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Don’t Worry — Cinderella was as Jaded as the Rest of Us

Okay, don’t get mad at me.  I promise I fully intend to share some interesting stories from Spain and answer a few questions I’m sure some of you have.  But, like I mentioned yesterday, I had an unexpected house guest arrive late last night.

Well, mostly unexpected — she did give me 12 hours notice, which is approximately the time it takes, going roughly 10 miles per hour over the speed limit with 2 rest stops, to drive from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, to Sanford, North Carolina.  My little sister arrived in a whirlwind of fast food wrappers, dirty laundry, 2 mangy mutts (that’s right — there are currently four dogs staying in my house), and early-20’s angst.

I love her dearly.

Needless to say, my plans for the rest of the week have been a bit thrown, meaning I’m about to take 4 dogs down to a lake instead of writing pitches and sending my resume in for part-time gigs.  I also don’t have the time to write a proper post for today.

So, in case you missed it, I’m posting the piece I wrote for Simply Solo the week before I went to Spain.  If you did pop over there to read it, I’m sorry for the repeat so soon after the original.

But I have to work with what I got, ya know?

Don’t Worry – Cinderella was as Jaded as the Rest of Us

Ah, Solo.

I remember that brief yet exciting time in my life when I was sans relationship.  The world was full of possibilities.  I could travel wherever I wanted, sleep with whomever I wanted, and the only person I really worried about disappointing was me.

The good days, right?

But no matter how happy I was, how free I felt, there was always that pesky bruise on an otherwise perfect fruit:  I wanted love.  I wanted to feel love, and I wanted to give it.  I wanted to know how it felt to have someone waiting for me when I came home, to ask about my day, and to tickle my back with his fingertips when we settled into the sofa to watch the latest romantic comedy that he thoughtfully picked up from the video store on his way home from buying me flowers.

Because that happens, right?

The good news is that at the start of any decent relationship, it can and does happen.  For a few moments in time, we find out what it’s like to live inside a movie – to become the center of someone’s world and put another person’s happiness above our own.

But then… then we get comfortable.  The new car smell is replaced by McDonald’s takeout and sweaty gym socks.  The charming way he always lets us choose the movie or the restaurant or the weekend getaway location is now just plain annoying.  Why can’t he have an opinion?  The conversations become stale.  The sex becomes predictable.

This, my friends, is true intimacy – when our prince – *gasp* – becomes a real-life person.

And while he still asks about our day and tickles our back during movies, it’s also true that sometimes he wishes we might stay at work just a little later so he can put his feet on the coffee table, fart without leaving the room, and finish that Star Wars movie without judgment or ridicule.

We find ourselves wondering, why do we even care about these things, anyway?  We never used to.  Or if we did, we let them slide because we’d finally found that elusive love.  That love we’d thought we’d wanted so much.

Is it simply because the longer we know each other, the more difficult it becomes to maintain niceties and politeness?  Is it because we no longer have the excitement of peeling back layers to get to the golden nuggety center of another person’s history, values, and beliefs?  Or is it – and I almost hate to say this – because we, as humans (or is it just us women?), just can’t find it within ourselves to be content with being content?

Think about it.  We are trained from an early age to look for drama in our relationships.  Aspiring writers are taught that we can’t have a story without an antagonist.  We can’t create intrigue without obstacles in the plot.  And a story without intrigue is never worth reading.

So why would a story without intrigue ever be worth living?

Maybe that’s why we create these problems within our own, otherwise placid plotlines – why we become our own antagonist and throw rocks at the glassy surface by nagging him about his dirty laundry, complaining to mutual friends about our arguments, making a joke at his expense, or letting ourselves think he came home late because he was out trolling for other women, because there’s no way he could possibly still love us after all. these. rocks.

The movies teach us we need ripples to be happy.

They don’t tell us how Cinderella could never quite get those ashes out from underneath her fingernails.  How she hated cleaning Prince Charming’s whiskers out of the bathroom sink.  How sometimes – sometimes—she still reminisced about the days when the forest animals adoringly assisted with her morning chores as she sang about longing for her prince to come – when her prince was still a perfect image in her mind of the man who would magically solve all of her issues and finally make her life complete.

But that’s the problem – all we see is that our fairy tale lovers had to fight evil stepmothers, magic mirrors, and fire-breathing dragons to complete their ceremonious commitment to one another.  And since there’s no room for such things in modern times, we make ripples of our own.  We throw rocks to create intrigue and prove that the love that survives at the end – assuming it survives at all – was worth fighting for.

However, I’m going to share a secret for singles or those who perpetually find themselves in unhappy relationships – a secret that will either solve all of your problems, or crush your world in one fell swoop:  What they never tell us about our own story line – about the intricate, ever-changing world we create for ourselves from second to second in search of a happy ending – is that while the existence of dragons is possible but not proven, there is no such thing as complete.

So.  What I find myself learning, now that I’ve found that intimacy I wanted so badly when I was single, is that no relationship – not even a marriage – will ever really complete me.  I will always be someone who strives to learn, to evolve, to make myself a better person.

And in the interim that most of us refer to as life, I will consider it a bonus that, whether I’m crying through a chick flick or snickering through Star Wars, I’ve found a willing hand to tickle my back.

It’s Like Yoda is the Dalai Lama but with Mad Ninja Skills

It has recently occurred to me that I’m not really a “roll with the punches” sort of person.

Nope.

Nor am I a take-that-full-blown-fist-to-the-face-then-just-shake-it-off type of person.

Both are admirable qualities, each of which — whether it be laid-back option A or stubborn as hell option B — I’ve been known to show from time-to-time, but rarely with any consistency.

So what type of person am I?

Turns out I pretty much like to avoid punches all together.

Yep.  You read that correctly.

It’s ironic, because until this moment of clarity, I (and probably everyone else who’s close to me) have viewed myself as pretty damn confrontational.  I mean, if you over charge me for fixing my vehicle or call my cell phone to solicit money, I will voice my displeasure.  If you ask me to analyze your relationship or evaluate whether those pants are too tight or tell you whether you acted like an ass last night because you had far too much to drink, I will most likely tell you the truth.

My friends know this.

I’m the girl they go to when they simply just need to hear the truth.  (Or at least the truth as I see it.)

I will even confront my own issues, whether it’s mentally, through friends, or via this blog, but I realized something today:  When it comes to actually acting on said issues — when I have to make a decision and choose a move — I’m all about the tuck-and-roll.

I avoid that punch like a Connecticut prep school boy avoids hippy chicks from NoCal — it might be dangerously exciting to dabble on occasion, but any type of serious commitment is pretty much out of the question.

Otherwise I won’t get my trust fund.

Except I don’t have a trust fund.

Which is kind of another bummer in itself.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.  What I realized today, especially after my whiny little self-pity session from yesterday, is that it’s easy for me to analyze and discuss and churn possibilities and outcomes through my head, but the sad little truth is that nothing will actually start happening unless I commit to a move.

Which I pretty much never do.

At least not long-term.

So while I can declare that I’m about to make a change, like I have many times on this blog, I’m quickly learning that saying and doing are two completely different things.

One thing I’ve learned from my husband’s unhealthy affinity for all things Star Wars, is that the Yoda character — if you can mentally move beyond the strange way he mixes up sentence structure — is a wise, wise man.

Elf?

Midget with weird raptor feet?

Whatever he is, he dispenses this little face-slap of eloquent truth:

“Do or do not.  There is no try.”

It’s hard to argue with that.

The problem is I have all kinds of excuses:  Trip to Costa Rica, finishing house projects, trip to Spain, planning a baby shower party, making a gift for our Spain hosts, writing the blog, figuring out what to make for dinner, doing favors for friends, getting the house ready for a visitor who will be arriving in approximately 5 hours whose imminent arrival I learned about 6 hours ago, etc.

And there will always be excuses.  The trick is going to be learning the self-discipline it takes to move beyond them.

My friend (and family member) Anna gave me some fantastic advice in the comments yesterday (among other peoples’ fantastic comments) that she learned from a writer’s workshop:

1. Get out of your own way.

2. Begin Anywhere (John Cage)

So these things I intend to do.

Pitches, here I come!

(As soon as I finish making dinner tonight and finish my resume for a “filler” job and clean the sheets in the guest bedroom and make the decorations for the baby party and vacuum and clean the guest bathroom and finish 2 handmade gifts for 2 different people and give myself a pedicure.)

Ain’t that a Kick in the Head

WordPress, which is the platform I use to modify this blog and host my site, has this thing it calls “Freshly Pressed.”  In case you’re unfamiliar, it’s basically a list of highlighted posts from WordPress blogs that, when chosen, get published on the Freshly Pressed page for a day or so.

The cool thing about getting Freshly Pressed is that it can bring thousands of new readers to your site — readers who, with literally millions of blogs to peruse throughout a particularly unproductive work day, often refer to the Freshly Pressed page for the lucky picks the WordPress editors choose to highlight.

Needless to say, ever since I became aware of the phenomenon, I’ve been anxiously awaiting the day when I, too, would get Freshly Pressed and my new wealth of fame and readership would finally — finally — justify why I ever started this thing in the first place.  After all, I wanted to be a writer.  A surefire sign that I was on the right aspiration path would be to get pressed.  That’s what happened to Catherine.  And Nate.  It happened to Kat twice.  So it was perfectly reasonable to think it would one day happen to me as well.

Right?

So I waited.

Maybe it would be one of my food posts.

Okay, so I’m not a cook per se and definitely didn’t create the recipes, but if I don’t share the joys of an orgasm panini with the world, who will?

Maybe it would be one of my DIY home improvement posts.

Laying Backsplash Tiles

Okay, so I’m not the first person to tile a backsplash, but this might very well be the only place where, among the slew of detailed, step-by-step how-to photos, you can also see photos of my husband’s butt and learn why the word “caulk” is a homophone.

If it wasn’t going to be any of those things, then it would definitely be a post about one of my trips.  Who doesn’t love reading about vacations to Hawaii or 2-month trips to Costa Rica?

Apparently the WordPress editors, that’s who.

Wait — that’s not right.  I’ve seen Freshly Pressed blogs on each of those topics, including one almost exactly like my (and Erin’s) post about waterfall rapelling.

My post about waterfall rappelling.

Freshly Pressed post about waterfall rappelling.

So apparently they just don’t like my posts about these topics.

I honestly thought for sure one of my posts about Spain might get pressed.  I mean, I realize there wasn’t much writing involved, but I still have some highlights of the trip I’d like to share now that I’m home, and I somehow just knew the editors had my blog on a “watch” list, just waiting for the right post to press and finally give me some sense of validation.

Then, today happened.

I went to the Freshly Pressed home page and saw it — a post someone wrote about their recent trip to the South of Spain.

You have GOT to be kidding me.

It made me want to chuck my computer out the window.

It made me want to punch the wall.

It made me want to cry.

It made me want to quit the blog.

I realize this is a huge show of weakness on my part.  I mean, I didn’t start the blog for anyone else, so why do I suddenly care if many people read it?

Then it hit me:  I care because this is what I want to do.  Write.

I decided while on the trip to Spain that I would attempt to get a “real” job upon our return.  Not a “career” job, but something with a steady paycheck that I could manage while still trying to do the writing thing.  But still, in the back of my mind, I had this dream that some sign would intervene — one of those epiphanies you read about where some lucky person is handed a clue that tells him — beyond all reasonable doubt — that he’s doing the right thing.

The problem is, I was so intent on looking for affirmation that I failed to accept the obvious signs that maybe I’m not doing the right thing.

Or, maybe I’m concentrating my efforts on the wrong thing.

Or, maybe signs are bullshit.

I don’t know.

But I do know that persistence and grit will only get you so far.  After all, continuously spinning the tires will often dig a deeper rut.

So.  I’m not quitting the blog.  Not even close.

But this is my renewed commitment to myself to try some new venues on the path to becoming an actual writer.  You know, like maybe sending some pitches in to various publications.  Freelancing for other blogs/writing projects.  Starting up a rejection pile.  Things people who actually make a living in the industry actually do.

I know — there’s going to be work involved.

I can’t believe it either.

Here are some more Spain pictures if you’re one of those people (like me) who actually likes looking at other peoples’ vacation pictures:

Graffiti near Becca and Brad’s apartment.

Malaga from above.

Malaga market.

Old juxtaposed with the new.

Malaga store window.

Ferry ride with our hosts, Brad and Becca.

Ibiza City.

Lights.

How Spain said goodbye through an airport window.

See more Spain photos here, here, here, and here.

I Have People Pods.

Not pod people.

But people pods.

You know — different groups of people with whom you identify in different parts of your life.

Except for me, it’s like… extreme.

There’s the “home” people — My husband, current neighbors, and basically anyone who knows me in my nightmarishly perfect suburban ‘hood.  I make dinners and attend cookouts and swap garage codes and recipes and repair man referrals.

There’s the work people — that eclectic group of bar coworkers whom I can’t help but love for their individual quirks, stories, and there-IS-no-such-thing-as-sexual-harassment-when-you-work-in-a-restaurant attitudes.  And that last part is true.  Except when it’s not.  And unless you’ve never worked in a bar/restaurant, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

There’s the old work people — you know, that “real” job I had back before I flipped my sh*t and decided that a 2 month trip to Costa Rica and a savory bar stint were far better alternatives to a gray cubicle and a steady paycheck.  My old work people are awesome, too.  (I’m nothing if not consistently fortunate in finding fantastic people with whom to bitch about work.)

And also a plethora or other old, old work people.  It’s kind of ridiculous how many jobs I’ve held.

My family — immediate, extended, and those through marriage. With divorces and marriages and relocations, I’d say my family makes up several different pods.  Even the members of my immediate family — mom, dad, sister, brother — each live in a different state.  But those are the people who, while they’re less familiar than my current coworkers with the person I am today, will always remember who I was back when I had braces and wore scrunchies and bought my first training bra.  They knew me before I was… me.

And my college friends, from 2 different colleges.  I still keep in touch with many.  The first set knew me when I was trying to “find myself” and was full of hope, ambition, and Everclear.  The second set knew me as the non-traditional older student — the studious one who preferred wine over Everclear and was there for the degree, more than anything else.

My Costa Rica people.  Only for a little while, they were mine.  I won’t forget them.

Military friends.

Online friends.

High school friends.

High school job friends.

Friends of friends.

And each set — each pod — sees me a little differently.  I’m still me — always me.  But the context changes from person to person, place to place.

I can’t decide which view of myself — from various pod perspectives — I like best.

Do you have all these pods, or am I alone here?  Do yours blend together or stay fairly separate?  I’ll admit it weirds me out when people from polar pods overlap — work with family, past with present.  I worry that they’ll catch on to the fact that I’m not always the same, and I might have to choose which person I want to be.

And that just seems so… permanent.

It’s 4:16 a.m. and I can’t remember why I started writing this post.  Anyway.  I hope I made a point.

It’s Almost Like Going Back In Time

We did something crazy yesterday.

Outlandish.

Wild.

(No, we already went skydiving last year.)

(And I already quit my great-paying job to make hot sauce and rappel water falls in Costa Rica.)

So what could possibly be next?

Bungee jumping?  Bull riding?  Hang Gliding?

While I’d love to try all those things (except maybe the bull riding), what we did yesterday was much, much scarier.

We cancelled our satellite t.v. service.

GASP!

I know!

That’s so… un-American of us.

Fortunately, since Justin is in the Air Force, that negates any other seemingly un-American things we do.

We’ve been talking about quitting t.v. for years — even before our income was cut in half.  And I’ll admit that while the decrease in funds played a role in cancelling the service, the real fact of the matter is that when we took a good hard look at our lifestyle, we realized that television was one huge distraction preventing us from doing things we either need to get done or truly enjoy.

Like house projects.

And reading.

And… you know… talking to each other.

Television had become the symbol of lethargy in our house — the reason to not take the dogs for a walk on a lovely evening, or the reason to not quite start building that desk for the office.

So.

Before you completely panic on our behalf, it’s important for you to know that we won’t be cut off completely from the world of sitcoms and movies and… what was that last thing?  Oh yeah, world news.  We haven’t chucked the plasma into the dumpster, we haven’t cancelled our Netflix subscription, and we haven’t traded our tennis shoes for moccasins or started growing out our body hair.  It’s just that from now on, we’re going to have to work a little harder for the distractions, concentrating our efforts on the things we really want to see — downloading the latest Dexter episodes from illegal sites and watching marathons of My So Called Life from Netflix on the weekends.

We might cave and get an antenna so I can still watch the news in the morning.

Honestly?  The thing I think I’ll miss the most is cranking up a mood-dependent satellite music station while I cook or paint a room or clean the house.  Sure, I can still use the free online radio stations, but there’s something about surround sound that makes work seem just a little more… vibrant.

But no longer sitting down to a smorgasbord of commercial-free DVR’d movies and sitcoms for hours on end?

I think I’ll get used to it.

After all, not one person laying on his deathbed ever said,

“Man… I wish I’d watched more t.v.”

P.S.  I think I’m addicted to Pinterest.  In case you missed it yesterday, I’m sending (what seems to be limitless) invites to anyone who wants to join up.  Just go to yesterday’s post and leave a comment telling me you want an invitation.  It’s seriously organizing all of the clutter IN MY HEAD and I’m pretty sure it could finally be the answer to either multiple orgasms or world peace. I’ll let you know.

Flibbety Jibbitz

Truth time.

How many of you are just working whatever job you happened to fall into in order to pay the bills, but you’re still secretly holding out hope that you’re about to stumble across your multi-million dollar idea that initially seems kind of lame but everyone else loves for some reason, like post-it notes and drink umbrellas and those fugly decorative things designed to bedazzle the swiss cheese holes of even fuglier Crocs (seriously — that stay-at-home mom sold her idea for $10 million to the Croc people).

And, once that happens, you’ll be able to retire and your life will finally — finally — start?

**Imagine me sheepishly raising my hand right now**

Some of these ideas were slowly cultivated, researched, and marketed, while others were lightning strike strokes of random luck — the exact opposite of stepping out your front door, tripping on a crack in the sidewalk, and knocking out your two front teeth.  All because you wanted to get your mail.

But for the most part, they all have one thing in common:  they are all products or services that are playful, interesting, and have a broad range of appeal.

However, there are certain niche businesses who undoubtedly generate respectable sums of money while providing goods or services that are… shall we say… less than respectable.

(Or are they actually incredibly respectable because they’re so mind-bogglingly disrespectable — unrespectable? — repugnant?? — that it almost makes them look genius?  Almost.)

The idea:  A couple of days ago I read about a man named Bart Centre, who started a company in 2009 called Eternal Earth-bound Pets, which offers a pet rescue and fostering service to Christians who might be whisked up to Heaven in the event of a Rapture.

The genius:  Centre has built a network of 44 pre-screened atheist animal lovers who have the means and desire to rescue pets from the abandoned homes of the Saved.  In guaranteeing that his caretakers are atheists, true-believing Christians can rest easy, knowing their beloved pets will be well cared for in the hands of those who are destined for Hell.

The twist:  Following the website’s compelling tag-line (“The next best thing to pet salvation in a Post Rapture World“), is an intro paragraph that reads… well… more than a little patronizing:

You’ve committed your life to Jesus. You know you’re saved.  But when the Rapture comes what’s to become of your loving pets who are left behind?   Eternal Earth-Bound Pets takes that burden off your mind.

Then there’s all the businessy stuff, followed by the terms.  Centre charges a whopping $135 for the first pet ($20 for all subsequent pets), guaranteeing rescue for up to 10 years from the date of payment.  The article states that Centre is now servicing 259 clients, and at $135 a pop, that comes to almost $35,000!!  (*Note:  Until the recent May 21st Rapture estimation, the business had been charging $110, so he hasn’t made quite that much.  Yet.)

The question:  Is this okay?  Regardless of what you believe, is it ethically responsible for a man to blatantly poke fun at another person’s religion and then make money off of the very beliefs he mocks?

In my opinion, the answer is a surprising, yes.

Because in the end, whether he’s mocking or not, he really is providing a service — peace of mind to those who believe, and a little humor to those who don’t.

And just like a Jibbitzed Croc hole, how could it be wrong when it feels so right?

The End of the World as We Know It

I really don’t have much to say through the foggy haze of my sleep-deprived mind, but 2 things:

1)  Why, why — when he knows I have a job that keeps me up half the night on the weekends and he’s been a bartender himself, would my neighbor decide that 8:00 a.m. is an appropriate time to use a chain saw?

It kind of makes me hate the suburbs.

2)  Did you know that Fayetteville, NC, approximately 20 minutes away from where I live, is where the American Humanist Association is apparently planning a 2-day extravaganza with over 175,000 attendees to celebrate what they expect to be the failure of the prediction that the world will end tonight?

All I can say is if the world doesn’t end tonight, it should be one Hell heck of a party.

The Rapture is predicted to happen at 6:00.  I’m supposed to be at the bar to work at 6:00.

Honestly?  I can’t say I’ll be too bummed if I don’t make it.

P.S.  How much you wanna bet that my ex-counselor won’t be attending the Atheist party?

Mean Things Come in Small Packages

I don’t know what’s going on with the Universe right now, but I’m guessing it has something to do with the tides and the moon and waxing and waning and the frogs in the pond in front of my house because I have been attacked by not one, but two dogs in the past 5 days.

And the humiliating thing is that they’re not even dog dogs.  Each was a little rat-yapper, adorable and cuddly on the outside, and vicious, maniacal, bad-ass dog wannabes on the… well… outside.

In order for you to understand my seemingly irrational fear of these 4-pound monsters with sharp, sharp teeth, I need to take you back to the summer of 2004, when Justin and I lived in our first horrible apartment together in Valdosta, Georgia.  It was the kind of place where we could hear our neighbors screaming at each other in thick, southern accents through uninsulated walls, and where large, burley men named “Chops” drank beers from coolers in the back of their pickup trucks in the parking lot.

It’s important for you to know that I am not even exaggerating a little.

And Chops was actually a really nice guy.  He almost always offered me a beer.

One particularly beautiful day, I decided to take a walk through the ‘hood.  (In retrospect, this was not my most brilliant idea, considering we lived on the edge of exactly that — a ‘hood.)  I passed a home with two adorable black and brown daschunds (those ridiculous but oh-so-cute little wiener dogs) playing in the front yard.  I noticed that one was tied up and the other was not, and it occurred to me that the untied dog was probably a stray.

Now.  I’m the type of person who, if I encounter a stray dog that I don’t deem dangerous, will try to “save” it and find its proper owners.  So I crouched down on the sidewalk, a good 20 feet away from the stray, and extended my hand, palm-up, as an offering of peace and friendship — the human equivalent of an offered butt to sniff.

Come here, little fella.  Let me see if you have a collar.

The dog’s response?

His hairs immediately stood in a straight line down his back — a line I call the line of meanness when it comes to angry dogs — a line that says, you probably shouldn’t f*ck with me right now because I have a line of meanness running straight down my back that displays my unmistakable ferocity to would-be predators.

Then he bared his teeth.  A mouth full of sharp little angry alligator teeth that — I’m not going to lie — would most definitely hurt if they were to chomp down on… say may ankle, since that’s about as high as he could reach.

And then?  Then he barked.  Well.  It wasn’t so much a bark as a yap that just wouldn’t stop, and it struck me as ridiculously hilarious that this little turd of a dog responded to my mild approach in full-on attack mode.

It was like this, except meaner.  Much, much meaner.

But here’s where it gets embarrassing.  The second the chuckle escaped my lips, the dog took off, headed straight for my face.  Apparently, he did not find it amusing.

So, I reacted with my gut, and I ran.  I ran back the direction I’d come, and that little effer chased me down the street.  Once he felt I was a suitable distance away from the house, his line of meanness flattened out and he returned to his docile playmate, still tied up in the yard.

What.  The.  Hell.

That did not just happen.  I turned around, determined to pull up my big girl panties and pass the house unscathed, but the second he sensed my approach, up went the hairs and out came the teeth, like I’d angered the Hulk or something in wiener dog form, and you know what I did?

I went down another block to pass the house.

It was an emotionally traumatic experience.

So, fast forward seven years to my latest encounter this past weekend with the yappy little mutt of my neighbor’s who, while he appears ferocious and hyper as little dogs go, is usually very licky and wiggly when you actually head over to play.

But not this time.

This time, for some inexplicable reason, he found it pertinent to latch himself to my arm using only his teeth, and let me tell you — it hurt like a sonofabitch.

I impulsively dislodged the dangling black critter’s teeth from my flesh and continued next door to complete the task I’d set out to start, which was letting my other neighbors’ dogs outside while the owners were out-of-town — much nicer and gentler dogs in the form of a German Shepherd and Chow-mix.  Then I headed home to Justin’s graduation party and dulled the pain with Cabernet and Southern Comfort, though not at the same time.

The bite left a small wound and a bruise that has since turned a lovely shade of yellow and will probably leave a scar as a helpful reminder that tiny, vicious dogs are not to be trusted.

And just in case I didn’t get the message, I was walking Mara across a dam in our neighborhood yesterday, when from out of nowhere this little yapper was suddenly about 10 feet behind us and closing in quick, the line of meanness prominently standing on its deceivingly adorable and fuzzy little back.

Startled, we turned to face it head-on.

Luckily this time, I was prepared.  I was prepared with a beast who had 50 pounds on this thing easy, and all Mara had to do was take one aggressive step in its direction in my defense, and it immediately pulled a 180 and ran off from whence it came.

And now?

Now I’m pretty sure I can never leave home without her.

Running Dog

*Disclaimer: I do NOT think all small dogs are mean. I have met plenty of friendly daschunds and other yappers who haven’t attacked me. It just so happens to be that those are the only kinds of dogs who have attacked me, hence the generalization.

Plant Nanny Giveaway Winner!

Although I read through all of the comments to the giveaway, I knew the only fair way to pick a winner was to use random.org to select the winning comment number.  Some of your responses to what kind of wine you enjoy cracked me up — and others I’ve added to my list “to try.”

***THE WINNER HAS BEEN RANDOMLY CHOSEN!***

This giveaway is no longer accepting entries.  I used random.org to select the comment number of the winner, and the winner is:

Rebecca! (Who likes a Pinot Noir.)

Thanks to those who participated — I wish I could send plant nannies to all of you!

Poppin’ the Giveaway Cherry

***THE WINNER HAS BEEN RANDOMLY CHOSEN!***

This giveaway is no longer accepting entries.  I used random.org to select the comment number of the winner, and the winner is:

Rebecca! (Who likes a Pinot Noir.)

Thanks to those who participated — I wish I could send plant nannies to all of you!

This morning I promised a surprise, so here goes.

Today, I was shocked – shocked – when I went to the Domestiphobia Facebook Page and saw that 100 people like it:

I mean, seriously?

I don’t think I could name 100 people who like me in real life.  So the fact that you come to this site and read it and maybe actually even get something out of it from time to time, really – and I mean really – means a lot to me.

It’s a better feeling than successfully making coq au vin.  It’s a better feeling than tiling your own backsplash.  It’s definitely a better feeling than breathing in capsaicin.  And it might even be a better feeling than intentionally falling headfirst out of a Cessna Caravan.

Wait, that’s a lie.

I’m pretty sure there’s no better feeling than jumping out of a plane.  Or maybe I should say, there’s no feeling like it.

Anyway.

To celebrate this little milestone (in addition to attending a wine tasting for employees at the bar tonight, because we all know that free wine = good times), I’m doing 2 things:

1)  Announcing that Domestiphobia is now on Twitter.  I created the account about 3-ish weeks ago and still don’t really know how to use it.  But if you’re on Twitter, and you happen to want to “follow” me, it might encourage me to… I don’t know… actually figure out what I’m doing over there.

2)  Conducting a giveaway.  (Is conducting the right word?  Hosting?  Having?  Doing?  I think I’m losing my mind.)  That’s right, my friends – I’m going to give something FREE to one lucky commenter.

Just what are you giving away? you might ask.  Because I know what you’re probably thinking.  You’re probably thinking, I bet she’s giving away a crappy coupon book for free hugs or that old dishwasher she can’t get rid of that’s been sitting in her garage for the past 2 years.

And to that, I say, What the hell is wrong with a coupon book for free hugs?!  Seriously – mine usually go for like $5 a pop.

And while I still think the hug thing is an excellent idea – especially because I’d likely get to travel somewhere new and interesting just to deliver said hug – the giveaway is more along the lines of the dishwasher option in the sense that I’m getting rid of something I’ve had sitting in the closet for quite some time and never got around to using.

Plant Nanny for Wine Bottles

No, I’m not giving you a bottle of wine.  Like one of those would sit in MY closet unused.

Remember when I bought these Plant Nannies to use in my garden?  Well, I never opened one of the boxes, and at the rate my last garden was destroyed by termites, I’m thinking it might be a long while before I use them again.

So today I’m giving away my last box of (4) Plant Nannies!

Plant Nannies

Oh, yikes.  That sounded a lot more exciting before I typed it out.

Is this a crappy giveaway?  If so, I’m sorry.  I’d love to give something more extravagant, but I’m unemployed, people.  So you’ll take my ceramic plant feeders and you’ll like ’em.

And you don’t need a garden to use them.  In fact, they work great in pots as well, if you just want to try your hand at growing one plant at a time.

Wine Bottle Plant Nanny

See?  They make your plants look like winos.

Which is really pretty hilarious.

And if you actually take the time to remove the labels from the wine bottles, it can look quite pretty.

Wine Bottle Plant Nannies

But I think we all know I like to do things half-way.  ‘Cause that’s how domestiphobes roll.

So anyway.  If you win these totally awesome nannies for your plants (because all nannies should feed their kids wine), you can go get all stinky in your garden and grow some beautiful and/or delicious greens to make your life a little better.

And speaking of stinky readers, maybe that coupon book of hugs wasn’t such a good idea.

No offense.

The not-so-fine print:

1.  I’m really really sorry to my international readers, but Justin will only support me shipping this within the continental U.S.  You see, until I’m actually making money, he’s not that thrilled with me giving ours away.  Which, dammit – makes sense.

2.  To enter, simply leave a comment to this post telling me what kind of wine (if any) you prefer.  Chardonnay?  Sweet red?  Boxed?  With some fava beans and a nice chianti?  And if you don’t drink wine, why the hell not??  (Allergies, pregnancy, and legal age limit are the only real excuses I can think of.)

3.  I will use some type of random comment selector thing to pick the winning comment.  All entries must be in by 4:00 p.m. Eastern Time on Wednesday, May 18th, 2011.  Once the winner is randomly chosen, I will announce it on this page and contact the lucky reader for a shipping address.

4.  This box of plant nannies has never been used.  I will pack them as cushily as I can, but I am not responsible for any that might break during shipping.  If any of them do break, I deeply, sincerely apologize.  And I’ll send you a complimentary virtual hug – no matter how stinky you are – to make up for it.