Friend or foe?

I found out today that someone that was a close friend has apparently been lying to me and other people for, oh, our entire friendship.

I guess I always want to see the good in other people. I want to believe that they like me, they want the best for me, and that they care about me the way I care about them. To paraphrase something I posted on my Facebook page the other day, I have high expectations of my friendships because I would do that much and more for my friends.

It stings. I had suspicions for quite a while that Friend wasn't always truthful. And even when I confronted Friend, I was met with excuse after excuse, lie after lie.

I don't let people into my life easily. And this friend was someone I implicitly trusted and allowed into my life with no holds barred. Now, I'm left wondering if I am a fool or if Friend is just a psychopathic liar. Or both.

We haven't spoken in a while. Friend and I have been on again, off again for several years. Every time Friend has asked for forgiveness, I have given it.

I'm an idiot, I guess.

I know that Friend occasionally reads my blog. And if you do, Friend, I have this to say to you...

I gave you so many chances. Every time you got angry and disappeared, you would come back and I would forgive. And now, I find out that you lied about something really important that was totally unnecessary to lie about. And you continued to lie and twist things until I don't think you even remembered what the reality of the situation was.

I often wondered why you had so few close friends. Real friends. It's a shame, because I think deep down inside you're a great person. I just think you are so subconsciously desperate to have people think you're so great that you manipulate and twist the truth into your own distorted reality, no matter what the cost is to everyone around you.

I have given you chance after chance. No more. I am done.

Let's do the time warp, yeaaaaaah.....

There's nothing like being dragged kicking and screaming into a time warp at 5:30 on a Friday morning.

As I was scrolling through my Facebook feed this morning, I saw my ex-fiance Jody had friended some new people. One name looked kind of familiar, so I clicked on it and was suddenly transported back to 1989, and a seedy bar in Blacksburg, Virginia.

It was Dave. I had met Dave at a local bar called The Phoenix Club which was one of the few places underage students could go dance and get served at the bar with minimal hassle. Well, I never had an issue, which probably accounts for why I missed most of my classes in my second semester there. Ahem.

Dave was tall, with devastating dimples and blue eyes. The attraction between us was instantaneous. He was a second-year, I was a first-year, and we had absolutely nothing in common other than wanting to tear each others' clothes off. Which we did. A lot.

We did hang out a little bit outside of the dorm, but most of our quality time was spent rocking the loft in his room. It was silly and fun and honestly, I knew I would probably never see him again after the semester was over as he went to his home and I went...well, I didn't know where I was going to end up at that time. That's a long story for another time.

The last day before everyone packed up for the summer, I went over to his dorm room to say goodbye. He introduced me to two guys from my hometown, and as it would turn out within six months I'd be engaged to one of them.

Dave did send me a few letters that summer, written on lined notebook paper with a peculiar backhanded script. He was very funny and articulate and I started having thoughts that maybe, just maybe - he cared about me more than just a girl he spend few sweaty months with in his room in West A-J.

I didn't write back. By that time, I was on the downward spiral that would last the next two years of my life until I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. Plus, I decided in a brilliant moment to drop out of college. I knew I'd never see Dave again.

Well, not until 2011, at least.

He has an open profile so I took a few minutes to scroll through his pictures until I saw a few from college. The memories came flooding back - not only of him, but of the chaos that had enveloped my life there. Second semester was one of the most hellish experiences of my life, thanks to my psychotic roommate that would write threatening letters to me and made me scared to sleep in my own room. My nerves were such a wreck that I stopped eating and was 30 pounds lighter than I was when I left for school (which was already too thin). My grades tanked and I knew there was a good chance I was going to get kicked out of school.

As I see it now, Dave provided a safe haven away from all my problems back in Slusher Tower. He didn't care about all the roommate drama - not that he wasn't supportive, but really all he cared about was having fun and spending time with me. That's exactly what I needed at the time. Well, that and a safe place to sleep where I wasn't worried about my roommate smothering me in my sleep.

Years later, my fiance would tell me that Dave bragged about me to all his friends. "He said you were the best lay he'd ever had," he seethed, gritting his teeth. And you know, I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment considering most college guys think any sexual experience not involving a six-pack, a box of tissues and a bottle of lotion is the best.

That semester isn't something I've ever talked about much. It was painful, it was scary, and it was almost surreal. It was the end of my innocence and feeling like I could do anything. I was left an insecure, exhausted bag of bones. I still have nightmares from that time.

Today, for just a moment, I remembered the small glint of happiness that I had at that time. So if I ever see Dave - which could happen since he actually lives in our city - I'm going to have to find out a way to thank him for that. Hopefully that won't involve his wife punching me.

Of dog hair, Oreos, and kissing diseases

I have mono.

There, I said it. I've been sick for approximately....97 months? No, really, since mid-May. I finally went to the doctor at the end of May since I was sleeping about 20 hours a day and still feeling like shit, and that was the diagnosis.

If you're friends with me on Facebook, you've already had to endure daily updates and whining about it, so I'll spare you. I will say that I'm finally feeling better, thankyouverymuch. Better enough that I had copious cocktails last weekend and was feeling like my normal self.

How does one get mono as an adult? Well, I had it in middle school. Apparently every person has the virus dormant in their bodies, and if you've had it as a kid then if you get it again as an adult if you're under extreme stress. Which I can't believe anyone would categorize me as being highly stressed, what with my father dying and me hating my job and the current economic conditions and a nine-year-old going on twenty-nine. Oh, and crazy in-laws with a psychotic dog? And a good amount of friend drama to boot? Nope, not me.

On the good side, I caught up on all the sleep I've missed since 2001 and also got to watch a good amount of the Casey Anthony trial. I can honestly say that between the trial and the whole hanging chad fiasco, I will never move to Florida. NEVER.

Also, I've gotten to spend lots of time with the dogs. They are the funniest critters ever. Rufus is still his regular curmudgeonly self, and Nick is this goofy, loving lion-looking dog. The dog hair is driving me nuts, but that's what lint rollers are for. I won't go into the thousands of dollars in damage that Nick has inflicted on our beautiful master bathroom. I'll let you conjure that visual up yourselves.

I still love Oreos. Oreos also love me, since they won't leave my ass.

Missed y'all...

Head case

I must like to torture myself.

So while I'm trying to get my workout routine and diet under control (never mind the fact I just had a few Oreos), I decided that I should totally cut back on my Celexa. Oh, and get my period. Just call me Mega Bitch.

What was I thinking? Work is super stressful right now...like that is anything new. Plus recently I discovered through Site Meter that someone was looking at only my posts about work. That definitely set me on edge. I feel like I'm pretty vocal at work about my feelings and all that, so can't I just have my blog for my own private little venting session? I mean, I do change names to protect the innocent. And the guilty, for that matter.

So part of my insanity dribbled into my weekend. Anyone that knows me well knows that I despise amusement parks with the white hot passion of a thousand suns. I would rather have every hair on my body plucked one by one than go to one. In that spirit, Joey decided to buy season passes not only to Kings Dominion, but Busch Gardens and Water Country USA as well.

Kill me now.

Yesterday morning, when I was still recovering from Saturday's horrors of cleaning out my closet which was about 3-feet deep in shit and my two furry assistants were really not helping by dragging things in and out...Joey announced that he wanted to go to KD for the day. Say What? I immediately had a mini-meltdown because I wasn't prepared enough.

Prepared enough? What the hell? Yes, I apparently need an engraved invitation from the Queen to even consider darkening the portals of the amusement park. So I blubbered about it for a few minutes, with the bullet points of this whole meltdown being: I am tired. I am trying to cut back on my medicine. I have my period. RAAAAAAAWR!

I am such a girl sometimes.

We ended up going. And I had fun. I didn't ride many rides since I forgot to take any Dramamine, but I went. Sigh.

So if you run into me, and I seem a touch on edge, just remember:

I am tired

I am cutting back on my meds

I have my period

Throw some Oreos at me and run. Works like a charm.

Big butt

I've been in a bit of a funk this week, mostly because my butt has gotten huge. HUGE. As in, my "big girl" jeans don't even fit anymore.

The sad part is I have zero motivation to do anything about it other than bitch and whine. The bad part is my life depends on me taking care of myself.

In case you're new to this blog, over a year ago I found out that I have a rare genetic blood protein called elevated Lp(a), or Lipoprotein A. Basically, it acts like glue in your arteries and makes the average person more than 60% likely to have a heart attack or stroke even if your other blood numbers like LDL and HDL are fine. Lovely, huh?

I'm still completely aware that this time bomb is ticking in my veins. But yet I continue to eat crap and not exercise. Two years ago, I was as fit as I'd been since high school, working out, eating well. Now...not so much.

I just don't know how to pull myself out of this slump, other than not allowing myself to buy any new clothes. So if you see me, I will be in very tight underwear in one of the XXL t-shirts we have stashed away for me to use as nightshirts. And stilettos. Because no matter how big I get, I can still wear fantastic shoes.

The horse and the barn

Yesterday was school picture day. Monkey Man and I picked out a very simple outfit - light blue t-shirt and jeans with no holes in them. He wanted his hair combed by me for a change, which is a challenge in and of itself because his head is full of cowlicks...just like his mama's. Our hair is like a daily surprise - you never know what you're going to get.

In addition to Pose C (which was the least cheesy of the poses to choose from), they took a class photo. He was very excited about the class pose - I'm not sure if it was the chance to have the picture taken with his best bud Quentin, or the thought that just maybe he'd be next to his secret crush Mollie.

Side note: Apparently a "secret crush" isn't really secret with half of the third grade knows she likes you.

After the school day was over, we met Joey for an ungodly early dinner and then Monkey and I went to the local ice cream place to pick some up and take home. As we were standing outside waiting on our order, all of a sudden Monkey looks down and notices his zipper is down.

"The horse is out of the barn!" he yelped, pulling up his zipper.

"Huh. How long do you think your zipper has been down like that?"

"Um.....since after lunch.....and before the class picture....."

"Eh," I shrugged. "You're the tallest in the class, so I bet you were in the back, right?"

He nodded yes. "Then you're all good." I gave him a big hug.

I'm just waiting for either the call from the school or when the picture comes out. Class picture FAIL.

Afterlife

As I was surfing through my favorite blogs today, one in particular called out her favorite bloggers and in particular Amalah. I've never been a follower of that blog, even though it's one of the most popular ones on the interwebz. I followed the link, read a few posts, and felt the memories come flooding back.

Her father is dying of cancer.

I have really been missing my father lately. I can't help but think that since Nick was born exactly 4 months and a day after my father died, that somehow my dad had something to do with us getting such a sweet, sweet boy.

My dad was a total prankster, and absolutely adored dogs. When we moved back to Virginia back in 1997, a German Shepherd-mix was dropped off on the road by my parents' house and my dad ended up adopting him. Brutus was his best buddy for many years until he died of a heart attack while my parents were traveling in Europe. My dad was devastated and never, ever had another dog after that.

Fast forward to when we got Rufus. He has always been on the shy side, but when he growled at my dad and then my dad growled back, Rufus determined that Grandpa was not to be trusted. Thus began a dance between the two of them every time they were in the same room. Rufus would sidle up to my dad, getting juuuust close enough - my dad would attempt to pet him and Rufus would jump away, wagging his tail and grinning. The only time Dad was ever able to pet him was when Rufus was asleep.

My dad would absolutely adore Nick, not only because of his cuteness but also his sweet disposition. As a matter of fact, Nick is like my dad in dog form. Sweet, good natured, a little stubborn, and smart as hell. A deadly combination.

Last year was so draining. I adored my father to the ends of the earth. He was and is my hero. Watching his illness progress was one of the hardest things I've ever had to live through, if not the hardest thing. He was so brave, and faced death with a stoicism that I still admire to this day. He trusted in his God to hold him in his hand and guide him through his final days.

The last day he was truly lucid was July 31st, his 89th birthday. He suffered through his birthday party with our family and by the end was a total wreck from the pain. After that, they bumped up his medication and he remained in a haze for the next two weeks.

As I sat by his bedside that last week, I held his hands for hours while I traced every line, vein, and spot with my finger. He was completely lost in the clouds of painkillers, which only allowed him a few lucid moments each day and I treasured every second of them. I had already said everything that needed to be said, and heard him say everything that I needed to hear. There were only slow, steady motions of comfort left to offer. Smoothing his beautiful silver hair, giving him a manicure without him complaining about the ever present split nail on his index finger. Rubbing lotion onto his arms and hands. Giving him a nice, warm shave and brushing his teeth for him.

I wasn't there when he died. I had actually left work that day with the intention of driving down that night to see him, since we all knew it was getting close to the end. There were horrible thunderstorms though, and I decided to wait and leave in the morning. He died just before 11 PM that night.

After he was gone, my sister called me and could barely speak. When the phone rang, I knew it was all over. I laid in the dark for hours, with the tears coursing down my face with a mixture of sadness and relief. Peace had finally come. A peace he deserved.

There is a certain kinship that people share when they've lost a parent, no matter what age. You give each other that knowing look, the sympathetic nod, and you really get it. You realize that now you are the one to carry on the family traditions. You know that you can't pick up the phone and ask how to fix that broken window or for your favorite recipe. But you also know that although life as you knew it is gone, there is an afterlife of your own to be lived.

The last few days, I have been happier than I can remember being in a long time. Maybe it's springtime with the rebirth of life all around us. Maybe it's allowing myself to living again without being afraid to make plans for my life because of the unknown. Whatever it is, I'm happy it's here.

Going to the dogs

The last week or two has been a total whirlwind around here. Having a puppy is somewhat like having a newborn all over again, only babies don't usually piss on your carpet.

Honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. Nick is such a wonderful dog. Sweet, playful, snuggly, smart...I could go on and on about how great he is. Even Rufus is warming up to him slowly but surely. Yesterday, he actually kissed Nick a few times - and anyone that knows him will agree with me that Rufus is a Love Miser. He is notoriously stingy with love and it's a major deal if he gives anyone or anything a kiss. So I'm taking this as a positive sign, at least until I make sure he's not testing Nick to see how tasty he is.

One of the most interesting things about this experience is that I'm getting to know so many people through this. When we got Rufus, the breeder was in Maryland and an older lady who really wasn't the warm and fuzzy type. And really, she had sort of had Rufus dumped on her and didn't have a personal attachment to him at all.

I really wanted to avoid that experience this time, and lo and behold not only did I find Nick's grandmas Janet and Penni to be wonderful people, but a whole group of other corgi lovers who have been so welcoming and warm. I feel so, so lucky not only to have welcomed Nick into my life, but to have met so many great people is just the cherry on the sundae.

Mmmm...sundae.

Okay, refocusing! Anyway, there really hasn't been too much going on around here other than trying to make sure the dogs are acclimated and no one chews up too much stuff. Rufus has taken it as his personal mission to steal anything Nick shows an interest in and hide it...then Nick finds it and hides it...and Rufus finds it...and Nick finds it....

We have done a crapload of work in the yard. Last year, with my dad being sick and having to travel down to The Land that Time Forgot almost every weekend, the yard went to crap so we have a lot to do. It looks fantastic. Maybe even so fantastic that we will actually keep up with it when it's a million degrees outside. Actually, when that happens we will probably be painting the inside of the house, which needs some serious help. As of March 1st, we have been in the house six years and way beyond the life span of the paint. It's bad. If the dogs could hold paint rollers...

Introducing the new blog - starring Nick the Cardi!

I figured since the dogs are pretty entertaining on their own right, I didn't need to be riding on their coattails anymore.

Introducing our new blog - Nick the Cardi - International Man of Mystery!

http://nickthecardi.blogspot.com/

Feel free to link if you'd like. I'm hoping Nick's adventures will be entertaining to more than just me!

Mulch mania and puppy playdate

I must be insane to get a new puppy and have ten cubic yards of mulch delivered to my house in the same week.

Nick has settled in here really, really well. He is such a sweet boy, loves to snuggle but has no problem hanging out and chewing a bone or unraveling the umpteenth roll of toilet paper. He is very thankful that the hoomans in this house apparently are dumb as hell and keep refilling the rolls. Housebreaking is definitely going a lot better - we had one really bad day where I went to bed exhausted from cleaning up accident after accident and was really wondering what I was doing wrong. And since then, I've been way more diligent about keeping on top of taking him outside for walks and making sure I pay more attention to his signals. Much better!

But maybe I'm the one that is housebroken. If it works, you can call it whatever you want to.

We wore his little ass out today. The mulch was delivered yesterday, so we spent a few hours in the yard hauling mulch and spreading it. Up and back, up and back...then he slept for 3 hours. Then, off to Monkey Man's baseball practice so he could be loved up on by all the boys and their parents. After that, a quick drive-thru lunch and we went to Cat Door's house so Nick could play with their new miniature pinscher puppy Stony.

Stony, according to Nick, is the puppy from hell. He might only weigh three pounds, but he would do Flying Burrito Brothers jumps onto poor Nick's head, wrestle until Nick would finally stop playing Mr. Nice Guy...I think it was a good experience for both of them, not to mention that Cat Door and The Mrs. really loved Nick. They want to love Rufus too, but he says No Thank You. I was very pleased to see that Nick had very good manners and didn't try to eat Stony The Bossy but maybe twice the whole time. Considering Nick eats a bowl of food equal to the size of Stony for breakfast and dinner, I thought that was quite commendable.

Anyway, I am getting a new blog up and running purely just for Nick and his adventures. I got the template set up last night and hopefully will take it live tomorrow if I can squeeze it in with the other 27 things we have planned. Bringing Nick into this family has opened up such a new and wonderful world to me filled with new friends and new adventures, and I thought he deserved his own blog. Especially since he is running for President next time.

The yellow robe

As we return to the saga of Uncle Woodrow, when we left off my beloved Aunt Leola had just passed away. She was a very loyal and dedicated wife for many decades - and since they never had children of their own, they had each other and she doted on UW completely.

Without her, he was like a leaf caught in a storm. He was absolutely devastated, and would sit for hours weeping and wailing her name over and over again. My mother finally convinced him to go see his family doctor and despite his misgivings the doctor prescribed a little help for him.

Well, I think what he got was Zoloft, but they might as well have given him Viagra. He was a new man! Two months after my aunt passed away, my mother called me one night and declared that my uncle had gone insane.

"Your uncle, it seems, has decided that he's going to find himself a new wife!" said my mother. "And that's not all of it. He has grown a mustache." The disgust in her voice was barely disguised.

"A mustache? What in the world...."

"And that's not the worst part. He calls it...his tickler." She burst out laughing.

Seriously? His tickler? All these horrible visions came coursing through my brain until I lost all ability to speak.

Sure enough, when I went to see him the following weekend he had grown the worst looking pornstache I have ever, ever seen. Imagine, if you will, a balding grey-haired 80-something man with a ruddy face rocking a brown mustache somewhat reminiscent of Tom Selleck. It was simply put - horrible.

Oh, he was proud of it though. He believed that the ladies who were standing in line nightly to bring casseroles and various food offerings were just dying to be one-on-one with his Tickler.

Such wasn't the case, however. Everyone had loved my aunt so much that they continued paying their respects for months after the funeral. And my uncle, whom my aunt had kept so nattily dressed for years, had pretty much started looking pretty shabby. His typical outfit was a pair of stained pants, a rumpled shirt, hopefully a belt, and some holey shoes. Everyone felt sorry for the former preacher, so he was visited daily by groups of little old ladies from the church.

One day, however, the visits came to an abrupt halt. UW was completely befuddled. Where had all of his legions of female admirers gone?

Word slowly drifted back to my father through the neighborhood wags that apparently one day a carload of female admirers had come bearing gifts of Corningware loaded down with various casseroles surely involving cream-of-something-or-other soup. Dutifully, they filed up the front walkway and crowding onto the small concrete porch one of the ladies pushed the doorbell and they waited.

What came afterwards is something no man of the cloth would ever dream of doing. My uncle answered the door dressed in nothing but a short, yellow robe. Said robe was apparently a few inches short of covering his manhood.

Little Woodrow was out there for God and all of Creation to behold.

According to the neighbor, the casserole dishes were quickly deposited on the dining room table, and the women were so anxious to leave that they almost backed into the yard across the street.

Sadly, the endless parade of goodies came to an abrupt end, and eventually UW shaved off his Tickler. It wasn't working anymore.

I hate leftovers

As in leftover fried brain and exhaustion.

We rolled back in from Chattanooga this morning around 1 AM.

Nick finally fell asleep around 3 AM after howling in protest at his sleeping arrangement.

He slept in the guestroom bed with me.

I KNOW. I WILL LIVE TO REGRET IT.

I'm still feeling kind of foggy, and a little stressed out over trying to keep Rufus happy while this interloper has come into his home. It's about to worry Monkey Man to death because he wanted there to be rainbows and unicorns and two corgis holding paws and skipping into the sunset. Yeah, it will probably never happen, because corgis can't skip. Overall though, Rufus has exceeded our expectations for coexisting peacefully with Nick.

And Nick is just the sweetest, sweetest thing ever. I emailed Janet today to let her know how happy we are to have him.

Here's hoping to get some sleep, because I know tomorrow I'm going to actually have to have some brain cells available for my job.

Fried brain with a side of exhaustion

The last two days have kicked my rear end, so sorry for not getting to the second installment of the UW Saga. I promise it will be good, and I don't want to half-ass it.

Yesterday, I got an email from the Fortune 100 company that I applied with that I'm moving into the next phase of the process. After I regained my composure and changed my undies, I spent a few hours with my friend that recommended me for the position going over the job duties, the corporate lingo, and all that good stuff. My mind was absolutely on overload last night.

I also had to basically throw together an article on a recycling plant tour that I took, oh, back in the fall. The marketing department was nice enough to give me a few hours' notice (note heavy sarcasm) but overall the article turned out pretty nice. Well, except for the picture of my big fat butt on the Internet. Talk about an ego killer.

Today it was fixing accounting issues, returning subcontracts, and preparing to be gone after lunchtime tomorrow. This is the big weekend where we bring Nick home. I probably won't sleep a wink tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or Saturday night, but for a whole different reason since Nick will be alone for the first time in his little life.

So, since I feel a migraine aura circling my eyes, I'm going to bid you hasta lasagna.

Good old UW

My father had the most wonderful sister named Leola. No, no one seemed to know exactly where her name came from. But she was as kind and sweet as God makes them. I don't think in all the years that I knew her that she ever said a cross word about anyone.

Leola was a saint. Not only because she was so kind and giving, but because she was married to my uncle Woodrow.

Uncle Woodrow, or UW as we came to call him amongst the family later on, was one interesting character. He was raised very poor during the Great Depression, and like many others of his generation never lost that fear of losing everything. He had a few brothers, one of whom was a very successful businessman who convinced UW to go in on a deal he'd worked out on a little something that might make them a dime or two.

At that time, UW was working as a postman, so he really didn't have much money. But he took all that he had and invested it with his brother and ended up becoming a millionaire. They owned the first handful of Holiday Inn franchises in the state. Talk about dumb luck, huh?

At this point, UW gave up working as a postman and said he had the calling to become a minister. He turned out to be a fairly popular minister, no doubt largely in part to the fact that everyone adored my aunt Leola. If the church doors were open, she was there. If you were sick or had a death in the family, she was there. Everyone loved her.

Now, what y'all have to realize is that no one in my family knew that they were wealthy. As a matter of fact, they lived extremely frugally - so frugally that it made us almost sick to our stomachs later on after my aunt died. But I'll get to that in a bit.

He had some odd quirks that we still laugh about, one particular one being that he refused to let the postman deliver the mail to his house and had a post office box instead. Why, you ask? Because he thought the postman would try and steal his mail and all of his stock dividend checks that came in. Kind of ironic for someone who had been a postman himself, no?

My aunt got breast cancer and went through all the treatments - went into remission and then almost five years to the day after she went into remission she was diagnosed with lung cancer. She decided not to undergo treatments because the chemo from the first diagnosis was so horrible she said she'd rather die with dignity than fight something that was a losing battle. My sweet aunt died three months after I got married.

UW fell apart. Little did we know how much he had relied on my aunt for everything...and I mean everything. Every morning before he got up, she would go out and get his newspaper, cook him a full breakfast, and have it all ready for him. She took care of all of his clothes, the housekeeping, everything but the money and bills. That was purely his domain, and probably because he considered it "man's work" versus washing clothes which would definitely "women's work" in his eyes.

On her deathbed, Leola had asked my father to watch out for her "Woody" and take care of him. Sure, my father said. Poor guy. He had no idea of the mayhem that would occupy the next few years of his life. See, UW was in bad health when my aunt died - and he was so devoted to her that we figured he would be in a downhill race against time to the Pearly Gates.

Um, yeah, not so much.

*****

Next time, part 2 of the story. Y'all are gonna love this one.

The aftermath

How many teaspoons can two grown adults use in barely 24 hours?

If you're my in-laws, the answer is 16. SIXTEEN. Considering that their menu consisted of chicken nuggets, tater tots, and Hamburger Helper, I have no idea how they used that many spoons.

Monkey Man has decided that they suck because they apparently ate all his Chewy Chips Ahoy cookies last night after he went to bed.

Rufus thinks they suck because they wouldn't give him any table scraps and my father-in-law is always trying to pet him. At this point, I think Rufus enjoys torturing my father-in-law by sitting *just* beyond his reach and then scooting away as my father-in-law inches closer. He doesn't move very quickly so it gives Rufus ample opportunity to scootch a few inches and then look back with a shit-eating grin.

*****

The wine expo was fun, but damn was it crowded. We noticed a definite lack in staffing at each of the booths, so the people weren't flowing through the expo as smoothly as they did last year. After about four hours fighting the crowds only to get small sips of wine, we ended up back at the hotel bar having drinks and a few appetizers. I think next year we'll try the Friday night event - the cost is steep, but the crowd is much smaller and you actually get to taste the wine versus standing in a crowd 20-deep and hoping to get a small dribble in your glass.

We met downstairs in the lobby to go out to dinner and soon discovered that a new sport could be "Drunk Walking Through the Marriott Lobby". The women were hilarious...teetering dangerously in heels, usually carrying a few boxes of wine and they would teeter dangerously as they wove toward the elevators. Watch out for that.....corner.....aw, another one down!

Dinner at Juleps was amazing as usual. We took a short walk down to Havana '59 for a nightcap and ended up back at the hotel just in time to catch the Hokies' upset of #1 Duke. There were a lot of happy and unhappy people in the hotel bar. We ended up heading to the room with plans of an early checkout so we could get home at a decent hour.

Sleep was elusive, to say the least. We had a wedding party staying on our hall - they showed up loud and drunk around 11:30 and mercifully only changed clothes and banged doors a few times before they disappeared again. I never heard them come back.

What did happen was the worst case of heartburn and acid reflux ever. The only thing that kept me from throwing up was the thought of losing that wonderful dinner to the sewer system of Richmond. Especially after daydreaming about Bananas Foster for the past two months. Oh, but I was miserable...I think I finally fell into a restful sleep around 4 AM when I configured some pillows to elevate my head and therefore keep the acid located somewhere right above my heart.

As it turned out, I know Joey and our friends Wendi and Gerry also had the same issue last night. Was it mixing the wine and liquor? I thought it was beer then liquor, never sicker...where does wine factor in to all that? Unhhhh.

We got home to find my in-laws ensconced at the kitchen table. Father-in-law was airing out his arm - apparently he fell out of the chair in their living room and banged up his arm and he is allergic to Neosporin, but instead of calling the doctor to see what he could use he proceeded to put his own home remedies all over his arm and made it worse.

Did I ever tell y'all about their dog Odie? Poor Odie was a chocolate lab and the sweetest dog. Well, he got some kind of spot on his tail that I think was probably a spider bite. My father-in-law's mother was some kind of country "doctor" or medicine woman I guess, and she had taught him how to mix up all kinds of salves and stuff to cure everything. He mixed up a batch of this horrid looking yellow gunk and liberally applied it to poor Odie's tail.

His tail fell off, and then Odie died.

I have made Joey swear to me that he will never, EVER let my father-in-law apply any sort of potion, lotion, salve, or cure to anyone in our immediate family.

Odie, dude, I'm sorry you had to take the bullet for the team, but I don't want my tail falling off.