tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2151027385895304242024-02-20T06:07:01.168-04:0010 bags packingPlanes, Trains & Automobiles.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-23906821990249480552010-05-28T18:24:00.003-03:002010-05-28T23:54:17.423-03:00A year ago today<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3629/3462699798_80422a31d0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3629/3462699798_80422a31d0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />A year ago today, I woke up to find my dog lying on the bedroom floor, dead.<br /><br />It was the day after Kyle's birthday. We'd gotten home from a family trip to Florida the evening before, on a Wednesday, in time for his weekly band practice. The trip had been relaxing, the journey home less so. My dad had underestimated the time it would take us to get to the airport. We ran through the airport and dashed through the security; sacrificing my water bottle to the TSA in the process. Moments later, an escalator began to gnaw away on the laces of my still-untied shoe, which Kyle had to yank to secure its freedom.<br /><br />As it turned out, the flight was delayed, and so we sat for an hour in the airport Chili's. We sat and ate stale tortilla chips, washing them down with overpriced drinks.<br /><br />When we arrived in Columbus, we headed to my mom's house to pick Sollie up. He'd spent the week at her home. We got him into the van; I dropped Kyle and the dog off at our dingy home, a rental, and headed out to Dairy Queen to get an ice cream cake for Kyle's birthday. A few minutes later, Kyle was on the phone. <span style="font-style: italic;">Did your mom mention anything wrong with Sollie? </span>he asked. <span style="font-style: italic;">He's acting sort of strange.</span> I called my mom, who said no. I told Kyle, <span style="font-style: italic;">It might be an ear infection.</span> (He had many an ear infection, thanks to his moisture-loving floppy ears.) <span style="font-style: italic;">I'll bring him to the vet in the morning.</span><br /><br />Band practice began, but it didn't last long. Our house suffered a brownout, with half its electricity--including the space in which Kyle practiced--out. So we sat out on the porch that muggy night, Sollie pacing and panting. It felt like a storm was coming, and out of everything he feared--our cat, Rosa; the toaster oven; small children--Sollie feared storms the most. More than once, his terror during a thunderstorm had prompted him to jump the chain-link fence at my mother's home, blind panic driving him across busy streets blocks away. And his worry had only worsened over time. My mom's beagle, Sukha, seemed to provide him some comfort during storms, but it had gotten to the point where even a heavy wind would find him hiding under the closest available person. His trembling would often wake me in the middle of the night, a harbinger of a storm that had not yet arrived.<br /><br />Shortly before bedtime, around midnight, the power came back on and we decamped to our bedroom. I tried to coax Sollie into our bed--his preferred position was to lie between Kyle and I, his lanky limbs splayed for optimal bed-hogging--but he refused to stay there for long, instead opting for the floor.<br /><br />In retrospect, I should have known that something was horribly, terribly wrong. Instead, I set my alarm for 7 a.m., when the vet would be open for business.<br /><br />When I woke that morning, his body was stiff, his torso swollen. We would later learn he had died of <a href="http://www.globalspan.net/bloat.htm">bloat</a>, his stomach flipped and twisted inside of him, lack of oxygen slowly killing the organ tissue and, by extension, him.<br /><br />Sollie died a year ago today and I still am overwhelmed with grief and guilt. I wish I'd known about bloat, which can kill dogs that are, by all appearances, healthy. I wish I'd known that he was seriously ill. I wish that he could have been in bed with us, instead of alone on a hardwood floor.<br /><br />Sollie loved snuggling. He loved sitting next to me on the couch, his heavy head draped on my shoulder. He loved bedtime--though he usually waited for me before heading up to bed, if I stayed up too late, he'd sigh and head up on his own. He loved walks. He loved the tortilla chips guests at our house parties would smuggle to him. He loved cottage cheese--the sound of a plastic container was enough to bring him running to the kitchen. He loved ear rubs, and would let out a low moan if one was done just right. He loved plush toys with a squeaker inside, and would squeak them on end, to Kyle's annoyance and my amusement. He had a creepy smile that he only showed when he was <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> excited to see someone. (The first time I saw it, I thought he was going to attack me.) Though he had a reputation for impeccable manners--one of his many nicknames was Mr. Perfect--in the last year, he'd taken to greeting me when I came home by jumping up to put his paws on my shoulders before giving my face one great big lick.<br /><br />I wasn't Sollie's original owner. Credit for his good manners and training goes to my friend Nate, his original owner and my roommate during my days in San Diego. It was that Sollie--who had playfully gnawed on my ears with his sharp puppy teeth when he was younger--became my greatest source of comfort as I spiraled into depression and loneliness out on the West Coast. Even when I headed back home, to Ohio, Sollie was there, a bony, non-stuffed animal for me to snuggle with. As cheesy as it is to say, he never failed to live up to his name, Solace. But for all the comfort he gave me through the years, I'm left feeling like I never gave him comfort when he needed it most.<br /><br />A year ago today, I woke up to find my dog lying on the bedroom floor, dead. I miss him so much.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-53423300259910868132010-02-15T01:09:00.006-04:002010-02-15T02:41:24.383-04:00That time of year again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3629/3462699798_80422a31d0_b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 768px; height: 1024px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3629/3462699798_80422a31d0_b.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>(About my annual blog post: Twitter seems to better suit my A.D.D., which is why I don't come 'round these parts too often, but it's probably good for the soul to sit back and reflect every once in a while, no?)<div><div><br /></div><div>Kyle and I spent our Valenversary this year filling our gullets with comfort food via trips to Tip-Top, Dirty Frank's, Pistacia Vera and The Dube; sharing a Holiday Inn with a swarm (flock? school?) of biker dudes and biker ladies; and mucking about Columbus' finer big box stores in search of kitchen organization tools.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ah yes. Because we bought a house. Bought it Oct. 30, Moving Day was Dec. 6, Get All of The Rest of Our Shit Out of There Day was Dec. 31 (because what better way to spend New Year's eve then by sweeping--while weeping--at 9:30 p.m. that night?). Jan. 1 was No, Seriously, Let's Get That Lamp and That Chair Out of the Old House Day, and we've been at our new house ever since. Seventy-five percent of the time, I manage to give people the correct address for the new place. Homeownership is lovely, for the most part, except for when I look into my bank statements and find that 90 percent of my income is going straight to Lowe's. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last year had its highlights--the aforementioned home purchase, the celebration of our one-year wedding anniversary--but mostly it was one of intense heartbreak. Sollie died, suddenly, awfully and on Kyle's birthday, and just thinking about him and how much I still miss him makes me ache. Not in a metaphorical way--my muscles tense up and my bones hurt in the way the arm I broke as a kid hurts before a spring storm. I miss that damn dog so much. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, yeah, there's that.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then there's the job stuff, and well, let's just say I am fond of the people I work with and am happy to be working with them; in the interest of personal preservation I'll stay mum on the rest.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah.</div><div><br /></div><div>But to leave this post on a similarly sentimental note to the previous post, I would be remiss if I didn't talk--or, more accurately, gush--about Kyle. He has been tremendous through the madness of the last 365 days. He is a strong, kind, honest and fundamentally <i>good</i> person, and is a source of measureless comfort and support. Each day I am with him--even the days where we inevitably work each others' last nerve--I feel my love for him grow and our relationship strengthen. It is a joy to be his partner.</div></div>Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-60452458707536382222009-02-13T09:09:00.003-04:002009-02-13T09:32:19.844-04:00I know it's grossbut I really, really, really love my husband. And today's our seven-year (dating) anniversary*. (You're still allowed to celebrate such things once you get married, right?)<br /><br />Truth be told, I am not so great at the wordsmithing when it comes to matters of the heart, but man, this guy is just the best. He is a man of integrity, a talented musician, a loyal friend, a gentle soul and a possessor of one sly sense of humor. And have I mentioned his beard? The beard is great.<br /><br />Bee's knees. That's him.<br /><br />Anyway, I may threaten him with murder on a regular basis, but I can't imagine my life without him in it. (So tremble in fear no more, honey!)<br /><br />*Actually, I argue it's actually tomorrow, but Kyle is an unstoppable force in this dispute. Plus, hey, TWO days of romantic presents in a row! Can't complain about that.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-9604511501519457882009-01-24T18:15:00.002-04:002009-01-24T18:18:05.053-04:00I swear I will return to regular posting soonBut until then, enjoy <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/23/world/europe/23crapstone.html?_r=1&em">this</a>, the most amazing news story ever*. (I am SO JEALOUS of the reporter on this 'un.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*Don't believe me? Here's a hint. It includes talk of "Butt Hole Road."Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-22099615602013217562009-01-20T13:37:00.003-04:002009-01-20T13:42:03.851-04:00My dad wants me to get fired<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rzqBh6l7XzkD8_7LxEJy7yUxmlr-V0cwjzXGSWVUOcpYB8uVv4NAm1G6nHiTnrwaZrQG5j_4102FGqdwoXcEEgbB24beD8BshbseAcphme0g5zaCt2S_h218qlo7u26eVTWvDLvFIE4/s1600-h/toast.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293432277168785730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 176px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 144px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rzqBh6l7XzkD8_7LxEJy7yUxmlr-V0cwjzXGSWVUOcpYB8uVv4NAm1G6nHiTnrwaZrQG5j_4102FGqdwoXcEEgbB24beD8BshbseAcphme0g5zaCt2S_h218qlo7u26eVTWvDLvFIE4/s320/toast.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>E-mail from my dad: <em>Yipee! Can’t believe it’s real. Hey – toke ‘em if ya got ‘em!</em></div><div> </div>Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-41027045400173376162009-01-14T21:52:00.002-04:002009-01-14T21:55:52.273-04:00Thank you, Jungle Jim's<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrjUdL7-FGK7zNWR5J3JVfwnCP9GC4GrBOi7uiAWzfYirq1irmZ2OKwreDtvrF1LCgev6sFuhgMlRdahC43lAdlkf3f-YGrmQ38zg1TThPL3BSUfxnDOQRArZ9MQe1WIwphaLe7BQKehQ/s1600-h/thums.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrjUdL7-FGK7zNWR5J3JVfwnCP9GC4GrBOi7uiAWzfYirq1irmZ2OKwreDtvrF1LCgev6sFuhgMlRdahC43lAdlkf3f-YGrmQ38zg1TThPL3BSUfxnDOQRArZ9MQe1WIwphaLe7BQKehQ/s320/thums.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291333198667571602" border="0" /></a><br />The taste is ... meh ... but the design of this bottle is so much awesome in a small glass package.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-10370249640751636572009-01-03T12:51:00.002-04:002009-01-03T13:58:40.629-04:00Tears were shedIf you ever want to go on a road trip with me, there's something you should know: I can't drive stick.<br /><br />Oh, I tried once: I was sixteen, and, on the day in question, I was running errands with my dad. We were in a Kohl's parking lot when I felt my blood sugar plummet. I asked if we could get a soda somewhere. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sure</span>, said my dad, <span style="font-style: italic;">but why don't you try driving first?</span> I'm sure there have worse suggestions made then this. I mean, <span style="font-style: italic;">someone </span>had to pitch the concept of Crystal Pepsi, right? But this one had to be up there. Still, I clambered into the Taurus' driver's seat, started her up, and then eased into reverse, slowly backing out into the lane from our parking spot.<br /><br />At least that was the plan. In reality, I started the engine, moved into reverse, and, panicked about how quickly the car seemed to be moving in the crowded parking lot, hit the brakes. Only, it wasn't the brakes I was hitting, but the gas. <span style="font-style: italic;">FUCK! </span>I yelled, slamming on the not-brakes-but-actually-accelerator again. <span style="font-style: italic;">FUCK!</span> I repeated myself, again hitting what was proving to be the wrong pedal. One last <span style="font-style: italic;">FUCK! </span>escaped my lips before my dad calmly reached over and took the keys out of the ignition. My lesson was over, and, 14 years later, I haven't attempted to repeat it.<br /><br />All of that should have served as fair warning for me yesterday as I tried to learn just how a person (in my case, me) is supposed to insert and remove contact lenses. I knew it wasn't going to be the easiest lesson. I mean, I have a bit of a <span style="font-style: italic;">thing </span>about eyes. I was never one of those kids who turned their eyelids inside out, and ever since the third grade, when the tip of my pencil broke and it flew into my eye, I have made it a practice to try to keep things out of my eyes, rather than put things in. So, until yesterday, I'd never so much as attempted touching my eye, and here I was, being required by a medical professional (Donnell, my optician for the day) to do it over and over. Ick. Ick. Ick.<br /><br />If that wasn't hard enough, my appointment was scheduled at 4:20 (heh, heh) p.m. on the Friday of what was proving to be a exhausting week, which itself was on the tail end of another exhausting week. My energy, already at a near-all-time low, was in a freefall when I entered my eye doctor's office. And Donnell, who, it must be said, scheduled my appointment in the first place, didn't seem too happy to have me there either. After confirming around the office that he was the only person there who could do the "teach," he instructed me to wash my hands and meet him at a small station set up in the back of the office.<br /><br />And so, for the next 1 1/2 hours, we worked at it. Staring at my own reflection in the mirror for that length of time started to make me feel crazy, as I noticed every clogged pore, every errant hair, and a hairdo that was beginning to resemble Cameron Diaz's infamous 'do in <span style="font-style: italic;">There Something About Mary</span> as I reached over my head to grab my eyelid and pull it taut, pushing my bangs skyward in the process. All the while, Donnell noted some challenges: <span style="font-style: italic;">You need to actually touch your eyes to do this. You aren't going to be able to push the contact through your lashes, so you're going to have to open your eyes. You have small eyes</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">so you're really going to have to pull on your eyelashes to keep them open</span>, he said, giving my battered self-esteem another kick in the shins.<br /><br />Eventually, I got it.<br /><br />Sort of.<br /><br />I managed to get the lenses in on my own, but taking them out was yet another challenge. Finally, I popped it one out. It was a fluke, to be sure, but Donnell, taking a not-so-surreptitious look at his watch, was ready to go. After making sure I could insert the lens again, he sent me on my way. My instructions were to wear them for four hours Friday, six or so Saturday and 8-14 on Sunday.<br /><br />Let me take a moment here to say that my dad tried contacts for the first time a few years ago, and, in an incident that will live in family lore, found himself at the ER, in need of professional help to remove his contacts. Perhaps I should not have mocked him so much for that. Because four hours after I'd had the lenses inserted, I made my first attempts to remove the contacts and quickly discovered I just couldn't do it. Three hours after <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>, after I punched and kicked our bathroom wall in frustration, after I sent Kyle to my mom's to get a light-up mirror and after Kyle tried to yank the contacts out himself, an effort that led to both of us crumbling into hysterics, I gave my dad a call. <span style="font-style: italic;">Do you still have that suction cup thingy that the ER people used to take out your contacts? </span>I asked. He did not. But, he said, he'd figured out some techniques that he could help me with.<br /><br />So, that's how I ended up at 11 p.m. last night with Kyle shining a flashlight in my face as my dad hovered over me and plucked the contacts from my eyes. Kyle suggested I give up on this contacts thing altogether. I said I would schedule another "teach" at the eye doctor's. My dad suggested I try again today. And so, against my better wisdom, I'm gonna do just that. But I think I'll have a soda first.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-7884579287555967022009-01-02T12:17:00.003-04:002009-01-02T15:32:27.830-04:002009: good so farMy catchphrase of the year is the o-so-clever "doin' fine in 2009," which is my way of saying that I am cautiously optimistic about this year. It's day 2 of 2009, and so far, so good, but considering I'm employed at a struggling company in an industry that appears to be in a death spiral, it is best to be cautious about just about everything. So cautious I will be.<br /><br />Anyway, NYE 2008 was spent in the best possible way: with friends (although, sigh, not all of them. Why can't everyone I love live in the same city as me? Why don't people realize that they should base all of their life decisions around how they will impact ME?? I mean, c'mon already!), my hubby (who also falls into the "friend" category, happily enough, but who deserves special recognition) and with a 7-year-old girl serving as bartender. No, really. I heard she made great mixed drinks, if a bit too strong. I was on a champers-only bender, so I did not avail myself of her services, however.<br /><br />So, yes, it was a night that was spent drinking champagne (that, for once, cost more than $4.99--I'm getting classy in my old age), sitting in a smoky room* and debating the merits of using vintage items and thereby contributing to their inevitable ruin, vs. preserving them for others to enjoy in the future**, and watching our hosts take belts of tequila before setting off rather impressive fireworks. No one lost a finger in the revelry, so I consider it a success. And, because I was wise enough to guzzle some water pre-passing-out--and during periodic incidences of wakefulness throughout the night--I managed to do be hangover-free on Jan. 1. My, how I've grown--it must be because I'm 30, AKA <span style="font-style: italic;">old</span>, now. But as long as it means I don't spend the day with my head in the toilet, praying for the sweet, sweet relief of death, that's fine by me.<br /><br />Later in the day, the hubby and I headed to Dayton, to spend Christmas part Infinity with his mom and brother's family. (Depending on how you count it, we had, <span style="font-weight: bold;">at minimum</span>, seven (!!!) family Christmas get-togethers this season. Crikey.) Good times were had by all. A personal highlight was when my 4-year-old niece, Sophie, asked me for a ride on my shoulders. I wasn't sure if I could do it (I realized I'd never given someone a shoulder-ride before), but I gave it a go, and we made several rounds around the first floor before I put her down. I then attempted to convince her that she should reciprocate and give <span style="font-style: italic;">me </span>a ride. At first she argued against it: "You're too big," but agreed to try, and wouldn't let go of the leg I'd wrapped around her shoulder until I convinced her that in all actuality, were she to try, I'd smash her like a bug.<br /><br />As you imagine, that--along with the kids trying on the fake moustaches we bought them -- made my ovaries ache more than a little. Later though, trying to sleep last night, I dreamed of leaving my 8-year-old nephew by himself at the beach while I ran errands and of foolishly bringing our cat to a department store changing room (where she promptly ran away), so I'm pretty sure my subconscious is sending me a message about the wisdom of that at this point in my life.<br /><br />Up next: I head out to the eye doctor's this afternoon for a "teach" on how to insert, wear and remove contacts. I'm pretty sure this whole thing will end in tears (I imagine my optometrist will be weeping in frustration by the end), but hey, I really want a spend a Halloween where I can be _____, not _____-with-glasses. Perhaps the dream will live in 2009.<br /><br /><br />*Ahem.<br />**My philosophy is that these items were meant to be used, and it sort of denies them their, I dunno, significance if we just use them as art objects alone. That said, if something I love is nearing falling-apart-ness, I will stop using it so that I can extend its life.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-83394123360827169212009-01-02T12:16:00.000-04:002009-01-02T12:17:27.041-04:00So, where was I?That's right: I'm back, bishes.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-64796963816790322642008-04-28T23:54:00.002-03:002008-04-28T23:56:23.397-03:00FUUUUUUUCKYep, that's about it.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-45978663968521623262008-04-16T09:21:00.003-03:002008-04-16T09:39:38.540-03:00Worst witness *evar*So, I'd left a press conference and was on my way to Target yesterday afternoon, fully immersed in a world of gangsta rap (Thank you, <span style="font-style: italic;">Office Space</span> soundtrack), and waiting for a break in traffic so I could turn left from the street into the store parking lot. And then, as Ice Cube rapped about carjackings, it happened.<br /><br />A semi was coming the other direction, and was taking a right into the parking lot. And then ... the traffic lights heaved up before sagging down to their earlier position. Holy shit. The semi had hit the pole, and for a second, I wondered if it was all going to come crashing down on me.<br /><br />It didn't. Yay.<br /><br />The truck driver hesitated for a second before continuing on to make his delivery to Kroger. I carefully made my left turn into the lot, chatted with a fellow witness, and followed her into Target, where we told a store manager what had happened. Only ... once he confirmed it wasn't a Target truck and that the incident had happened on city property, he really didn't give a damn about the gigantor dent left in the potentially fragile pole. Ooops.<br /><br />So, yeah, if you are committing a crime, it is totally no problem to have me around. I will never be able to identify you in a lineup and I will wait forever to call the police. You're welcome.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-69815557178821214682008-04-13T15:01:00.003-03:002008-04-13T15:06:52.613-03:00Not hating, just saying<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglkZvrIiRLgVsEF79H3mebjuT8_QMCsh9FYjL-ZSyL5mN0VZbbsfOozbq8fGiJKoR3ILBh1XwzggYlNkQGHX3T9GT5kVfFJx8Z2a94umqoYw05nWNjhxlO4ZgyBj6RtdIHRvFCUpwh7TI/s1600-h/Weatherdouche.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglkZvrIiRLgVsEF79H3mebjuT8_QMCsh9FYjL-ZSyL5mN0VZbbsfOozbq8fGiJKoR3ILBh1XwzggYlNkQGHX3T9GT5kVfFJx8Z2a94umqoYw05nWNjhxlO4ZgyBj6RtdIHRvFCUpwh7TI/s320/Weatherdouche.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188792305344020514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://nothatingjustsaying.blogspot.com/2008/03/local-news.html">Hee.</a><br /><br />In other news, the cat bit the dog today. And even though he could probably fit her entire head in his mouth, no problem, he just sat there, staring straight ahead. He is the Gandhi of the canine world.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-29157914789641244882008-04-10T10:51:00.002-03:002008-04-10T11:00:57.580-03:00Also, I had B.O.The scene: Monday night, mid-council meeting. I'm waiting for a TV reporter to finish interviewing a city department director, so I can have my turn. He finishes, and it's go-time for your intrepid girl reporter. The director starts by embracing me around my waist. <span style="font-style: italic;">[Side note -- I have had untold numbers of sources, man and woman alike, hug me. Am I being too nice to them? Is it because of my wee stature? Luckily, I don't mind hugs, but still. Weird. Almost as weird as the time I accidentally exchanged a high-five with a school superintendent.]</span> He's standing really close to me, like, leaning in, and I am forced to admit to him that I have dragon breath after sucking down, like, a pot of coffee during the day. Crud. And then at the end, he goes for the handshake, and I have to apologize to him because my hands are covered in cold, slick sweat.<br /><br />Wow. No wonder people wanna give me a hug. What's not to love about stinky breath and clammy hands?Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-6466358399819749842008-04-09T14:16:00.001-03:002008-04-09T14:17:37.398-03:00OHIO STATE!!!<a href="http://gawker.com/377201/the-dangers-of-being-a-television-news-reporter">The Dangers of Being a Television News Reporter</a>, via <a href="http://gawker.com/">Gawker</a>.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-20073240092402340592008-04-07T01:29:00.003-03:002008-04-07T01:40:49.160-03:00Police report of the weekThis time, there are two winners:<br /><br />Police officers were dispatched to a grocery store in the 1600 block of [<span style="font-style: italic;">Redacted</span>] Road at about 5:20 p.m. April 5 on the report of a drunk man urinating inside the business. Officers arrived and found the man inside the store's loss prevention office, where he was taken, according to a witness, after he was found urinating on bread, ruining more than $200 worth of the foodstuff. The suspect was arrested by police, charged with public urination and transported to jail.<br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> A 24-year old man in the 1600 block of [<span style="font-style: italic;">Redacted</span>] Avenue told police that someone shot out one of his apartment windows April 4. In addition to the $350 in damage to the window, the man reported injury to his mini-blinds, worth $100, and to a painting of Martin Luther King, Jr., worth $250. [<span style="font-style: italic;">Note -- this happened on the anniversary of MLK's assassination. Bizarre, no?</span>]<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p>Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-19889542767857192012008-04-04T22:34:00.002-03:002008-04-04T22:39:44.845-03:00Fuck you, Skybus!!I was fortunate enough to check my e-mail about 20 minutes ago, just in time to get the <a href="http://dispatch.com/live/content/business/stories/2008/04/04/skybust.html">news that Skybus is shutting down at day's end</a>. Awesome. Good thing Kyle and I weren't planning on, like, using it to attend his sister's wedding in New Orleans, right?<br /><br />Oh, wait. We totally were.<br /><br />So, 15 minutes -- and a tremendous spike in my blood pressure -- later, I've booked new tickets. God love ya, Priceline. The new tickets are pricier -- $204 apiece, instead of $80 -- but at least we won't have to rent a car this way, so we're not so much in the hole. I just pity the poor souls due to fly tomorrow -- or my fellow passengers who actually have social lives. Gooooo me being lame!Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-6101758078399323232008-04-04T21:59:00.002-03:002008-04-04T22:07:47.213-03:00Underwire bras = evil<a href="http://theteet.wordpress.com">The Teet</a> and I were just having a conversation the evils of underwire bras, like, yesterday. And then I read <a href="http://www.greenvilleonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/200804030200/NEWS01/804030305">this </a>today. Yikes.<br /><br />More conversation on the hateful bra <a href="http://jezebel.com/376360/">here</a>.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-35900275135410636962008-03-21T16:24:00.001-03:002008-03-21T16:28:58.466-03:00There's also a Wray, Colorado<a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=541149&in_page_id=1766&ito=1490">School arranges morning-after pills for girls of 14 after end-of-term party descends into drunken orgy</a>Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-83996113914620958592008-03-20T22:40:00.003-03:002008-03-20T23:16:38.649-03:00MarkWell, <a href="http://theteet.wordpress.com/2008/03/20/mark-major/">The Teet</a> pretty much said it.<br /><br />I hadn't seen Mark in a while -- most of what I knew of his life in the last year or was what I heard through the grapevine -- but he'd left me a voice mail a few months back, when I was, er, trying to figure out job stuff. As was his way, the message was embarrassingly complimentary and friendly. Mark was the kind of person who could be overwhelming with his gregariousness. He loved telling a story -- either by bending someone's ear or putting pen to paper -- and he could be equal parts engaging and exhausting, his energy especially remarkable for someone more than 10 years my senior, working two jobs and parenting a teenage daughter.<br /><br />When I think of Mark, I think of riding in his car with him to lunch, the empty soda cans rattling their way back and forth across the dashboard. I think of his non-stop intensity, the way he seemed to put his whole body into smoking a cigarette. I think of how fondly he talked about his daughter, and the affection I saw between them at his going-away party way back when. They seemed more like teenaged friends than parent and child.<br /><br />I'd left by the time he made it to our office Monday, and even if I had been there, there's a good chance we wouldn't have exchanged much more than a passing hello, as I'm sort of a horrible grouch most Mondays. Still, I regret missing the opportunity.<br /><br /><span class="body"> Mark Major, I wish you could have found what you were looking for.</span><span class="body"></span>Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-68678119776695372602008-03-16T18:25:00.005-03:002008-03-17T08:03:09.547-03:00Oh, the places I'll go!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.world66.com/myworld66/visitedStates/statemap?visited=ALAZARCACOCTDCDEFLGAHIIDILINIAKSKYLAMEMDMAMIMNMSMOMTNENVNHNJNMNYNDOHOKORPASDTNTXUTVTVAWAWVWIWY"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.world66.com/myworld66/visitedStates/statemap?visited=ALAZARCACOCTDCDEFLGAHIIDILINIAKSKYLAMEMDMAMIMNMSMOMTNENVNHNJNMNYNDOHOKORPASDTNTXUTVTVAWAWVWIWY" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />The <a href="http://douweosinga.com/projects/visitedstates">Visited States</a> map, via <a href="http://denl42.livejournal.com/">The Farrago</a>. I still have to hit the Carolinas and Alaska, and then I'll have made it to all of the states (although, I have to say, in some cases I was just driving through or switching flights -- I hope to have actual visits to more of these places soon. Man, I <span style="font-style: italic;">(I keep trying to put a heart in here, but the 'puter won't let me)</span><heart><heart><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>travelin'.</heart></heart>Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-41626128764528843102008-03-04T18:22:00.003-04:002008-03-04T18:24:48.192-04:00I'm totally normal, except for my small teeth<div style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 10px; MARGIN-LEFT: 10px"><a title="photo sharing" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/10bagspacking/2311110526/"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-TOP: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #000000 2px solid" alt="" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3194/2311110526_f37cc3f070_m.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="MARGIN-TOP: 0px;font-size:0;" ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/10bagspacking/2311110526/">Obama</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/10bagspacking/">10bagspacking</a> </span></div>This went up in our neighbors' yard over the weekend. The sign reads:<br /><br /><em>Hey, if you are wondering why this OBAMA sign is handmade, it's because someone keeps stealing our sign! You can steal our sign, but you can't steal our vote ... [something I can't make out] Florida in 2000. Vote for HOPE. Vote for CHANGE. (And leave our sign alone.)</em><br /><br />Anyway, I appreciate the spirit in which the sign was made -- and, I swear, I haven't stolen their signs -- but, with much hemming and hawing, I ended up voting for Hillary. It was not an easy choice: I was arguing the matter back-and-forth with myself while driving to my polling location, and even when it finally came time to cast my vote. When I saw that Kucinich was on there, I nearly cast my ballot for him, in all honesty. But then I touched the screen for Hillary, my vote neatly recorded on the machine's paper scroll. Only ... then I wasn't so sure about it. So then I Obama. OVERVOTE! Whoops. The computer told me I'd have to un-choose her before I could vote for someone else. So I did. And then, when the time came to confirm my vote, I wavered again. Was I just giving in to peer pressure? I mean, yeah, the woman thing was one of the reasons why I've had a soft spot for her, but I like her health care plan better than Barack's, even though I have more respect for his stance on the war. Crap. Moreover, I want people to see that there is support for her ideas (again, that health care thing to me is HUGE), and that she's not fading away.<br /><br />So, I changed my vote again. Hillary it was.<br /><br />I have to say that I'm falling neatly in line with most of my fellow Ohioans, who -- according to a poll I saw on the Dispatch website yesterday but can't locate right now -- are voting for Hillary but think Obama will win the nomination and are OK with that. In some respects, truthfully, I sort of hope he wins over her, although in such a scenario, I would like her as his running mate. I like the optimism and energy he brings to all of this ... anyway, I'm going back to my waffling again. Must stop.<br /><br />In other, non-election news, my mouth has *finally* stopped hurting, after days of steady aching following the creation of my temporary crown Saturday. Apparently, my problem is that I have small teeth (Hey, I'm short, I have a small head, this is to be expected), which makes the proceedure more painful. I have no idea, really, but that's what Kyle said, and he has a degree in that stuff. Crud. So, I'm now really conscious of my teeth, even if the New York Times thinks it could be part of the <a href="http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=940DEFD91530F933A0575BC0A96E948260&sec=health&spon=">"advance guard of human evolution, at least in dentition"</a> -- uh, just ignore the part about the story being written in 1988.<br clear="all">Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-68603747009271376292008-03-03T16:00:00.002-04:002008-03-03T16:05:12.030-04:00Could it be?Yes, there is such a thing as <a href="http://happyjournalist.com/">HappyJournalist.com</a>. It is, as one might imagine, nowhere near as popular or incisive as <a href="http://angryjournalist.com/">AngryJournalist.com</a>.<br /><br /><a href="http://gawker.com/">Gawker </a>has a good <a href="http://gawker.com/363158/angry-journalists-outnumber-happy-ones-93-to-1">post-by-post analysis</a> on the differences between the two sites.<br /><br />This, so far, is my favorite HappyJournalist quote:<br /><br /><em>I’m happy that my company gave me a boatload of money to retire from the profession I love and will now pay the new employees half or less of what we got. I’m happy that this site will receive many fewer comments than AngryJournalist.com.</em>Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-325266138753806942008-03-03T15:19:00.003-04:002008-03-03T15:21:54.981-04:00When the power goes out at work<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2u7lZugKW_OF3ytQo5U7q7lQblHUOjH3C3s0pg6lXh3Tyc-oJnm4mcKE6ZowEwh1THCVP7hY2j0qHYLNiA7wm7yb1CO5dRFjwFbp6TTKbs3tpRsq4TF_phT0BFLmf3vu8gtYp6rO8WM/s1600-h/catbutt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2u7lZugKW_OF3ytQo5U7q7lQblHUOjH3C3s0pg6lXh3Tyc-oJnm4mcKE6ZowEwh1THCVP7hY2j0qHYLNiA7wm7yb1CO5dRFjwFbp6TTKbs3tpRsq4TF_phT0BFLmf3vu8gtYp6rO8WM/s320/catbutt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173597785619795234" border="0" /> </a><br />I end up working from home, which is not all bad -- I mean, hey, how often do I get to watch marathons of Tori & Dean: Inn Love? Er, a lot, actually -- but there is one challenge. The cat's all-abiding love for the laptop. Specifically, she loves climbing on the keyboard while I'm trying to type. And this is what happens when she does.Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-15621475920316231522008-02-27T15:27:00.000-04:002008-02-27T15:28:01.479-04:00Dear Snow,Enough already!<br /><br />Best,<br />JJaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215102738589530424.post-72964055222852637232008-02-22T14:33:00.000-04:002008-02-22T14:34:26.389-04:00YesssssThe small private conference room in our office that is generally reserved for telephone interviews with prospective employers (if you’re any number of my former co-workers) or paying off your traffic tickets, so the county will remove the two bench warrants filed against you (if you’re me). Today, I was walking by when I noticed that the lights were off – always a good sign of a juicy happening – and there was someone talking inside. The only words I could catch (before I was caught lingering outside) were “dirty-ass ho.” Beautiful.<br /><br />In other good news, Kyle just called me and told me that one of his employers has agreed to finish my root canal for free, basically. He’s going to take what the insurance company is offering for both steps of the process (fitting me for a cap, giving me a temporary cap and then a permenant one) and nothing more, which is, like, totally rad, considering I am, as always, Brokey McBrokerson.<br /><br />Next up: wisdom tooth removal! Woo hoo!Jaydubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12464626141626175585noreply@blogger.com0