the eating and the fun and the rockin'. So, what if we did this, I think to myself: Send out invitations that say "meet us at the Cabbagetown Park Ampitheater at 11:00 sharp, month/date/year. Don't be late, or you'll miss it!" and then just hijack that little plot of space for a few minutes.

There's no law against gathering in public spaces, right? We might piss off the neighborhood association (or the city) that we'll be trying not to go through the ordinary channels and pay our stipend...but I think of it like this: a) I pay an inordinate amount of property tax for schools I wouldn't send a child to--if I even had one; roads full of obstructions, detours and pot holes (that many lucky people in unincorporated dekalb and elsewhere pay zero for, yet drive on daily); and, I'm sure, a variety of other city services I never, ever use. So, I think I should get to use a park for 1/2 hour or so just this once without having to ask permission.

There's my rant and my idea.

What do you think? Years from now, am I going to be telling people I got arrested on my wedding day, during the ceremony Bucking the system? I'd like to hear some opinions...



Feb 23, 2008 :: top: Blake. bottom: what Blake's looking at.

Today, the walk takes us to Little Five Points. I have only some collected rambling thoughts today. I am very fond of lists, so let's do that.
  • Little 5 Points is the first place inside the perimeter that I lived in Atlanta. After 5 months in northern Gwinnett, an afternoon of calling interesting places out of the Loaf, and one day of driving around checking out various locales, I settle on a tiny, cheap, cabana-like place just off Euclid Avenue. The buildings are flat-roofed, have nice iron terraces, and are painted ice-cream flavor colors. Within a month, homeless people are sleeping in my station wagon. In five, a friend from Indiana will move in, but not before she comments "It looks like people have been murdered in this parking lot." In 8 months, I will have an eviction notice slipped under my door. 48 hours later, I will have a new apartment. Years later, Blake will tell me that his friend Dustin was my neighbor, and that he (Blake) had spent a large amount of time in his apartment. They refer to the complex as "The Pastel Palisades." I love it and can now think of it as nothing else.
  • Savage Pizza (where the photos above were taken) is one of my first restaurant memories in Atlanta. I've been there with nearly every person I've known well in Atlanta. My parents have eaten there twice--most recently last weekend. Blake and I had lunch there today. I've had their food delivered to both my favorite apartment (on Blue Ridge Avenue) and my new house.
  • I have walked: with four different dogs (at four different points in my life); for fitness; soberly, sadly home after bad nights and stupid fights; so drunkenly I could hardly see; dressed as Nancy Spungen; dressed as a vampire; in stillettos; in Vans; in pursuit of loud outdoor, Criminal Records concerts; and arm and arm with Blake...through the streets of this neighborhood.
  • When my parents visited me for the first time in my first big-city apartment (the Pastel Pallisades), they were early, and drove through L5P proper--past the stores and the bars, the punky panhandlers and the tourists. Their assessment, "This place looks exactly like where we thought you'd live."


Follow-up: Look ma, two eyebrows!!

(I wanted to post this under the last entry, but blogger wasn't obliging. So, it's out of order. And a gratuitous self-portrait. I'm allowed a couple, right? - K)


Feb. 22, 2008 :: Bert (but not Ernie), Frida Kahlo, and me. Six Feet Under, Grant Park.

For most of my life, I have been a blonde. Ranging from between the "honey" and "caramel" spectrum, in my younger days I found it a spectacular point of pride. I was a smaller version of my beautiful flaxen-haired mother--a 6-foot tall hippie-homemaker goddess in a white '76 Monte Carlo. I had silky, straight hair, then puberty-induced pre-Raphaelite curls that still bounce around on my knoggin today. I dodged the "blonde jokes" in elementary school, feeling fortunate that I was not also a "pollock" (and that most kids don't know how close Germany--my family land--actually is to Poland and then maybe see fit to lump me in). But as I got older, my apparent future as a mere chocolate-chip-cookie-dough haired adult began to creep up on me. It started on my face.

I've always had sort of dark eyebrows and copious auburn lashes that probably seem a bit strange filtering kind of translucent, hazely eyes. But in my senior year of high school, as I rode home after posing for my senior pictures (Red poet sleeves! A bolo-tie! 4 inches of spikey, claw-like bangs! I was a winner.), my friend said to me, "Dude, you've got a uni-brow. Get some tweezers. Geesh."

I was crushed. It was true. My dark, heavy brows had recently crept together across my forehead and in between figuring out how to use makeup to cover up zits and offset the occasional skiing injury (nice ones that year included a broken nose, two black eyes, and a cracked brow-bone), I had found little time to groom the massive caterpillars nesting up top. When I got home, I asked the closest feminine role-model for help: my mother. A woman whose own eyebrows are little more than babywisps of spun gold, plucked to razor-sharp perfection daily. A woman who once caught her acrylic nails on fire at Thanksgiving. The woman who also once attacked my ear with the back-end of a bobby pin because I had an apparently juicy zit that needed popping. An aesthetic maven.

She was thrilled. Got out an ice-cube, and went to town, numbing, wiping, and tearing follicles out of my face ten at a time. When she was done, i was a gruesome scene. Blood, swelling, and red, raw skin--a seething mess between my eyes that was exposed to the light for the first time in years. I almost cried.

Fortunately, I got over it. I pluck regularly these days, because once you start something like that, you can't go back. If I forget, I get little black cow-licks sprouting over my eyes. People stare. I've fought with airline employees over tossing my favorite tweezers. I have also reconciled with my darkening hair. Now, I'm a little milk-chocolate, a little dishwater, a tiny bit sunset in some places. Last weekend, my mother asked me what color I was dying my hair these days (she's been platinum since 1950 and we'll likely bury her with a bottle of peroxide).

"Nada," I said. "This is just the way it grows these days."

"It's nice," she said. "But thank god you're still plucking those eyebrows. Those were just awful."

(oh yes...the walking part of this entry. Picture above at Six Feet Under, where Blake (in the red shirt with the little guy on it) and I had dinner this evening. Great stroll, that is from C-Town to the Cemetery. It was our first trip back since we decided to get married while there last month.)



February 21, 2008 :: Rainy nights are movie nights

Two short things for today.

1. I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of daylight savings time. I can't tell you how sick I am of coming home in the dark, waking up in the dark, and never being able to take an extra walk after dinner without looking for a flashlight (and in my neighborhood, lately a can of pepper spray or good, sharp shiv). The light will set us free, I know. We're already planning evening jaunts to new restaurants, the cometary on the hill, far-flung coffeeshoppes and dog parks.

2. I've been reading the renovation blog Door Sixteen for a few months now, and just found today that the blog's home was featured on Apartment Therapy this week, complete with new pictures. As I was browsing through, I noticed that this very well-designed home has a nice flat-paneled TV in the corner of the living room - something you don't often see in many well-coiffed designer houses. I mentally applauded them for not hiding the electronics. Then Door Sixteen's owner blogged about it later today, too.

I wanted to say that I'm with you, there Sixteen. I have a house I'm proud to own (and proud to be working on), and I'm proud to say that I also watch television. Not giant amounts of it (backpedaling, I know) but certainly some shameless hours I should be spending reading or painting or digging outside. I love my media options very much, as my well-conditioned TiVo can attest.

In fact, tonight, we'll be making homemade pizza and burning out our few waning synapses watching this movie - which is probably as far from reading, listening to NPR, teaching the dog to play the piano, playing chess, making homemade cheese, or writing complex anagrams in our heads as Blake and I can get.

And we'll do it without shame.



February 20, 2008 :: Pith is a fantastic word.

Other words I like:
  • curmudgeon
  • heliotrope
  • ranunculus
  • TEE-vee (the way Blake says TV)
  • Marylebone
  • juju
Sometimes words stick in my head while I go about my daily business. My head turns them over and over, repeating them rhythmically until I become conscious of it and break the cycle. It seems to happen more often when I'm walking or riding the train though - repetitive activities bring out a need for my brain to wear out words or song lyrics until they are washed clean of all meaning.

This morning, it was something Blake wrote: "Feet stick to the floor, the sound it makes is the same as the freezer door which holds our've got the pains again." Tomorrow, it'll be something completely different.



February 19, 2008 :: "Tell me who are you...who are you...this time?"

Today I discovered a fantastic, hilarious, painful website called "Stuff White People Like." Follow the link, certainly, but I'll give you a preview. Entries include "Whole Foods," "Gifted Children," "Not Dancing," and "Being the only other white person in the room." It's so spot-on, and I can hardly describe how alabaster, powdered-sugar, web-safe FFFFFF white I am. Well, I don't desire a Kitchen Aid stand mixer and Blake's the one who reads the New York Times, but I will cop to having a subscription to Harper's and a formidable NPR addiction, so I think that makes up for it.

This inspired much pained laughter in the writers' office this morning, and also a discussion about what "social group" each of us fit into. Like, I'm a whitey, yeah, but I'm also probably a "hipster," right? I don't know. I'm donning knock-off Target-ized Vans right now (see the picture. Had to tie it in somehow...) and my significant other wears vintage fedoras nearly everywhere. Well, My colleague J. says perhaps not. Maybe I need a second opinion.

Don't get me wrong, I am both aware that this is a completely inane conversation to have (with oneself on a website or otherwise) and that my general thought on the matter is that it doesn't matter what you are, as long as you embrace that to the nth degree and you're not pretending to be something else concurrently, but I also spent a good long time in a relationship where I was accused regularly of hiding some "true self" somehow, so the subject's maybe a bit sore for me. (A note for the concerned: I have since recovered from that line of ridiculousness and returned to believing that I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam...and have always been so. Whew for that.)

So, what defines us, anyway? I for one like the vintage clothes and furniture, but kind of because I'm also cheap (and often broke when needing such things). My ipod's packed with indie-rock ennui and throwback eighties jams, but I also happen to think Mr. Timberlake can bring sexy back my way any damn day, all day long. I'm all over the local food movement, but I'll haul it over to Kroger because the cheese is cheaper. I like Star Trek and Days of our Lives and endless reruns of Family Guy where I can practically recite the jokes. I'm dubious of the moody, tattooed masses at El Myr, but I still go have a drink there, and like the people I meet a whole lot. I could probably do it at Halo too. (Well, if I hadn't been tossed from there once and vowed they'll never make another cent from me.) But I don't think anyone anywhere is truly any different though. We're all complex. We're all a little of this and a little of that. We're all Buckhead and Marietta, C-Town and East Point in some degree. We're all unique and totally like everyone else.

Our old friend Mr. Waits asks "who are you, this time?" and tells us "we're all gonna be just dirt in the ground," in practically the same breath. (Well, the same album anyway.) So, really, does it really matter. Really??

Regardless, that's my true-self asking that. For sure.



February 18, 2008 :: Weekend Rambling

I've just concluded a wonderful weekend and Monday full of friends and family, congratulations, great food and leisurely strolling. I walked miles I'm sure, in the past few days, but I didn't really take any pictures. I think this was a more auditory jaunt. I'm tired from the journey, and almost hoarse from all the talking, singing and laughing that happened along the way and at every pit-stop for wine, coffee, tea and snacks. In fact, as I type this, I'm listening to Sia sing "These little black sandals are walking me away..." Perfect.

Quite often lately, I am smacked squarely in the face by exactly how lucky I am. This weekend sealed the deal for me. I've won the lucky-girl lottery.

My parents visited. Blake and I made the wedding announcement to them. They were thrilled. They accompanied me to his show on Saturday night (...probably the best show yet. The energy was amazing. And the two-hundred some people who showed up to see it agreed, from what I gathered from compliments and people rocking out with abandon in the audience.) My parents had a blast. Every time I left them at the bar I returned to find another friend happily chatting with them. Our friend G. agreed (without even asking) to perform our wedding. I'm over the moon. Blake and I closed down the Yacht Club, then went home and played acoustic guitar and sang into the early hours. The next day we all visited the antique mall; from my porch, we watched the sky darken into tornado weather; we ate a truly embarrassing amount of grilled meat at the Brazilian steakhouse; we watched movies; and we drank too much coffee. Then, my family was on their way. I conversed with a long-lost friend in LA. I worked and relaxed. Then Laura arrived. We had beer and talked about real estate and credit card debt. Stephanie and Blake joined us. We discussed strange diseases. And then it was over.

My house is clean. My refrigerator is stocked with farmer's market goodies. My laundry is folded. My dog is well-walked. My far-flung friends are happy. My head is full of recipes and paint colors. My fingers are flying over the keyboard, juiced on Starbucks and blissful motivation. It's a day for the record-books.

One I needed to record and come back to on those days that aren't this fine.



February 14, 2008 :: Igniting the flames of passion. Rrrrrrwwwwwr.

So, it was Valentines day. And the often epicuriously adventurous writer and the musician who often won't drink the milk on the day before its expiration date were approached by the perky Peruvian barmaid and her boyfriend, the camera-shy bass player (the musician's best friend since elementary school) with 40 pounds of oysters and a plan. "We'll grill them!" the perky Peruvian squealed. "We'll lose ten years of our lives in the bathroom," the cautious musician replied. "And besides. The camera-shy bass player and I have a show tonight. And there are no bathrooms on most clubs' stages." The writer's father (the industrious retired music teacher) cheered on via cell phone. "Take pictures," he said. "I've got to see this mountain of sea creatures." the writer acquiesced, tucked some immodium into her pocket for the wary musician, and said, confidently, "fire up the grill!"

So they did. The camera-shy bassist threw slimy mollusk after slimy mollusk on the fire, and the barnacle-laden knuckles of shell spit and hissed, steamed and popped like firecrackers. The perky Peruvian sharpened knives, donned workman's gloves, and chipped at shells like concrete. The musician gingerly took a juicy morsel (with a little lemon, a little tabasco, a little salt) to his lips, and slurped. The writer did the same, letting liquor run down her chin, hurling empties toward a planter. They did it again and again, cracking and splitting, laughing and slurping, four people smelling of sea and embers. The writer and musician's sullen border collie approached, and quickly tucked tail and ran. It was a decadent, frightening scene. Fire and cutlery, sloppy smacking and red, red sauce.

Later, some time was lost in the writer and musician's little cabin's bathroom, but not much. Not so much that any shows were missed, or many oysters were left unshucked. No so much time that anyone thought of the night's smoky, salty scene as anything less than true, muddled, riotous, exquisite, messy, love.

Happy Valentine's Day.



February 12, 2008 :: His sinuses must hurt too. Edgewood Ave.

I'd like to make it clear that I am now 100% sick of sickness. The cold and flu together in two weeks, horrific. The goo and lethargy that bridged the gap and stretched into this weekend, inexcusable. My giving the sickness to Blake (who has to stand outside all day), dastardly. And now, the 12-hour migraine-like headache? Too much. I'm telling you. Enough is enough--I've got stuff to do.

I'm done whining now.

Good news abounds too, you know. My parents are visiting this weekend. (We're dropping the wedding bomb on them over piles of meat and bottles of wine at the Brazilian steakhouse). Blake broke the news to his parents yesterday, on their wedding anniversary (he says they are excited). And us four (me, blake, dave and jane) are about to become us five, with the addition of a cute...squishy...wrinkly...


Her name is Beatrice (for now - we're considering other options and taking suggestions). She's an olde english bulldogge pup. She's white with one black eye-patch and a little black dot on the base of her tail. We pick her up in a couple weekends. I can't wait to leash-train her, take her out 'round the neighborhood, show her off to the hoi polloi at the doggie park (Jane's kind of a black-sheep(dog) in mixed company. She keeps her back to the exit, surveys her playmates/adversaries wryly, and basically hangs with me. I'm hoping the puppy will be a rough-and-tumble frisbee-magnet or in for a good game of chase periodically.)

One thing though: She's sure to be photogenic, so much puppy love is definitely to follow.



February 11, 2008 :: My hero! Edgewood Avenue, 8 AM

I am back on the trail today. The sickness has all but bled out of me (well, save for this annoying cough) and even though it was about 30 degrees this morning, I bundled up and headed out the door, leaving Blake the truck. (He's still got the plague.) All through this ridiculous sickness, I have found that tea has been about the best thing ever. I've always loved the stuff, but I've gained a new appreciation for its cleansing, warming, astringent, throat coating, calming action over the past weeks. I'm having a cup of mandarin spice right now, actually.

The photo above is of the 11:11 teahouse on Edgewood, an awesome little place that sells loose tea by the pound, dessert by the slice, and on some weekends also has low-key music. Blake and the demons played there last year, and I've been to see a number of other guitar-and-keyboard-and-drum ensembles there on other occasions. 11:11 is also one of the ten places in town that advertises bubble tea, but yet never has it in stock.

In case you don't know, bubble tea is this amazing sweet concoction that pairs milky, usually jasmine tea with big, black bubbles of tapioca that you suck up through a fat straw. It's wonderful. And nobody who purports to carry it ever has it in stock in this city. It's a desert in a plastic cup! A confection in a straw! And a huge tease for me. Man. I want some right now. Maybe I can order it....



February 7, 2008 :: A.W.O.L.

Oh, so absent am I. Here's the quick explanation, before I have to go find some more kleenex. I have been the proud (ergh) recipient of now the second horrific, miserable, soul-sucking winter flue/cold/malaise in two and a half weeks. I am so drained. The first one knocked me for a loop, and now, this one's got me down for the count.

Well, we'll see what broad-spectrum antibiotics (courtesy Dr. W today) and one more looong night of sleep will get me. Wish me luck! (sniff sniff, hack hack...)



February 2, 2008 :: Losing one's head. Brickstore Pub, Decatur

Ooh, Belgian beer. Well, I'm channeling Blake here - because I think that's what he's saying above, and I really don't care much for the little pints of bitterness he likes to order when we go to fancy-schmancy beer places. I'm all for a nice wheat. A fruity white. Even a heady, heavy double-chocolate. (You can't see, but that's what I've ordered here.) In fact, he's usually a PBR/Hi Life/Michelob Ultra kind of guy, but when faced with a menu of the epic nature that the Brickstore Has (I counted 30-some on draught, 100 more in bottles. Geesh.) he'll break out the beer-snob's nose and we'll pointedly discuss bubbly head size and nutty undertones. We're such dorks.

We took a nice little walk through Decatur this morning to get here. It's a cute place. Evokes a bit of a crazy, hipsters-with-toddlers vibe that kind of creeps me out, but probably only because I get little flashes of our own possible futures when I see the tattooed moms and dads earning their artfully disheveled hair from 4am wake-up calls rather than 4am bedtimes. To me, its heartening, a little sad, and a little scary. As usual, I'm torn.

Anyway - on a weirder but coordinated note, a friend and I were once walking through the adorable Decatur square one afternoon and came upon a stylish young woman strolling solemnly (she may have even been crying) pushing a stroller. When we approached, I noticed it was empty.

Now that broke my heart.



Feb 01, 2008 :: cold winter blues

Really, that title is misleading, as I am cold, but am not blue. Crystal clear winter days like this one are really some of my favorites. Now, understand, this is cold on Atlanta's terms--maybe 45 degrees. Clearly not the sub-zero frozenness that I read about in Saskatchewan yesterday. (Blake didn't believe me when I told him I had read a story about temperatures that were negative 40 degrees.) Just pleasant briskness. Perfect as a lead-up to a home improvement weekend.

Oh, and that's what this will be. I'm finally, finally getting around to picking up the remainder of my stored furniture. We shall have dresser drawers! We shall have hanging storage! We shall have floorspace for things other than suitcases full of clothes! The bookshelves will be free, free I tell you, of socks and underwear! Man. It's exciting.

Also, the puppy rescue people are visiting this weekend (i've just found out.) Fingers crossed that they'll like me, and find my little milltown cottage suitable for a squishy puppy. We'll be wrapping up the electrical cord medusa behind the stereo and moving toxic plants to the top shelves tomorrow morning. Wish us luck!


Jan 31, 2008 :: Temporarily open, Peachtree Street

I've been in what I'd call negotiations with a rescue group about a very sweet Olde English Bulldogge puppy for the past couple days. Blake's thrilled. I'm thrilled--but trying to contain all excitement until such time as I have been deemed a fit pet owner and might be granted the puppy. I won't go into what I think about rescue group methods and such, except to say that I wholly understand that the people who work for them are volunteers, and that they spend inordinate amounts of time and money caring for unwanted animals, so I'd imagine they'd want to be particular about who they offer them to. I would be. But it's still kind of daunting to fill out the forms, wait for the home visit, and then wait more for the go-ahead to adopt.

Anyway, I love dogs. Jane would probably tell you that I'm a good friend, that our walks are always fun, that Blake's a nice guy with a warm lap nearly always available. She'd probably also say that I don't offer enough treats or T-bone steaks. (I say tough, Jane. Nobody likes to get fat.) The only pet I've ever lived with that wasn't a rescue was Arrow--and he was at least on sale when we got him. Blake and I are both experienced dog owners. Jane's a very happy, very loved, very spoiled puppy. Dave is healthy, content, purry, and the uncontested ruler of the household. We've got a house that I own, a fence, a park across the street, a thriving dog-culture in the neighborhood, and friends who love to puppy-sit. I guess I shouldn't worry about anything. But I still am. I think I'm put off by feeling like we're being judged, and I'm afraid, will be judged harshly. I just hope for the best here. We'd offer any puppy a fantastic home.

I'm anxious to find out what happens...