Charlie-Man-Tastic

After about 10 days at home with Charlie, we're settling into a routine. Sort of. Charlie eats every three hours which doesn't leave room for much else. Once we've paced him, burped him, changed him, calmed him down, convinced him to sleep and successfully put him down...we're already 5 minutes late for his next feeding.

But we're still having a good time. The dogs are still enamored with him and hang on his every move. He's had a little bit of a sniffle but I think that's starting to go away. And he gets a little bit of heartburn but he's taking Prevacid for that. He's very sweet and as you can see by the pictures below, he really likes to show off his sexy side.


Charlie's lost in thought, a pensive preemie.


Eat your heart out, ladies....Yeah, you wish.


Step right up. Here's a free ticket to the GUN SHOW!!


No more pictures please. I'm spent.

How Not to Golf

Sarah and I went golfing yesterday at an undisclosed location with 3 other nefarious couples. The infamous eightsome was split by gender and generously lubricated with various cases of beer, home-made margaritas and a magnum of red wine. Light competition amongst the groups added a hint of legitimate effort that was both aided and nullified by the aforementioned open bar.

Aside from a few shining moments, our round was full of standard and inevitable tape-measure slices into the woods etc. usually associated with amateur play. What was extraordinary was that there were very few other golfers on the course at this hour and our behavior quickly deteriorated along the final stretch.

Group hijinks included but were not limited to:
• Heckling each other from tee box to green or vice versa
• Playing extra holes while only paying for 9
• Following up poor tee shots by hitting from the ladies' tees with your pants down (photo)
• Cursing, drinking, rough-housing and generally sophomoric behavior

But the true highlight of the evening came when the driver of my cart (who shall remain nameless since he's someone's grandfather) decided to break a land speed record upon returning to the clubhouse. He has a nifty trick to counteract the cart's speed governer, a built-in safety mechanism. On the many downhills of this mountainous course, he popped the cart into neutral, grinding some gears in the process but allowing the cart to reach ungodly speeds. At a certain point I think I suggested to watch out for the tee boxes, which at this speed resembled launch ramps Evil Knievil would envy. Of course he immediately pegged a tee box and drove diagonally off the side of it. At the base of the awkward incline was a railroad tie used as a curb for the cart path below. As the cart jumped the curb, the right wheels slammed to the ground sending me flailing out of the cart sliding across the paved path and into the grass bank. As I fell, I remember the cart teetering menacingly above me and threatening to roll on top of me. I rolled out of my slide for life, and watched the cart right itself but not without rocking back onto the left wheels for a split second. As the driver tried to regain control he veered sharply to avoid a log fence and almost ran straight into a tree. After regaining his composure, the driver circled back, utterly mortified and simply said "maybe you should drive."


(click image to view larger)

As we sheepishly approached the parking lot, the driver held his hand to his face in shame and embarassment while I laughed hysterically and bled from the wrist, forearm, knee and ankle. He appologized profusely to me and Sarah. I assured him that I could have just as easily procured the injuries biking, but this was a much better story.

Unexpected Friday Night

Joe and I were out road riding on Thursday night and on our way back on Main St. we saw that the new Indiana Jones movie was playing at the local theater. We were too late that night but decided we would go on Friday night. So last night we get home from work, cook dinner and then head out to the theater. It only has on screen so we just walked in, paid our money and took our seats. We sat through 20 minutes of trailers and ads before the feature film. The first scene is the New York skyline and I was kind of suspicious then the first name appears "Cameron Diaz" and I was like "I did not know she was in this movie" then the next name..."Ashton Kutcher" and we are like "f*ck this is the wrong movie". So we watched What Happens in Vegas. Yeah.

Don't Tase Me 2.BRO

In the wake of "Tase-Gate", you may be asking yourself "Where can I see MORE tasings?" Fear not. Today, my friend Chris let me in on his dark and twisted side. Apparently he gets a sadistic kick out of watching impudent morons rendered even less coherent by the stun of non-lethal force. And I love him for it. In fact, his new site Tase.tv will let you in on his delightful perversion with clips and stories of all the best tasings from around the internet world. It's so much fun it's shocking. He he he. And the best part is that most of the people you'll see getting tased COMPLETELY deserve it. There are some cases where the use of force was with questionable judgement but what's NOT up for debate is that it's hilarious. See for yourself!
http://www.tase.tv/

Craig Sager - WHO Dresses this guy?!

Just got done watching the last inning of the Yankees' 2007 season. Truthfully, I wanted to see the Yankees win this one so the Indians could win it in Cleveland after an exhausting 5-game series. But I'll take it. The Sox are right on schedule and ready to steamroll into the World Series. The ALDS between Cleveland and NY was great. There were a number of show-stopping moments: the bizarre 30-minute gnat swarming forcing Joba Chamberlain to throw an ill-timed wild pitch; the lackluster performance by the delicate league-MVP, A-Rod; the week starting pitching (especially by Clemens); and the class-less crucifixion of Joe Torre, one of the greatest managers of all time by his team owner, George "The Boss" Steinbrenner.

But one train-wreck stands out above the rest. TBS put together what I thought was a great late-season ramp-up campaign to October, featuring the highly animated comedian and Arlington, MA native, Dane Cook. Then, in their first year (to my knowledge) of post-season exclusivity, TBS paraded a full line-up of weak-witted announcers (except for Boston's own Don Orsillo doing the NL games) and unpolished ex-players in front of the cameras on national TV. Among the worst, that I saw was a floppy toupée-wearing scrub of a sideline commentator named Craig Sager. A quick google search revealed that this clown usually holds a microphone over his head while sweaty basketballers humor him and politely rib on his tacky salvation army wardrobe. But after just a few games of his periodic drop-ins I question how conscious his clothing choices actually are. Does a guy like this get up the morning and say "Hmmm...how many dark patterned layers can I jam into the same outfit?....Or should I go with the classic powder blue sportcoat, a tired cream short-sleeve and an orange tie?" I guess you can't blame a guy for having no taste. But who IS to blame? Should we be embarassed for his wife who lets him leave the house like this? Is it TBS's fault for letting him on the air? Is it the camera man's fault for not framing him above the neck? I can't say. All I know is that everyone between his house and the ballpark — passing motorists included — should feel shame for allowing this guy to persist.


Apparently, it's not just me who's bothered by the TBS MLB Mockery.

But, who cares? It actually gets worse. As they signed off, the TBS announcers revealed that Fox's Joe Buck and the inimitably innane Tim McCarver (for whom I've mentioned my disdain in the past) will be calling the ALCS between the Sox and Indians. Tremendous. I'll encourage my friends in Boston to set their tuners to AM radio and mute the TV.

Bonds' 756 ball to be Branded With Asterisk, THEN donated to Hall of Fame

Holy Crap, they were serious about this?!

So I took this online poll the other day. Maybe it was on Espn.com or something. It asked what should be done with Barry Bonds' all-time record 756th home run ball. I found the question amusing in a hypothetically absurd way, expecially given that the options were:
A: "Bestow it intact to Cooperstown" (34 %)
B: "Permanently brand the ball with an asterisk before sending it to Cooperstown" (47%)
C: "Launch it into space forever" (19%)

—I voted for "C".

Ha ha, right? well apparently if I was more current, I would have known this was not joke. Hip hop fashion designer, Marc Echo purchased the ball at auction for a cool $752,467 and announced on live TV that he planned on soliciting a national opinion on what to do with it. The choices, although ludicrous, speak to the "passion" of baseball fans everywhere. Over 10 million people voted to have the ball branded with an asterisk to signify the suspected steroid use surrounding Bonds and his controversial record. And whether or not you think Bonds is a juicer, a cheater, or just an arrogant jerk, everyone seems to care about this record. WOW.

read more on MLB.com »

Jerry Remy Eats "Tuner Fish"

So I'm watching the Red Sox game and laughing about the latest Remy-isms. In this case, Don's feeding Jerry some seemingly benign questions about his lego-person hair-style. Jerry in turn becomes facetiously defensive. He embraces the situation and takes the opportunity to tell Red Sox Nation exactly what hair dye he uses. His diatribe was complete with telestrated analysis. You have to love this guy. Even if you're not a Sox fan, his absurd approach to broadcasting is honest and refreshingly blue-collar, like a favorite uncle.

For the uninitiated, Jerry Remy is a Boston institution. Along with fellow Northeastern University alumnus Don Orsillo, Jerry is a former Red Sox second baseman and color-commentator for the New England Sports Network. He is casual and sardonic. His commentary is actually quite astute but his easy-going delivery often underwhelms his insight. New Englanders have grown so fond of his schtick in recent years, they've formed a cult following, complete with an organized fan-club called Rem-Dawg Nation. But his immediate trademark, especially outside of the New England area is his THICK Boston accent.

I was eating a tuna fish sandwich the other day and watching a game. For some reason I found myself wondering how Jerry might order a tuna Fish sandwich. Would he call it "tuner". I started looking around the kitchen and pointing to things and saying their names like Jerry Remy might: "tuner"; "bananers"; "cawfee"; "papah towels"; "dishwashah"; "windas"; "pitchas on da wall"; "can openah" and on and on and on... It's fun. I suggest you try it.

Anyway it's that kind of small detail that makes me feel really close to home.

Introducing: BuyMaxABeer.com

Every once in a while you come across a great idea. The idea can be entrepreneurial, philanthropic, eerily genious, dumbfoundingly obvious, etc. But sometimes they're all that and more. The other day, Max (aka: the guy who sits next to me...aka:my "work-wife") had one such revelation. Max, who by nature is a man of simple pleasures (drinking, rock-climbing, skiing, baking cookies...) decided to try to forgoe his amateur status and take up professional drinking. You've heard of recovering alcoholics being "sponsored" upon joining AA. But have you ever heard of an active alcoholic being sponsored?

I GIVE YOU: www.BuyMaxABeer.com

The concept is mind-numbingly simple. Click on the link above and read Max's mission statement. There's no profit assumed, no alterior motives, no carbon offsets to buy. Just click the button to buy Max a beer with your credit card. The money is transferred to Max's "Slosh Fund" which he will use ONLY to buy beer. No drugs. No sportscars. No hookers. You can even buy Max's friends beer (eh-hem) if you want. That's where the philanthropy comes in.

So check it out. You'll be glad you did. Even if you don't decide to buy one, leave a comment so we know you stopped by. ANd be on the lookout for my friend Ross's spin-off site : www.wrenchforbeer.com where you can solicit his bike mechanic skills and pay him in beer.

BMX Bargaining

So I sold my little BMX bike last night. I had bought it for $200 in 1997 for a commuter bike in Boston. I rode it solid for a year or two and almost not once since then. So it had to go. And although $50 seemed like a generous price to me, others contended it was probably worth less.

Anyway, the buyer drove 45 minutes up from Provo at 8:30 at night to buy the bike. He new it was $50 and he still found it necessary to haggle it down. He's a little Japanese guy so he was talking in broken english:

Him:"You take a discount?"
Me: "No, it's fifty bucks. I've got another guy looking at it tomorrow if you don't want it."
Him: "Oh....you take a 45?"
Me: [it's raining and 45°] "If it gets you out of my driveway, sure. It's raining dude. whatever."
Him: [fishing through his wallet] "You have change? I only have a fifty."
Me: "Are you serious? NO! And honestly dude, that's insulting."
Him: "Oh. Sorry. Well I have a four. [along with his 2 twenties and a ten]. You take a fourty-four?"
Me: "Fine. [snatch] Enjoy the bike."

I took the money, turned around and walked in the house while he spent 5 minutes putting the wet bike in the back seat of his car. I didn't even offer to help.

The “Rem Dog” comes to Utah!

One tough thing about moving away from home is missing all the Red Sox games. Sure they're a big market team and they command a majority of national broadcasts. The ESPN games are OK, but if it's on Fox, FORGET IT. That's when you have to listen the insufferable Tim McCarver. Back east, when the Sox were on Fox, we'd turn the sound off and listen to the game on the radio. You can also keep up on-line or by watching SportsCenter etc. but it's not the same as coming home on a Tuesday night and camping out with your local commentators for a few hours. So for my birthday this year, my beautiful wife bought me the DirecTV MLB Extra Innings Package. Now I get all the games for every team. Do I care about all the teams? NO! But you can't just buy one team so oh well. Now it's like coming home to hang out with my old friends, Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy (the RemDog) on NESN.

Sometimes when the Sox are on the road, you'll get the local broadcast from that city, which can be interesting. Last night, they were in Baltimore and I got the MASN (Mid Atlantic Sports Network) broadcast. They feature capable play-by-play man Gary Thorne alongside Color Analyst and hall-of-fame pitcher Jim Palmer. I was excited at first, until I realized what a know-it-all Palmer is. I can take the constant stat spewing or the second-guessing, but then he started ripping on Manny. I almost lost my mind. But hey, even when it's not NESN, it's better than nothing. Unless it's on Fox.

Things I’ve Learned: I Mow Therefore I Am

Having recently become a homeowner, it has become abundantly clear to me that mowing the lawn is a man’s last true refuge. More seasoned homeowners may prefer chopping wood or pounding nails. But I believe mowing to be the purest masculine pursuit. For starters, mowing involves the obvious: a motor. The gnarly roar is a powerful draw from the time we first toddle upon fresh cut grass. The allure is engrained in our fabric like the color red in our first double-stitched Woolrich shirt. I contend that even the most basic mower engine stirs a mysterious sense of pride in any man who ever primed an engine; who ever yanked a start cord; who ever so much as scooped a clump of grass from a clogged side shoot with his bare hands.

Easily overlooked however, is the very premise of cutting grass. There is something perfectly primal about beheading billions of insolent blades of grass per second. It's an underrated rush. We defend our castle. The idea that we as men are sworn to uphold our perimeter at all costs is an honor. We represent the delicate balance between the overtaking of weeds and a smooth, clean carpet. Perhaps it is our love of field sports that inspires our compulsion to create the perfect yard, the idea that an epic athletic battle could break out at any moment. Or perhaps more simply the aspiration of perfection, to whatever extent we may require it.

From the time a boy is first exposed to the art of lawn maintenance, his father passes on a legacy. Dad’s not looking for cheap day labor, but rather sharing in the one true experience that makes and bonds men: the satisfaction of a smooth clean lawn. Having mowed since I could walk, I never recognized that satisfaction until I recently acquired a patch of my own. The pleasure I derive from simply cutting the grass is a weekly highlight, as is the pride I enjoy upon copletion. It’s my rite, my escape, my destiny. When we mow, we mow to our own satisfaction. We have routines, techniques even. We mow the right way, however that may be for us: in grids; in patterns; quickly; deliberately. We pick up poop. We trim. Sometimes we make two passes. We prep the grass. We water it before bed. We fertilize. We thatch. We move furniture around to even out the light exposure. We obsess over details not because of how it looks, but because we don’t know any better.

I remark in partial jest that the lawn may be the only component over which a man exercises true control. It can be the only time he is right. Certainly there are variables over which he has little or no control, but a man who mows is never wrong in the eyes of the lawn. He is not second-guessed and he need make no apologies for his actions. No one would dare take the mower out of his hands for every house has only one true lord of the lawn.

A man who mows is accomplished. The lawn is either done or it’s not. A man can grill but is constantly catering to his family's tastes. A man can set up the electronics, but only with the majority approval of all parties. A man can change a fuel belt but there’s only one right way. A man who mows however, needs only simple words to completely recognize for his usefulness: words like “Lawn looks great, Hon.” Or “Nice job on the grass, Dad.” No more, no less. When we mow, a sunburn becomes a badge of honor. Pink shoulders and backs despite the sting are actually a comfort at night.

Mowing prowess is admittedly self-explanatory. There are some tricks to the trade, but basically any idiot can do it. It speaks to the hunter-gatherer in us. We need these simple tasks to keep our strength in the absence of hunting and/or gathering. (Please note that I make no nostalgic comparisons to quick trips to the grocery store or the conspicuous, hand-written notes I require to complete my gathering mission.) Ah but mowing. Mowing is a refuge for the every man. Even guys like me who thought it would be nice to buy an electric mower because it might save the earth. Although I assure you I feel less like Bono and more like Curly Howard tripping over that cord, even THAT mower delivers the clean precision a guy needs.

I say next time you’re feeling docile, or contemplating if you’ve been having too much red meat, go out and mow something. You’ll need your own patch of grass. You can borrow a mower to start, but eventually you will need your own. A push mower, a riding mower, electric start or straight manual—doesn’t matter. Just mow the shit out of it. I promise you’ll go to bed satisfied knowing that the grass is clean, the weeds are at bay and your old sneakers, beautifully stained with chlorophyll, are grinning in the closet.

Rough Morning

This morning Sarah and I left a little early for her meeting at Deer Valley. Sarah dropped me off across the street from my office. She was stressed because we were running late. I had my little silly BMX bike in the back so I hopped out with my coffee in a travel mug and grabbed my bike. For some reason it wasn't enough to simply push my bike across the street, I had to prove I could ride it. So I rode across the street into the parking garage where two old tourists were meandering about. I swerved slightly to avoid them with my coffee in hand and awkwardly hit a bump that laid me flat out on the floor. My bike' s headset loosened up on the bump and the handlbar bent forward. I skidded on my face into the parking garage trying to save my coffee while my legs doubled over my back from the momentum. Now I had half a cup of coffee, a busted bike, cuts on my hands and elbows, and filthy greasy skidmarks all down my shirt and splatters of coffee on the back. As I started to get up, the woman said, "Well I guess that'll teach you to steal your little brother's bike". She has no idea how close she came to death. If this day gets any worse it's because I was hit by lightning. Twice.

Deer Valley, An Elegant Kick in the Ass

Sorry it's been so long since our last entry. These winter months have been busy. But as the sun starts setting later, we find ourselves getting motivated again. We're training for some triathlons this spring...Well Sarah's training. I'm starting to think about training. And we're still skiing our butts off. Which brings me to my story.

This weekend was one of the only weekends since November with no fresh snow in the forecast. So we decided we'd take advantage of Sarah's free passes to Deer Valley in Park City. Deer Valley is among the swankiest ski resorts in the country. We half expected to feel out of place, but we were able to adjust our mindset from fresh tracks and big drops to corduroy and sweeping GS turns.

For my first run I used my Salomon X-scream 9's, the very skis I had learned to ski upon in the seemingly distant past (through last year) at Sunday River in Maine. I figured they would handle the groomed conditions with ease. However, I have evidently become so accustomed to my newer, wider Salomon Pocket Rockets, that I immediately switched back. With 30 millimeters more girth underfoot, I strutted back into the lift line with Sarah and some friends from Park City.

A few runs into the morning, I was looking for a diversion from the groomed superhighways we had been skiing. I hopped in and out of the trees, scoped our rocks to huck and even happened into a few mogul fields. Most people who ski with me know that I'm not a traditional skier. I learned late in life and skiing for me is more about adrenaline than peaceful bliss. What's more is that without any formal ski training, I also don't possess some basic ski disciplines, such as skiing moguls. You might call them my "nemesis". Fundamentally, I understand some basics of skiing moguls, but have never been fond of the idea. Today, though, I lost sight of that...momentarily.

I stood on the edge of the groomed run, staring down a line between ice-filled snow goblins. A voice inside said, "Forget it. Take the Groomer. You have nothing to prove. This will end horribly." It's that same voice that tells you not to put your coffee on the edge of the table. You ignore the voice, thinking "Well it's not like I'd be stupid enough to knock it over!" Then in the same instant, as if predestined, you're swatting the hot coffee to the carpet and kicking yourself.

That said I decided to give it a go. As instructed (directly or by eavesdropping atop other mogul runs) I pictured myself as a stream of water, falling down the path of least resistance. It seemed simple enough. I made about 20 turns fairly convincingly (to myself at least). Then the pitch lessened and gave way to a point of rest before the next section of lumps. Feeling confident from the first pitch, I entered the next section without so much as slowing down. As I came over the lip of a cat-track I saw my line for the first time. I was no longer a babbling brook happily trickling down a serpentine path. Instead I was a bucket of murky rainwater tossed from a rooftop on an unsuspecting patsy; neither necessary, nor funny.

I absorbed the first few blows like a series of sucker-punches in a bar-fight I had not only initiated, but deserved to lose. With a feeble sense of self-preservation, I pointed my heels and leaned back trying to slow down, or at the very least, hoping to live. My evasive maneuvers proved too little too late, as one large disapproving ice-lump kicked me skyward. My internal soundtrack went from pounding speed-metal to a serene adagio movement. Then my calm was interrupted by the crunching noise of torso meeting mogul. I had landed on my lower spine at the crest of an unrelenting bump. Maybe I bounced a few times, but my immediate thought was that I might have broken my back. I struggled to breathe as well-meaning passersby rushed to my assistance and proceeded to ask me essay type questions. With the wind-knocked from my chest cavity, I simply gave a weak thumbs up and weezed "How did it look?"

I laid motionless for a minute or so, going through a checklist of self-diagnosis. First, I wiggled my toes to eliminate paralysis. I started to rock back and forth looking for the sharp pain of broken bones. Then I laid back to open my lungs and overcome the tendency to hyperventilate. Sarah and her friends caught up. I decided I didn't need Ski Patrol's assistance, especially considering that a ride in their sled, although it looks like fun, is not covered by insurance. (Thanks Patty Caret for finding that out for us.) I made my way up and clicked into the one ski that had released in the process. As I met up with the groomer and headed for the lift line, still weezing and suffering mostly from blow to my pride, i noticed a lack of edge response from my left ski (the one that stayed on). When I met up with the rest of our party waiting in line, they noticed the tail of my ski was sticking up in the air. So to literally add insult to injury, I had snapped my ski in half.

We decided to call it a day and headed right for the emergency clinic in Park City. (Readers may remember this clinic from the previous story "Utah Rocks...") X-rays on my spine came back negative for compression fracture. However the doctor was amazed at the almost perfect alignment of my discs. So thanks Dad for the lifetime of free chiropractic care. He wrote several pain prescriptions, which I was uncharacteristically quick to accept since my muscles had at this point seized up completely.

So as I sit here, on a bright Sunday morning, medicated through the roof while my wife enjoys a safe bluebird day with friends, I suppose I caution you readers to listen to that inner voice. Don't spill your coffee. Don't leave your plate on a chair. Don't pee into the wind. And don't ski stiff moguls, under the chairlift, with a bunch of friends if you SUCK at skiing moguls.

"Crappy" Morning - At Least It’s Friday

OK. So it's Christmas (almost). Sugarplums, stockings, frankincense, yada yada. My new home in the Salt Lake Valley is unseasonably tepid, which is really of no concern since there's 100 inches of powder snow 20-30 minutes away in all directions. A common maxim out here is that "It snows in the mountains, not in your driveway." You get the idea. The only drawback is that the grounds of my apartment complex are sopping with mud. And while there is a paved walkway to our car-park, they did not pave the path behind the building that leads to the "dog exercise area" where they keep the poop bags. Nevertheless, I complete that faithful circuit several times daily out of appreciation to my dog-friendly housing authority and respect to my friendly neighbors.

This fine morning, however, as I slopped through the squishy clayish top layer around 5:30am I was unaware that some other resident had not extended me the same courtesy. While most of the topical earth had lost it's grip upon climbing the two flights to our appartment, a much more resilient matter was clinging vehemently to the Vibram treads of my Keen clogs (Don't laugh. They're sporty.) But it wasn't until I entered our off-white-carpeted appartment, proceded down the hallway, and flicked on the harsh bathroom light that I saw IT. A faint trail of smudges lined the hallway carpet like a landing strip and led right to the culprit. The forensic evidence was undeniable. I picked up my shoe (clog) and there, anxiously cloaked in a clump of leave, hugging the compensatory treads was the wet, doughy pad of wayward dog waste. It stared at me so smugly, taunting..."Your move, sucker."

I tried to remain calm. My wife, Sarah had not woken and I didn't want my frustration to bring her to an abrupt rise, or at the very least I needed no advice or suggestions yet. First things first. I cleaned the carpet. Spray. Dab-dab-dab. Spray. Dab-dab-dab. Etc. I then had to attack the shoe. I sorted through a series of crude disposable tools. I settled on an old allen wrench from the bike kit. It was a simple solitary L-shaped hex-wrench from my days at the inline skate shop in Boston. It would have to be sacrificed. Over the railing of our third-floor deck, I started scooping chunks of offending gunk from the surprisingly deep treads. Ironic after all that the very treds that justified the borderline effeminant, yet super convenient casual footwear were the very treads confounding my dilemma at this moment. My progress was somehow gratifying as the major globs extruded into interesting shapes and fell to the ground by the decks below — neighbors be damned. Having removed as much of the oodles of doodles as possible, I went to the kitchen, where I sprayed and wiped the surface as much as possible. Then I used hot water and the sprayer to clean out the rest. Finally, I sterilized the sink with hot water, paper towels and some kind of spray. Most of the apartment was still dark mind you as I had not yet awoken my bride.

I brought the shoe out to the deck to dry and air out, or perhaps to think about what it had done wrong. I walked back into the unlit living room to start my day. I must have taken a slightly different course than on the previous two trips as my left foot, still bare, landed squarely in a NEW pile of dog waste. Apparently after eating several magazines yesterday, Blü decided that the 3 or 4 deposits she had made last night were not enough to last till morning and the middle of the living room floor was the perfect place for an encore. No such level-headed calm was forthcoming at this point. —"F***!!!"— That woke Sarah up. I explained what happened and she seemed unmoved. I hopped to the bathroom in a rage. I ran the water over my slimy soul, trying to collect myself. Eventually my repulsion turned to an eye-rolling sense of irony in the moment. After all the lumps were NOT the of most muculent variety, as the dogs miraculous digestive system was mostly just passing dry nuggets of satisfactorily digested paper products, rather than the usual heaps of moist steamed mush. Once my foot was steamed and pristine, I returned to the living room to clean the mess. Sure enough, this new pile was not all that glutinous so the damage was in fact, minimal. I cleaned the area anyway.

My morning proceeded without incident for a few minutes. But as I began clipping my toenails, I actually dropped the nail clippers into the toilet bowl. UGH! WHY?! Keep in mind the toilet had been recently flushed. But the last flusher was ME! And I've been known to be quite abusive to a toilet first thing in the morning. Especially, after the tumultuous morning I had already endured, I may have unleashed a little fury of my own, before showering. Regardless, no time for that kind of thinking. I invoked the same logic that created the "5-second rule" and the "morning after pill". I punched into the suspicious toilet water to rescue the drowning instrument. I shook off as much water as I could and turned to rinse the clippers and my vulgar hand. I scrubbed like a surgeon, but I have this haunting agitation, a feeling of contamination that lurks in my vertebrae and leaves me with chilled bones in the temperate dawn.

I recounted the mornings events to my wife, now rising from blissful sleep. Squinting and yawning, her response was simple. "At least it's Friday."

'At Least' indeed. Humbug.

Utah-ISMs

The longer you stay in Utah, the more you pick up on cultural nuance. We all know the funny New England expressions and accents. Here it's more subtle, but there definitely is something unique about it. It's not southern, it's not midwestern. It's just Utah. Here are some examples we've noticed.

First there is an indistinct accent buried in certain words or sounds. For Instance, Utahns really like to hit their "L's". Massachusetts folks might drop their "R's" at the ends of words, but here any word beginning with the letter "L" might sound like it's spelled with a series of "L's". Take the word "Layout". Now drag the "L" and say "LLlllaayout". Another odd sound is the omission of double "T's" in the middle of a given word. The "T's" in the word "rotten" might be replaced with glottal stop, sounding more like "raw-en".

Even more charming are the everyday expressions Utahns use in casual dialog. For example:

"Just barely"
Relating to a lack of excess. Example: "Have you been waiting long?" "No I just barely got here." The phrase "Just Barely" downplays any sense of urgency in the moment, putting both parties at ease. It's pedestrian nature suggests a sense of acknowledged personal fallibility.

"I appreciate you."
This heart-felt phrase is not unique to Utah. However it's casual usage is something that might catch a cynical New Englander off guard. Utahns may use this phrase in thanking you for a good deed, like holding the door open. However where some people might say, "Thank you. I appreciate that." Utahns are likely to say "I appreciate YOU." The difference is awkward at first, but it's just pleasant to hear things like that. However it is more likely to manifest casually in passing as "apprecia-Cha." Slightly less heartfelt but preferable nonetheless.

"You're OK" or "You're fine"
A casual response to an excuse or apologetic sentiment. Utahns are quick to forgive. Sometimes too quick. Rather than dismissing an offense, Utahns are likely to absolve the offending party altogether. For example, you're checking out at the grocery store and when asked if you have your frequent shopper card, you say "sorry, no I left it at home." Rather than saying "It's OK" or "That's OK", Don't be alarmed if the checkout clerk says "You're OK." He or she is pardoning the offense, although it may sound like they're acting gracious in excusing your very existence. You might think "Well of course I'm OK. I just forgot my frequent shoppers card. I wasn't looking for your approval." But try to take this generous expression with the innocent nature in which it was intended.

"Oh my heck!" (NEW!)
Apparently, no matter how humbly you were raised, there's still a need for exclamations. "Oh my heck" is a nice way of expressing shock or befuddlement without offending even the most impressionable of passersby. That's a skill we've yet to master.

ADDENDUM: As a research exercise, I posted the preceding on Craigslist, a popular online classified resource. I asked locals to respond with their favorite "Utahisms" and these were some of their responses.

Here are a few of the best, original Utah-isms I recall as a child. 1. Oh my hell! 2. Gad Sakes 3. Oh my land 4. Bugger to hell (I don't think they knew what the word "bugger meant or they wouldn't have used it...but their ancestors brought it over from Wales and so they thought it was OK) 5. Geeso-pete 6. For the love of hell 7. Damnit to hell This was pretty much the extent of profanity in the Valley back in the 1960's-70's and 80's. Then the Starland Vocal Band released the song "afternoon delight" and everybody focused their attention on getting it banned from the airwaves and we all contemplated for the first time what a nooner must be like.

How about this: "We was going to Kmarts and Fred Myers."

"He was literally climbing up the walls." No, he was not literally climbing up the walls. He not spider man, he's a four year old. Unless you mean to say that he was actually scaling the wall, it is a figurative expression meant to convey the idea that he had excess energy. It's worse than when people incorrectly use ironic to mean coincidental or unfortunate.

"Oh, I seen you in Jeremy's CRX the other night!" "Was you gonna go with him to wendover?" "He's doin' pritty good since he got outa jell last month." "He got new wills on his Honda! I think his mom melled him a check. She lives past the poin of the mou-un..."

"melk" instead of "milk". It seems that as a rule, if there are any vowel "L" combinations, Utahns will screw it up. "Sell" instead of "sale", "pell" instead of "pale", "mell" instead of "mail", "dill" instead of "deal", it goes on. Then there's Lay-un instead of Layton, with a "T". I had to train myself to say it correctly again after living there for a while.

One of the all time best - "IRREGARDLESS!"

I'm suprised to see this one has been missed - words ending with 'ing'. "I was goun' ta walmart taday and I seen a car go crashun' into that Dodge." Another Utah oddity, trucks are not trucks. If someone tells you about a Dodge, Ford, or Chevy, you are expected to understand that they mean pickup truck.

'Tuezdee', 'Wenzdee', 'Thurzdee', Frydee - Enough said.

Dog Blog — The Demystification of a Dog’s Inner Monologue

Booburt's Log By BlüDog Myers

Roxie's Log By Roxie Caret Myers

Today started out slow. I woke up early to warn Mom and Dad that the buzzing machine was about to make its crazy noise. That's my job. I always try to wake them up out before it happens, but they don't appreciate it very much. I jumped on the bed but Daddy kicked me off. Then Roxie joined in and we started rocking the bed back and forth until Daddy got up and put on some warm stuff to go out. Daddy doesn't have any fur so he needs lots of layers to go outside. Mommy stayed in bed. It was cold and snowy out today. My toes got salt in them too, which hurts. But I like to spend my morning cleaning them out anyway. Everybody needs a hobby. Mine is cleaning each of my parts thoroughly. Sometimes, when I run out of things to clean, I clean Roxie too. She doesn't always mind because she knows I love her. Then Daddy spent some time in the bathroom. That's where some of the best snacks are. I think he likes to eat them by himself, but when he's done I like to clean up what's left. The silver can is usually a jackpot. But the big white bowl has the best water in town. You really can't beat bathroom water after a good hike. I like to hike. Roxie does too. She likes it so much I used to think she'd never come back. She'd run and run until we couldn't find her. But now she stays pretty close. Sometimes we race up and down the trail. We like to run into Mommy and Daddy. And we can poop ANYWHERE when we hike. Mom and Dad even pick it up for safekeeping. I'm not sure why they're saving it all. Maybe they're building something with it. Or maybe it goes to charity. I think some people can't afford poop. What was I saying?? Oh yeah! Hiking is fun!! After Mommy and Daddy put on all their layers they made us breakfast and drank some smoky black stuff. Then they started hiding things. They try to hide all my favorite chewing stuff when they're gone. Sometimes I have to jump the fence and break into their room to chew stuff. It's VERY inconvenient. Other times I'll just chew what's closest. One day, Roxie and I chewed the table in front of the couch. I can't remember who's idea it was, but it was so yummy! Then we heard the jingles. The jingles make the car go. Some times jingling means we're going for a ride in the car (the Super-RuRu). But usually it means Mommy and Daddy are going away. It pretty much depends on what feet they have on. If they're wearing their big rugged feet, we get really excited. We just can't help it because they wear those on fun hikes and stuff. But today they wore their shiny feet. So that means they're just going away for a while. That's a bad jingle. So I got sad. I tried to sit and be good to change their minds, but it didn't work. I cried a little. After they left I forgot why I was crying, so Roxie and I just laid on the couch for a while. Mommy and Daddy leave the radio on for us. Sometimes we dance. Other times we sleep all day until they come home. Did I mention I like to chew? Sometimes I do that ALL day! I like mail, socks, DVDs, remote controls, tupperwear (so yummy), and blankets. There's more, but I forget. Anyway, today was slow. We mostly slept and stuff. After forever, we heard the GOOD jingling. Mommy and Daddy came home and we were so excited we jumped and howled and ran in circles. Daddy took us out quickly and then they both changed into FUN CLOTHES! They put on boots and dirty pants and started packing stuff. We all jumped in the car. Once we got off the fast road, Roxie and I knew where we were going. MILL CREEK!!! We go to Mill Creek Canyon a lot. Those are the best days. We can run all over and they even have poop bags waiting. When we're there, our parents put our poop in a big can, with other poop. I think it goes to charity or something. We ran up and down the hills. We chased things—I don't know what, but I just follow Roxie. Then we get to drink from the stream and jump and splash people. It's funny. When we finally got home we were tired. We all laid on the couch together. Our couch isn't very big so usually I just lay on top. I get my best sleep when I'm touching Mommy and Daddy. Sometimes I clean them too, to tell them I love them.

Booburt woke me up today. I was sleeping in my corner by Mommy and Daddy's bed. She came tromping in and leapt about in her usual haphazard manner. She then jumped on the bed to the chagrin of our two-legged guardians. I was dreaming like a puppy about running through the woods, chasing rabbits in the snow and rolling in deer excrement. Sometimes I wake up from those dreams and my legs are still in motion. I find it embarrassing because everyone stares at me. Anyway, Blu-Tard (that's what I call her) got kicked off the bed. So I figured I'd help initiate the day's productive cycle. Sometimes we have to wake Mom and Dad up so I gently serenade them until their eyelids reluctantly peel open. Dad arises slowly, dresses himself and stumbles down the hall. The insult of his inferior night vision is compounded by my step-sister's unpredictable movements. Finally, we make our way down the stairs. I arch my back and drink in the cool winter air like a fine wine. It was serendipitous to find a layer of fresh snow on the ground. And by the smell of things, there was more on the way. Seizing the moment, I tossed myself into the fresh patch, rolling my face on all sides as if to shape cookies of my likeness in the heavenly dough. I must confess, there are moments like this when I forego my usual poise for the basic pleasure of being a creature of instinct. It is in these moments when I find a kinship with my simple sibling, to the delight of my parents. Often in fits of jubilee, I will initiate playful interaction. It even takes some prodding on my part to motivate my parents, but they recognize and appreciate my efforts. Admittedly, I can be aloof, but never am I drab. Upon completion of their morning rituals, our parents made their usual swift exodus, imploring us to "be good" before closing the door. I have trouble containing my smirk as they say such things. I am after all, "the good one". "Good" is a relative term they apply to simply being independent and self-occupied. The antithesis in their eyes is made commonplace by my adolescent-minded sister, who spends her days chewing things that don't belong to her or having "accidents". In lieu of asserting ill intent upon our actions, humans prefer to pre-excuse behavioral abnormalities, assuming we always try our best to please them, but sometimes come up short. I find it deliciously entertaining. Equally charming are the antics my sister employs throughout the day. When she's not cleaning herself or trying to sterilize my undercarriage, she's often wiggling on her back to the music du jour. She claims she does it to itch her back, but I truly believe that she simply does it to burn off excess energy. For more localized itches she swipes carelessly with her rear feet, which makes me cringe. Her first few swats land abusive blows to the head and neck. She lightens up until she fails to connect at all, swatting with less and less intent as her attention is commandeered by any number of alternate stimuli. Anyway, today being rather quiet, we spent the majority of it on the couch relaxing. I had some time to organize my thoughts and work on my upcoming novel. After some meditative loafing, our parents returned. I'm constantly surprised by my own enthusiasm toward my human attendants. As a rule, I make few allowances for people. I often keep them at a safe distance until I determine their intentions are respectable. Even then, I keep an eye on them. My parents, however have rescued me from purgatory and a life of servitude, affording me a life of whimsy and security that I cannot refute. Their arrival evokes a primal elation in me that escapes in sporadic song and dance. We both celebrate and parade the affects of our "good" behavior. But rather than a quick walk and comfy clothes, Mom and Dad quickly changed their wardrobe to a more rugged look. They snatched up our leashes and led us to the car (the Super-RuRu!). Blü and I were overcome with excitement and curiosity. We rode along patiently, barely containing our emotion. Once Mom made the turn up Mill Creek Canyon I howled my approval, however helpless and barbaric. Upon agreeing to be "good" we were released along the trail, like a gun releases a bullet. Charging down the wooded path, we planted fresh tracks in the foot of new snow. Sprinting and cutting back, rolling and jumping, we ran and played with such unabashed delight that I welled up in the moment. I headed back to thank Mom and Dad for the fun time and we wrestled a bit. They whitewashed me and I splashed them with snow. It's a little ritual we developed in the woods behind the big house in Maine. I miss that place, and I miss Umie and Opa, but I hear they're coming out for a visit soon which makes me happy. When we got home, I curled up on the couch. Mom and Dad sat with me, warming my spirit. Then Booburt climbed on top. She affectionately licked all of us before falling asleep. Sometimes she's not so bad. But you didn’t hear that from me.

The Littlest Hustler

It was just after nine on a friday night. My lovely wife and I were relaxing at home (yes, I know it's friday night) enjoying "That 70's Show". I had had one Jack and Coke and I had my eye on another, when we heard a knock at the door. That's odd. Who could it be? A psychotic Killer stalking through the neighborhood? An angry neighbor? Was our TV too loud? Had the dogs been barking while we were at work? Well the knock didn't sound angry. But that's the fun of unexpected company, isn't it? Better calm the dogs and see who it is.

With my right hand, I slowly opened the door so as to not horrify our guest with the 65 pounds of frenzied Weimaraner I was stiff-arming with my left. As if in a movie, I glanced forward seeing no one at eye level. As I panned down I realized our Psycho Killer is actually a sweet, smiling 8-year-old boy. A trick-or-treater who missed our house perhaps? (We had rushed home on Halloween to dispense our 6 bags of candy to a feverish mob, only to be disappointed when we had just ONE half-assed "Corpse Bride" at our door. She was old enough to be somebody's chaperone, but we let it slide.) No. Anyway, he wore a red ski beanie with a big Oakley logo, a sure sign that he was worldly and in-touch with modern skiing subculture...I have a similar hat myself. He was holding a clipboard with a half-page yellow carbon-copy form. He spoke vigerously, as if trying to hit all of his major selling points before the door slammed in his face.

"Good Evening. How would you like to recieve 3 FREE MONTHS of an award-winning newspaper, delivered to your door daily with NO CHARGE and NO OBLIGATION. You can choose between the 'Salt Lake Tribune'" (our local news goliath) "and 'The Deseret News'" (a Mormon publication, sure to have a unique perspective on otherwise factual events). "Either choice is chock-full" (yeah he really said that) "of intriguing and useful information."

Now ordinarily, I'd say anything in this kind of moment to be rid of an unwanted solicitor at my door, especially while I'm missing the whitty dialogue of 26-year-old actors playing slacker high school students, or while the ice is melting in my empty glass and condesation gathers in a ring around its base, taunting me. Something like, "I already get the paper, but thanks anyway", or "I'm illiterate, but thanks for rubbing it in", or "I have a gun". But I was stunned. I was physically reeling by the verbal gymnastics this cherub had just spewed at me. His confidence, his precocious ease caused me to stumble backward, fumbling for anything resembling a cohesive retort. "Uh, wow. Well First" (I was stalling) "let me say that I'm very impressed. You're doing a great job at this."

"Aw, thanks. But I haven't sold ANY yet." he said with heartbreaking sincerity.

"Honey," I turned to my faithful wife with terror in my eyes hoping for her to play the bad-cop and turn him away for me. "Do you want to paper delivered here? It's free."

She was enjoying the bowl of egg nog ice cream I had just scooped for her so she wanted no part of my dilemma. "I already get the paper at work, but you can get it if you want."

DAMMIT! Now I was screwed. I turned back to the sheepish figure standing backlit in my doorway, his eyes hopeful, his hands fidgeting. "It's free right?"

He knew he had me. "Yep!"

I said, "Why don't you come on in. Are your parents waiting downstairs? Do you want to tell them you're OK?"

"Nope." he said with a puffy chest. As he shuffled past the door and into our entry way I introduced the dogs and he pet them. He said, "I just need you to fill out this form. The paper IS free, but we just ask that you tip your paper boy —ME— $1.50 every Sunday. But since we don't deliver on Sunday..." Now it's getting fishy because I could have sworn he said they delivered 7 days a week "...we ask that you pre-pay by cash, check or credit card."

I started to balk, but anticipating my hesitation, he reached deep into his bag of tricks and pulled the straight flush of salesmanship: "PLEEEEEEEEASE..." Now, I don't have children. I have never been on this side of that sentiment and have not yet built up an immunity to its power. I recalled the humility and desperation of childhood fundraisers where I had sold candy bars door-to-door. But at least I was asking for only a dollar. And I was selling instant gratification. Not some drawn-out scam, preying on unsuspecting adults. Yet, I was helpless.

Again, I was stumbling. I didn't want to point out the bate-and-switch he had just pulled on me, but I also felt it was my own fault for being naive enough to think that ANYTHING in this world was actually FREE. After some quick and clumsy math I concluded that 3 months at $1.50/week comes out to $18. Not Free. Again, I looked to my wife. She shot me a look that said "Hey, YOU let him in." So again, I was stalling, "So you want $18 right now?"

"Well, Yeah." he said in shock that I would question him after knowing him so long. "But you can use a credit card." As if that's not real money.

I had been beaten. With no energy left to outwit the young Trump, I asked my wife for the check book. I wrote out a check for $18 dollars. As I handed it to him he said "Wait. did you write it for $18? The form says $25."

My head was spinning trying to recount what we had been talking about for the past 5 minutes. There were sevral check boxes on the form. Before I knew what was happening he had scribbled out my check mark and written his own next to the $25 check box. He sensed my confusion and said "Well they don't let us deliver on Sundays anymore so you only have the weekday option." I should have thrown him out the window, but he had just pulled the "Jedi Mind Trick" and I found myself nodding in agreement, saying "well DUHH, I must be stupid!" So...Just to recap here, I'm writing a new check for $25 dollars to a boy I never met, for a paper I didn't want, delivered on days I would never have time to read it. Before I knew it he was tearing off my copy of the receipt. I stood there in a daze, my flimsy yellow order-form in hand, watching the theif walk out with my hard-earned money and my false sense of dignity dragging from the souls of his shoe like toilet paper. He probably even slid down the handrail on his way down the stairs.

How To Drive in Utah

A wise traveller is open-minded and alert for local laws and cultural nuance. First-time visitors to Utah will be immediately struck by the scenic vistas. Sadly however, while soaking in the unique landscape, those same visitors are at risk of also being struck by a Utahn making his or her way to work or Temple. Here are a few tips to make your visit to Utah as safe as possible.

Lane Usage
While most places in the Western Hemisphere reserve the left-hand lane for faster-moving traffic, Utah operates under a first-come, first-serve policy. Occupants of any lane may travel at any speed. The strategy behind switching lanes may vary from one driver to the next. While some drivers may chose to vary speeds within the same lane at their own discretion, others may prefer to make abrupt moves to the left to slow down or block faster-moving traffic.

Faster drivers should also take note that passing on the left is considered insulting and will be met with by an immediate increase in speed by the driver being passed. This is especially common as two lanes merge. For best results drivers are expected to pass on the right, then move left and slow down again.

Multitasking
Utah drivers are sophisticated, free-thinking individuals. Visitors will be impressed with Utahns' ability to adroitly manage several tasks and thought-processes at once. While operating a moving vehicle in Utah, you may be expected to talk on the phone, drink coffee, read a book, write a term paper, conceive a child, practice origami, perform a circumcision, and scan Utah radio for your favorite top40, country or religious rock station all at once. However, for safety's sake, while using the phone, be sure to use a hands-free device to allow maximum freedom of gesticulation.

As your dexterity increases, you may be able to increase your efficiency while driving. Seasoned veterans of Utah's driving customs are clearly visible as their speed will vary wildly above and below the designated speed limit. They might also make seemingly awkward lateral movements, utilizing every possible inch of their lane while borrowing several from the adjacent ones. Although these skills are not easily acquired, beginners may find it useful to buy a vehicle that far exceeds their particular size requirements, and decreases their line of site. That way, other drivers are sure to recognize your commitment to the Utah way.

Intersections
Traffic lights govern the right of way at an intersection. Red means stop. Green means proceed. Yellow indicates the the light will soon be red. Therefore, when a light turns yellow, it is your obligation to accelerate sharply so that you and the line of traffic behind you may continue without the inconvenience of stopping. Remember, True Utahns drive excessively large vehicles which require more time to stop and more fuel to get back up to speed. Slowing down at a yellow or even some red lights will immediately expose you as a foreigner who must be passed immediately.

U-Turns
The unique width of Utah roads are a historical phenomenon. Utah roads were designed by migrating Mormons who required roads wide enough to turn an entire heard of cattle around at any juncture. Indecisive Utahns still make common practice of this technique. The "Utah Turn" (or "U-turn" for short) is perfectly acceptable on any road at any time. Utahns have petitioned short-sighted car manufacturers in vein to add a second turn signal specifically for U-turns. So be aware that by entering the state's borders, you have been given a gift from its very founders.

Congestion
Busy Utah highways experience added congestion due to a lack of night life. Most Utahns access the same commute at precisely the same time. Therefore, it is often necessary to provide relief to gentle and predictable ebb and flow of steady moving traffic by violently applying your brakes for no apparent reason. Commuters behind you will appreciate this form of stimulation, especially if it serves as a warning that there is construction, or a police officer ahead.

It may also be useful to ride within several inches of the car in front of you. Not only will this solidfy your reputation as a masterful Utah driver, but you will be able to avoid the annoyance of allowing other commuters to change lanes on your watch. Should the car in front of you decide to slow down, wait until the last possible moment before forcefully applying your brakes. This will create a desirable tsunami effect of panick-branking behind you, making you the life of the commuter party.

The Middle Lane
Many busy Utah roads are quipped with a middle lane for turning across traffic. At any time this lane service traffic from 4 different directions. When turning off a busy street, be sure to cut across the 2-4 lanes of oncoming traffic at the least opportune time. Other drivers will appreciate being kept alert. Pulling ONTO a busy street requires traffic to be momentarily clear from only one side. Do no expect the far side to be clear when pulling out. To expedite the process, pull out while the far side is at capacity and merge blindly into fast-moving traffic. The faster the better. You will not be met with assertive opposition. Utahns elect to have their factory-installed horns removed to acheive a seemingly more polite and society. Instead, you will most-likely encounter a more passive-agressive form of disapproval: being passed on the right.

For more tips on driving in Utah, see local accident reports or call an LDS representative for hands-on advice. Good luck and happy U-turning.

Booburt Ate My Wallet

Blü (AKA "Booburt" because it further emphasizes her dimwitted nature) is getting older. She's 2-and-a-half. So she's grown out of jumping up on people. She doesn't eat cigarette butts off the sidewalk. And she even has stopped yanking my arm out of the socket when we walk. So why can't she leave our stuff alone when we're not looking? We try to keep the place "Booburt-proof". We've even tried putting mousetraps on the counters. But that only ever worked on us.

Anyway, she ate my wallet. It's not the first time. In fact I think it's the third or fourth time. We came home from grocery shopping (one hour max) and caught her in the act. She ate the leather wallet clean. She was on to the cards. My new Utah license was missing it's lower right corner. I can't fly home for the wedding like that so I had to have that replaced immediately. All my credit cards are surgically defaced and virtually unswipeable. And the $20 bill? GONE. Once upon a time at the beach house in Kennebunk, Blü swiped a $1 bill from the kitchen table. Surely, it smelled interesting given all the previous handlers. But she's so maniacal about her deviant acts that she often swallows these things whole, to dispose of the evidence as quickly as possible. Anyway, it came out on the beach a few hours later. My dog was finally paying off like a slot machine. Now, this was just $1. People hear that and immediately ask how much it would take for me to "rescue" my hard-earned money. My answer USED TO BE $20. But as tight as money is right now (no punn intended) we're not on the beach. And I'm not that desperate.

So after a day of ignoring her, (which works better that scolding her) she finally paid back her loan this morning. Although surprisingly, it didn't come back in the "denomination" we might have expected. Instead, she hacked it up on the carpet, along with the wallet. The wallet was destroyed. But the cash? Mostly in tact. And after a hot rinse and some scotch tape, it's ready to re-enter circulation.

The moral of this story: Don't borrow cash from me. You don't know where it's been.