Abby, our little lamb

She quietly lived while we busied ourselves around her. She loved to be relaxed, running did not come naturally. She preferred to stand tucked away in the woods watching safely from a distance when the gas man came to fill the tank. She wasn't especially lady-like, but she wasn't particularly sloppy either. She wasn't loud, demanding or moody. She was content. She was Abby, our Golden Retriever, and today she passed away.

My parents brought her home 14 years ago and she smelled like a barn. Her coat was the color of fall leaves. Her fur wasn't long and shiny like the Goldens on TV, instead it was kinda fuzzy like a teddy bear. After her first bath my mom wrapped her in a beach towel and she fell asleep like that in my arms. Mom named her Abby.

Our previous beloved Golden named Katie had recently passed on, and Katie lived for tennis balls. Fetch never ended for her, it only had intermissions. So naturally we bought Abby tennis balls, too. It was not for her. Abby preferred, even from a young age, to nap.

And so she grew, living a slow, peaceful existence all the while probably confused what the fuss was all about with the rest of us. My parents joked that she was like a sundial, moving her napping location as the sun moved around the house. Never a vain dog, she had no qualms about warming her exposed belly in the middle of our driveway.

When Abby was about 6 or 7 years old my parents went to Hawaii on vacation. I was told to take her to the groomers to get her first haircut because she was looking less like a teddy bear and more like a molting buffalo. So I dropped her off for a new 'do. Later that day, a nice lady smiled when I asked where my dog was, then gestured to the animal at the end of her leash. I was in shock, then I laughed until I couldn't laugh anymore. Abby, the russet haired chubby dog was gone and in her place was a thinner, platinum blonde animal with a disproportionately large, dark head, dark shins and feet. She had been given a crew cut, her long hair was now a 5 o'clock shadow. She looked, quite literally, like a lamb. I choked through gasps of laughter as I called my parents to tell them what they now had. It wasn't until they arrived home, got out of the car and Abby trotted to greet them that my dad fully understood how funny it really was. A bit chilly from the lack of coat, she spent the following spring sunbathing as on her back, legs spread. From then on we would call her "Little Lamb" every time she went back to the groomers.

Abby patiently tolerated, and maybe even grew to love Pencil. Pencil is my parents (and once mine) spunky,bossy, full-of-it Jack Russel Terrier. They would sleep together in the garage in the summer and spend days together in the dog house. Pencil would bounce off of poor Abby when she was excited, which was often, but Abby would just look at you with a face that said, "What is with this dog?"

Mom told me Pencil is a bit confused today, and is looking for that large lazy girl that was a good friend to her and a good sleeping buddy. Eventually she'll move on, but today she waits anxiously by the door for Abby to come inside. I think I feel the same way. I know someday I will smile and be grateful she was in all of our lives, but today I'm like a confused Pencil, waiting for Abby to come awkwardly galloping home, and missing her.

I love you Abby. You were a good, good dog.

Krazy Tok

Yesterday I was sitting in Victors office going over the winning candidates from Tuesday's election. I noticed one local guy who was elected some small-town such and such position ran with his name listed as Lawrence "Larry" Wilkins.

Really? You needed to include your nickname in quotes?

This drives me nuts. Like a law firm sign I once saw above a door, his professional place of business, it read: Michael "Mike" Brown, esq.

Again, REALLY?

I picture walking in that law office on with a neck brace from a recent car accident and asking for Michael Brown and getting a blank stare.

"I...don't know who you mean...Oh! Do you mean 'Mike'?"

C'mon.

It's just as irritating as the intentionally misspelled stores. Kwik Wash. Whhhyyyy..... Why is it 'Kwik' with a 'Kw'? I asked Bryan this once and he actually replied that maybe it was because those letters were cheaper.

Or Pic N' Sav. Really? Every word? Is your target demographic only able to read phonetically?

I love you, Kool Kone, you know I do. But honestly. The taste of your onion rings only barely, just barely covers the distaste of the unnecessary K.

I got a bone to Pic N' Komplain about.

-Carrie "Carrie" Beatrice

Laura & Bryant!!! So proud of you.

I had just finished my lazy first cup of coffee this Sunday morning when I heard the intro to Won't Get Fooled Again by The Who chiming somewhere in my house. When I finally found my phone and silenced the ringtone, I realized I had just missed a call from my sister-in-law. Crap! I thought to myself, I hardly ever get the chance to catch up with her, and I quickly called her back.

Laura and her husband Bryant had recently spent six months doing -what I believe is called 'hiking'- the Appalachian Trail. They posted beautiful pictures of their experiences, but I was confused by the overwhelming amount of trees and overall lack of amenities. I have been told, though this must be a paraphrase of some sort, that they slept in the woods. As in, on the forest floor. For months. On purpose. I initially assumed they must have been lost, but no one seemed to search for their whereabouts, almost to the point they assessed their situation without concern.

Puzzled, I played along so as not to arouse suspicion. If I was the only one who thought six months without sitting in a jetted tub and a glass or three of Chardonnay was normal...well then, I would play my cards close to my chest. But THEN, things got even stranger.

I was told that after six months walking burdened with heavy packs and enduring something called 'blisters', they did not immediately locate a medic and/or cocktail lounge. Apparently there is a place in West Virginia where there is a river riddled with dangerous currents and boulders. That's not all. People pay Laura and Bryant to take them down this cold, wet death trap on-get this-a rubber flotation device. I get upset when it rains and my patio furniture gets damp. This is beyond my understanding.

So, this morning I flip through my decorating magazine and listen in shock as she happily tells me they are NOW leaving for a month to navigate the Grand Canyon. I am hesitant to tell her that I am pretty sure this area has previously been located by an explorer of some sort and there is no need to do this, but she seems unfazed. I mean, I have never been to this area, but I have seen it on my Hi-def flat screen and it is SO lifelike! I don't even have to leave the comfort of my sectional! Maybe I will tell her that when they come into town. She'll probably feel so foolish she didn't think of it first.

I am so looking forward to seeing them. They must miss easily accessible shopping plazas and food you can purchase while sitting in your car. They will probably immediately want to know what has been happening on Fox News.

I tell her we all miss them, and we're all doing well. The weather? Not sure, I say. But our air-conditioning has been nice. Yesterday? Oh, I went to greet Taylor as she finished her first 'Marathon'. It turns out this isn't the type of marathon where they show a whole day's worth of your favorite reality TV program, she RAN for 26 miles. I tell Laura I am going to lend Taylor money for gas. Poor girl. I have got to tell these poor misled women about buttery Chardonnay, they'll thank me.

Momma told me there'd be days like this.

Remember when your mom could not say one thing right? Yes, I'm talking about those ugly, ugly teen years. When my mom would speak, the Earth's rotation would shift due to the exaggerated rolling of my eyes.
"I KNOW." I would say, before she could finish her sentence.
Nowadays, those little gems she gave bounce around in my brain and get passed on to anyone who will listen. She's pretty smart with the life stuff, my mom. And the stuff that doesn't really make sense still, well I'm sure it will someday. Here are my top ten:

10: Buy the good bed linens. Turns out if you skimp on the thread count or buy something called a 'blend', it can feel like rubbing dryer sheets on your bare behind.
9: Moisturize your neck, for Gods sake. Wrinkles will appear in the most bizarre places if you give it a few years. Your neck is one of them, and you don't want to look like a Basset Hound.
8. Honesty really is the best of all policies. I once saw my mother drive back to the gas station to return change she was mistakenly given. When you're 13, you have no money and giving back free cash is insane. When you're 33, you worry about going to Hell.
7. Give, give, give. My mother gives her time so selflessly, her thoughtfulness so earnestly, and her gifts so sincerely. Yeah, some people don't care, don't appreciate, don't reciprocate. Never stopped her. Give now, forgive now, and leave the grudges for someone else. Life's just too damn short.
8. Marriage is a compromise. Big one. "Sometimes it's 50/50, but not often. Most of the time it's 70/30 or 80/20. There are times it's going to be 100/0. Point is, you don't always get your way, but every once in a while, you will."
6. Wait until someone gets up, then ask for more wine. This used to drive me crazy. Before I could drink. Now I echo the long-crafted skill of my mother by curling up in my comfy chair and holding up my empty glass like the Statue of Liberty. (clause: repay with a kiss or a compliment.)
5. Clap when you are excited. She will stand next to me absorbed in conversation, then abruptly clap and exclaim, "Ooooooo! You're here! I'm so excited!" If her moods are an open book, then the best stories are the ones with the clapping.
4. "Don't get your panties in a bunch." Yep, panties all bunched are no fun, she was right. Un-bunch those knickers and just relax.
3. Fall in love forever, not just in the beginning. It used to make me gag, but my mom and dad set the most stellar example for love. Not nauseating, in your face, or a facade. Just real, honest, sometimes we fight but you still make me giggle (and clap) love. Over 40 years of a prime example can really set a kid up for success.
2. Learn how to sew a button, stitch a tear, prune a plant, make 'hospital corners', cook a decent meal, paint a room, decorate a home, and still be utterly, fabulously un-domestic. Enough said. She's still herself, she's nobody's housewife, but she's got mad skills. Thanks for the lessons, mom.
1. Most everything can be solved by Advil or Chardonnay. Or on a bad day, both. I used to tease her for her Costco supply of both these household items, now I see the light.

If you can come up with a list of things your mom did for you, no matter how small, tell her. I promise you she'll appreciate it. She may even clap.

I'll give you an answer, just not a correct one.

I should be examined by National Geographic on one of those medical mystery dramas. The ones where I am interviewed in a dimly lit room punctuated by moments of a dramatic reenactment. My character would be portrayed by a rarely-used actress, like Kelly from Life Goes On or something. So there's Kelly, playing "Carrie", and she is shown in a work environment. A nearby coworker casually muses to herself about the origins of the blue jean. There is no need for a response, but "Carrie" confidently states, "Oh, I think jeans come from the mid-western farmers who needed sturdier clothes to work the fields."

"Sadly, this is a common event in the life of Carrie," the narrator interjects. "She suffers from a genetic disorder. A disorder passed down from her mother, and her mother's sister, Diane. Carrie feels the need to give inaccurate information and pass it off as a statement of fact."

It's true. I have the affliction I spent years accusing my mother of having. I once listened to my mother and Diane talk at length about a field of crops we had passed by driving on a country road in Texas. They had not only come to the conclusion-quite quickly- that it was asparagus, but had also agreed that asparagus was the main export of Fredericksburg. I endured this nonsensical chatter for as long as I could stand before I had to be the voice of reason.

"Not only is that not asparagus, neither of you have any experience whatsoever in the field of agriculture. You are a realtor, and you are a banker. And that is hay. Not asparagus, hay. And you really should also know that the American Alligator is not a native species here. Really a non-issue. Too bad that guy on the plane is now sadly misinformed for life."

And now, coworkers give me the same sympathetic look of false encouragement you would give a three-year-old who thinks they're a great artist. I will hear myself tell Taylor that you should apply ice to sore muscles after running, and then there will be a long pause between us. Because I don't run, Taylor is training for a marathon, and she is too nice to point out my massively ill-informed 'knowledge'.

"I'm talking out my rear end, again." I concede.

"You are. That's okay."

I don't know the name of the pine tree in Florida we once saw, but Mom, Diane and I all agree it is a "Princess Pine". I don't even know if that's a real type of tree. I don't know that the blue jean actually originated in 17th century France in the town of Nimes, but it doesn't stop me from answering. It's like I can hear the nonsense leave my mouth, and think, hmm..there is a 25% chance that is a real answer...

Just be prepared. If you are ever in a room with me, my mother, or my aunt, that you should keep an open mind and have access to Google. Because you most likely just got fed a whole lot of nonsense.

Whaevah, guy.

I live in Texas now, have for six years. It's easy to forget how frickin awesome a Worcester accent is, guy.

Let me school ya if you don't get it. Worcester, (pronounced Wuh-stah) is a city about 45 minutes west of Boston and has a slightly different affliction accompanied by a particular mannerism. Think Good Will Hunting meets a six-pack of Natty Light and a rowdy Pats fan.

I associate this little walk down Shrewsbury Street memory lane with some good times. About a minute after they got married, Aimee and Joey graciously allowed me to live with them in their home near Worcester like a displaced foster child. We all just graduated college together, and to repay them I helped them paint and drink their beer.

Joey taught me all about Dr. Dre and the Beastie Boys, and I listened to them-on cassette-in my mint green '87 Olds Cutless Ciera. Aim showed me how to clip coupons for the Big Y and how not to cook like a college student. We were like a mini-family, and they let me hang out with all their hometown buddies.

One day, Aim brought me to see Joey in his softball league. I was probably wearing stonewashed jeans and a Champion sweatshirt it was so long ago. Anyways, we're hanging by the chain-link fence in the middle of this grimy city at a small park and-hand to God-someone yells,

"Hey guy, ah bet you a handle of Captain Moh-gins you can't hit one frickin pitch, guy."
And someone answered, "Whatevah, guy, you can't even hold a frickin bat without puttin down yoah frickin beah. Frickin homo."

I miss berating your close friends with every disparaging comment you can arrange into a single phrase. In Texas, the conversing would have gone as follows:

"Hey, good luck! You're doing well."
"Thanks, you too."

Just leaves something to be desired. So for all yous back home tailgating a Pats game or kicking the living crap out of your piece of s**t snowblower this winter so you can get a beah at The Dive, I'm thinkin of ya. You frickin loosah.

Civilized lies

Oh, politeness. It's so...restricting. I am civilized, refined, and respectful. And a liar. Here are a few things I have thought about strangers that I would have very much like to have shared but didn't.

1. "Sir, I can see your nipples through your shirt. Because it's mesh. It's a mesh shirt. And you're in the grocery store. In the frozen food section."

2. "Can I tour your home? I just want to see the inside and go through all of your personal belongings."

3. "You remind me of Santa Claus. But thinner, taller, and with less of a heavy red furry overcoat."

4. "I only wanted a short answer when I asked how you are doing. I kinda just want to pay for this and leave."

5. "Why aren't you two talking to each other? Are you fighting? What are you fighting over? Why would you come here and not talk at all? It's so odd. Would you recommend that spinach dip you are sharing? Are you mad about the spinach dip?"

6. "I know that you are judging me as you silently stare. I can feel your cloak of judgement. Well, I will see your cloak and I will raise you a poncho. How does my poncho of disgust feel? Heavy? Not so fun, is it?"

7. "What life choices brought you to own so many broken automobiles?"

8. "Will you give me some of your money? You have quite and bit and I would like to be wealthy. Thank you."

9. "I need for you to pause in conversation so I can leave without feeling awkward."

10. "I think your dog is kind of a slut."

Hey, what you did is pretty cool. Thanks.

I had a lovely dinner last night with an old friend who had just returned from Afghanistan. Upon returning from war, after kissing his wife and baby at the airport, my buddy Armando bought an ultra-fancy cell phone and filled it with Star Wars ring tones.

So here I am sharing sweet potato fries with him and listening to sound bytes of Hans Solo, and just days before he was surrounded by God knows what. I can only imagine. I can only imagine because we don't talk about Afghan weather, the sights, or marvel over souvenirs. There was no excited anticipation over all his stories of the things he had witnessed. I mean, it wasn't a holiday in St. Tropez. He does mention the food, saying it was pretty good after you got over the initial digestive problems that inevitably wreaked havoc on your stomach.

The conversation turns to my sister-in-law and her husband, who just finished hiking the Appalachian trail. They hiked from Georgia to Maine, I believe the technical term is a bazillion miles. They were hard on their bodies, worked happily to achieve this dream, and encountered way too many insects than I would care to think about. They have a blog filled with beautiful scenery, many followers that hang on every update, and inspiring stories to share to many willing ears.

As we are sitting in the restaurant last night, it occurred to me how different the reactions are to these two stories. One man, a new father, in a war zone for a year. Another, a married couple hiking for six months. Both elected these paths, both now home after some time away from loved ones. But Armando's has no fanfare, no happy photos, no blog followers. He just quietly rejoined life, content to compare cell phone apps and watch the Cowboys in a pre-season game.

I feel a twinge of injustice, feeling he should get as much hoopla. Maybe even... a bit guilty at how much fervor I myself have chatted about the hikers and how many people have asked me about their journey. Don't get me wrong, I am so proud of those nature-loving nuts. I think my point is, I didn't want a less beautiful and exotic journey to go without recognition. What do the kids say these days? I want to give Armando a"shout out", if you will. And tell him he makes Hans Solo look like a sissy.

At the restaurant his wife happily chats next to me, his parents coo over the baby, the men stare at the Dallas game on the flat screen. War is a long way away, I suppose, and I stare at my salad suddenly overwhelmed with gratefulness. I have a grandfather, dad, brother-in-law, husband, cousin and many more who have served this country and I am infinitely grateful. Every day they are a hero to me. I thank God for their safe return. And I guess I just wanted to take a minute to remind everyone to put your focus into perspective. Just to take a moment to thank them, to be a bit excited they serve our country. It's kind of a big deal.

You Must Be This Tall to Be This Crazy

Today the top news on my home page was some 3 year-old who could recite a poem. Even with the distraction of toys. Uh...ok... I mean, sure, he's cute, but yesterday I managed to find the shut-off valve for the hot water under the sink and no one put my face on the web. And guess what else I can do? Use a toilet. Take that, 3-year old poem reader.

Is it wrong to compare skills with a toddler? Hey, if it's wrong to be proud of years of independent accomplishments and put them side-by-side with a small child to make myself appear infinitely superior, then I don't wanna be right.

Oddly, I have several comparisons to the contrary. After over 30 years of life, I have yet to master not falling down. It seems like I should have gained better bipedal skills...No matter. And I sometimes cry when I need a nap. But at least I don't have a sippy cup. My Chardonnay is served to me in a shatter-proof plastic stem glass. (I may have dropped one or two glass ones in the past, and this seems to bypass the messy cleanup.)

Just this morning when Bryan and I were cleaning the garage and I cut my finger, I didn't cry for my mommy. I hyperventilated and made a sound similar to an injured Ostrich until my husband put a bandage on it. I'm a grown up. I have a garage. What do you have? Elmo? He's a puppet.

So, little toddler, next time you recite a poem, or-alert the Pulitzer Committee-the alphabet, remember this: I don't have a lisp. And my pants don't have snaps in the crotch. I may already know less than you about using anything invented by Steve Jobs, but I can go on a roller coaster. I won't, because they scare me, but I could if I wanted to.

Little poem-reading boy, you have the heart of America right now. I encourage you to live in this moment. Reading a whole poem is an impressive accomplishment for a baby. Bet you wish you could read Twilight. I can. Twice. Okay, more than that. Maybe not the best use of my time. Whatever, the point is Elmo is a moron and Edward Cullen is awesome. And I am an adult...right?

Two tickets to life, please.

"Soul Mate." The very phrase evokes images of Hillary Duff or Zack Efron in some horrible teen film where two star-crossed lovers are juxtaposed in an unfair situation yet still have blindingly white teeth and $650 pumps.

"Love takes work and intention, not fairy dust." My married friend remarked the other day. She was tired of the implication that it's all rose petals and embraces. I have to agree. I mean, the term "Soul Mate" sounds more to me like a coffee creamer for jive people than anything. Jerry Maguire may have uttered the phrase, "you complete me" for all hopeless romantics to cling to, but that begs the question, was I incomplete before?

If you answered yes and believe yourself on a higher plane of romance, then congratulations, you are a codependent with low self-esteem. Stop griping, hopeless romantics, it's just that a healthy relationship actually takes two whole individuals. We have been trained to believe that you are in a greater state of love if you constantly dramatically position yourself as the other's savior. Otherwise, you're just a sub-plot.

Every Hallmark card involving an anniversary gushes about the timeless romance that still is burning. It doesn't say, "Next year could you please not voice your idea to change careers at the same moment I am crying about a large financial obligation? Thanks, your loving wife."

I'm not saying there isn't romance, or even overwhelming love. Of course there is. It should go without saying, but I feel the need to drive this point home- it's not a movie out there, people. I am not going to get a letter saying I am the lost heir to a crown and now have the hilariously awkward task of learning royal etiquette which catches the eye of a prince that looks remarkably similar to an Abercrombie model. Love ensues, credits roll.

Many movies, though some better written, have this basic idea. The chase, the romance, the falling for someone. They rarely show the long, sometimes hard, sometimes boring 40 years or more of marriage. Maybe that's why people so easily give up and the divorce rate is so high. They don't know what to do past the initial excitement.

Love isn't an emotion, it's an action. You choose to love someone past the rolling credits. Yeah, my life movie has those first kiss, awkward first-date tension memories with Bryan, sure. But the best part of the movie isn't the initial attraction, the dating, or even the wedding. The best parts are the ones where you truly get to know all the aspects of someone. Moments that are ugly, hilarious, embarrassing, and so rewarding. Moments that would send Hillary Duff running in the other direction, but you stay. Not because that was how some cosmic fate decided it, but because you choose it.

I could say that Bryan is my "Soul Mate" and some people would sigh and smile. But I want to give him more credit than that. He chose his wife, continues to choose me every day, and damn, he has good taste.

Happy, Sleepy and Grumpy

"The early bird gets the worm!"

"Rise and shine!"

"I'm a morning person!"

These and other obnoxious sayings are meant to belittle and shun the-gasp-people who like to sleep.

When I was a little girl, I never argued about naptime. As a teenager, I slept an alarming amount. Now, as an adult, I relish the velvet luxury that is slumber. Yes, I said it. I like to sleep.

It seems a popular bragging point with Morning People to casually mention how early they arose. Whether they have triplets, like to paint the sunrise, or just prefer to trek to Guatemala to pick their coffee beans for the most sensationally perfect cup of coffee ever, they love to let you know.

Morning people will often start with a comment like, "I just love the way the morning sun relaxes me." You know what relaxes me? Unconsciousness. And then they will respond with something extremely passive aggressive, like, "Hm. I wish I could sleep in, I just have far too much to do! Gosh, it must be so nice." It is nice. Now, I'd love to stay and chat about the afghan you knitted at 5:30, but I need to take a nap.

My father is one of the belittling morning people. He has never shown an interest in music, but during my visits he will often assemble a seven-piece orchestra at six in the morning. When I emerge from my room disguised as a rabid Yeti ready to tear his face off, he looks at me blankly and explains he is merely loading the dishwasher. Then he will shake his head in disgust and prepare the slew of disparaging comments he will present when I emerge at (the nerve!) nine. Such little gems like, "Thanks for joining us, finally." And my personal favorite, "half the day is gone!" Apparently, what Morning People make up for in excess chores, they lack in math.

My sleeping schedule seems to just be nails on a chalkboard to Morning People. My work schedule is compliant, my husband has learned to deal, nothing suffers as I peacefully dream. So, early bird, go catch your worm. I'm the Late Bird. I ate your worm last night with a glass of Chardonnay. And, oh, yeah, it was buttery.

Shiny and New

I woke up and stared in the mirror, reflecting. Reflecting on my reflection. Moments later the reflection showed Bryan's puzzled face passing behind me as I plucked gray hairs out of my head with a pair of tweezers. The same puzzled face that would tell me, "Six..." when I asked what time we were going over to his parents for dinner while my lips were covered in white exfoliating cream.

A reflection. Besides the myriad of overwhelming evidence against the contrary, it actually is whats on the inside that counts. Why is that so hard to remember? Outside of normal hygiene maintenance, I force myself to undergo the gauntlet of feminine beauty products. Creams, scrubs, scrubby creams. Despite the smell of melon, ginger and dead skin cells, I usually come out the same.

I constantly subject myself to criticisms of those who aren't the people who love me, or have even met me. Their unheard voice echoing just loud enough to drown out my husbands loving gaze. While he is telling me the almond chicken I made is actually kinda good, I see visions of Crest Whitening Strips. He laughs at my dry humor and I wonder about abs and glutes and how to get them 'rock hard', as that seems to be the most desirable way to have abs and glutes.

While I reflect on these things, I find myself saying a little prayer for the girls that face the endless struggle to be polished, waxed, tanned, taut, shiny and new. The world may not catch on, but the quest for visual acceptance of strangers is really unrewarding. And while my glutes may never, ever, be 'rock hard', I know my support system will be. And that, God willing, will be the reflection I will try to convey to the many beautiful women in my life.

Oh, brother

Last year my parents celebrated 40 years of marriage, and they are still blissfully in love. Likewise, my two older brothers are with their respective wives, and I with Bryan. Our happiness can only reflect the example set for us during our upbringing. Which, is why, our happiness is such an anomaly.

Every night, our family gathered 'round the table for dinner. We sat in the same seats every time, and followed, for the most part, our nightly routine.

I would stare at my glass of milk dreading the eventual point in the meal I would be asked to drink it or I could not leave the table. It would be close to room temperature at that point, making the task all the more revolting. My mother would yell to the top of the stairs for my oldest sibling to get out of the bathroom and join the family, now please.

"Hey Carrie,"

I glare at Matt, knowing what he would say. He said it every night.

"Hey Carrie,"

"WHAT."

"Mom hates you. You were left on the doorstep by gypsies." Patrick joins Matt by laughing until his milk almost escaped through his nose.

I grin, "The government paid Mom to take you. No one else wanted you."

My mother would sigh, "Stop that. Carrie, you eat like a bird. Finish your broccoli."

The meal would continue with more accusations of alien abductions, forced adoptions, and intentions of our parents to sell us. I had no bones, only thick skin, and my teachers were secretly demons sent to invade my soul. This illustrious nightly education was our routine.

While my mother was horrified by our unending sarcasm, announcing it was 'rampant in this family' often, my father chuckled along with us. He, like us, showed affection through merciless teasing and dry, dry humor.

At the end of the meal my mother would accuse my father of trying to kill us through expired mayonnaise, to which he would agree that was the most effective tool. Us three kids would laugh at my mother's expense and she would throw her napkin down and announce "I quit." She quit her job as our family leader nightly, but always managed to get promptly re-hired before Jeopardy began.

These days when I have dinner with my in-laws, my father-in-law will raise his glass in a toast.

"I'd like to thank my lovely new daughter for being such a blessing in our lives." And I will stare at him blankly, waiting for the punchline.

Recently one night I rang up my parents at their home and my brother answered, he was visiting from out of town. We caught up a bit, talking about our jobs, our houses, and movies we think are hysterical. The conversation winds down and he asks if I want to talk to Mom. Yeah, sounds good, I say.

"One more thing," he says, "Carrie, Mom hates you."

Smiling, I respond, "Love you too, Matt."

Back in Black

Love. The true measure of happiness. Though we may not all admit it, we all need it. Today I have come to understand that one has never felt unconditional love until you have had someone pick you up by the armpits and steady you as you painfully grimace your way to the bathroom.

Many, many years have come and gone with many, many trips to the Emergency Room. The uncanny ability I have to injure and render parts of my body unusable has not waned in my grown-up years. And so the tradition continues as I made the regrettable decision to wash both of my dogs on the 4th of July.

I had the distinct warning sign that this was a bad idea as I finished with Hannah and the unbending of my back resembled the opening of an rusty lawn chair from my grandma's shed. But my mind, the traitor it is, told me "No! Ignore that, Carrie! That feeling is the goodness of summer!"

By the time I finished washing Indie I looked like Gollum from Lord of the Rings. My back a twisted, bent, lurching cousin of its' former self. Now I sit bedridden, unable to retrieve my hair tie, thinking about the ring around the tub I can't clean, and wishing the sweater I had begun to take off to offset the air-conditioning I couldn't reach wasn't now stuck at an awkward mid-way point.

My appreciation for bending has grown over the past two days, as has mobile communication. When I need to put on pair of socks, I can text Bryan in the living room. To which after several more texts and a phone call, he comes promptly blundering in the room saying "I'm awake! I'm awake!" Then mumbles with confusion when I am not bleeding.

Nonetheless, he is a Godsend. He helped me get up when I needed to, sympathetically furrowed his brow when I cried, brought me Advil and put socks on my feet. All the while I was awkward to move around, frustratingly weepy, and a bit melodramatic. And now, after all that, Bryan has two clean dogs and a wife unable to bathe herself.

Love makes you do crazy things, that's how the saying goes.

But in this house, love makes you do things for the crazy.

First Woman of the Cabinet

I like to think that cleanliness is not Godliness, but more akin to sanity and reasonable public scrutiny. You never want to be caught with toilet rings or lumpy pillows. Metal bed frames deserve, and should receive, a bed skirt. And books should be ordered by collection, not size. I mean, c’mon, there is no sense behind placing The Truth About Chuck Norris next to The History of Ephesians. But still my college of thinking is not always widely received. What I refer to as “decorating” others call “obsessive compulsive disorder.”

If you were to peek into my pantry, you would notice that, if I can help it, all my labels face outward. Why not? If a label was created by a reputable ad firm, and it looks so nice in the grocery store, it should be viewed as such in my home. Am I too busy to worry about such things? To take 2 seconds to spin a can of Campbells in the right direction? Embarrassingly, no. But I like to make sure that all items in the kitchen cupboards are attractive and well-maintained. Wine glasses, highball glasses, champagne flutes, flatware, china, tortilla chips, etc. Sue me. (You could, in fact, likely litigate this matter in a more liberal Southern California court and possibly win.)

I picture the matter of my cleanliness and organization as one that will come up in a much more public forum one day. I will have suffered some injustice associated with a political agenda popular in the news at the time. This will of course be covered by Anderson Cooper-I envision my story having no other qualified reporter-and he will speak solemnly into to camera about the tragedy involving Carrie Boutwell, innocent victim of such and such propaganda. His intensity combined with a dashing silver mane will have you riveted.

Continuing his coverage, he will remark, “We’re reporting live from the Boutwell household-and, as you can see if you look behind me, her cabinets are impeccably organized. More on this after the break.”

K-e-l-l-y

Bryan has time and time again reminded me of my precariously close proximity to “the deep end” when I watch A&E- Intervention, in particular, though Hoarders is often thrown in the mix.

Here I am on an average Tuesday night, flipping through the channels too numerous and stupid to count, when I settle on a familiar buddy. I sigh with content as I have noticed that there are several episodes of my favorite substance abuse program on in a row. It’s a good feeling, settling in for a long evening of tears, rampant meth-amphetamine abuse, and reunions.

“My name is Kelly, K-e-l-l-y, and I am a meth addict and an alcoholic.” This opening statement is followed by cute pictures of a happy pig-tailed girl, then of a smiling cheerleader holding her high-school diploma, then of a pregnant anorexic drunk with three teeth. By now I am so involved with Kelly’s upbringing I can only cry out, “What happened? Why? WHY? You looked so happy…”, along with her helpless parents.

The camera follows Kelly throughout her day of prostituting herself for drug money in front of the Pic N’ Save, and subsequent drug usage with some guy named Big T. This horrific, tragic hour culminates in a surprise intervention. This is where my tear ducts become surgically removed through a series of heart-wrenching letters of emotional testimonies and pleas provided by friends and family. Kelly chooses to get clean and off she goes to Celestial Springs Wellness Center. Hugs, tears, and more tears.

Later in the night Bryan steps between me and Ron, a 43 year-old divorcee with a gambling addiction. “My name is Carrie. C-a-r-r-i-e, and I have a problem watching people on TV with problems.”

“I do not. I just…I get so involved. I have to see if they make it…Their hard-knock life…it’s intoxicating.”

Bryan is unfazed by my emotional plea and seems to be staring at my hand. “Is that wine? Are you drinking while watching Intervention?”

“Just a bit. So. Is that wrong?” Don’t judge me. I’m not on a plane to Celestial Springs or anything.

Do-over

Nothing enrages me more in private than the unnecessary repetition of a simple task. People sometimes call this a “pet peeve”, but I just call it an undecipherable slew of curse words. (On a side note, I have often wanted to name a dog Peeve just so I can say, “This is my pet, Peeve.”)

Let me give an example. Here I am in the kitchen going about my business when I notice a Ziploc baggie that has fallen to the ground. The baggie is of no immediate consequence to my current task, but I have noticed it and concluded it should be retrieved. So while in the midst of multi-tasking, I spare a second to bend down and grab it. Only I miss the plastic offender and the small breeze my grabbing hands create causes it to flutter just slightly. My brows furrow a bit, but my good mood sustains as I make for a second grab.

This time I make the exact same mistake. The baggie bounces in delight. Now I realize my blood pressure is sky-rocketing and I mutter something of distain under my breath with the underlying threat of death should this baggie not concede at once. I miss the third time in a row and make a noise comparable to an angry piglet. My hands become possessed with rage as I use both of them to smash into the baggie and surrounding tile floor, bruising my knuckles. The mangled baggie becomes twisted and wretched in my hands, rendering it unusable and making the task a moot point.

But I emphasize my distain to the uncooperative baggie by escorting it, along with a lengthy array of profanities, over to the trash can. This will teach you, I say silently to the baggie as I begin to introduce it to its chrome cylinder grave. You think you’re so smart, well, who’s the smart one now! I get my only sense of relief and superiority within the last 45 seconds as I step on the lid-release of the can. And I miss-my foot slips. Haha! Stupid baggie! You’ll be gone forever! I still muse, undeterred. And my foot slips again, hitting the tile floor and making an uneasy slap! sound. I glare at the lid-release, now it is garnering my full spectrum of uncontrollable rage. Again, I position my foot to step…

Moments later I have thrown the trash can and the baggie onto the lawn and am watching a Magnum, P.I. rerun with a glass of Chardonnay. It takes a village to raise a child, a man to move a mountain, and an impatient lunatic to cuss out a trash can.

Yo Soy

Some people put way to much emphasis on food trends. Like "I just got a fabulous Cous Cous salad at this little bistro downtown. It's all organic." They always say the last part like you were hard of hearing or instead, whisper it while touching your forearm and demanding eye-contact. it's as if they were trying to say, "This could save your life! Pay attention!"

Organic foods are sought after like the poor-mans Botox. People scramble to find alternatives to their once favored average store-bought items.

"I know I'm bleeding profusely from the abdomen, but is your bandage organic?"

"I used to buy generic frozen chicken, now I know to only buy the ones that were hand-fed rose petals and have a time-share in the Hamptons."

"My child can see through walls thanks to the locally made yogurt with no preservatives."

There really is no limit to what easy life-bettering fixes people will apply to the words organic and locally grown. Cancer? Not me, I got a farm-fresh tomato. Dysfunctional relationships? No way, I communicate with Hummus.

There really is nothing wrong, I feel, with purchasing organic or locally grown, I don't mean to say that. Quite the opposite. The organic stores often play better music and have much less public arguing than your average Wal-Mart or H.E.B. It's as if while omitting artificial colors and harmful additives they increased the side effects of civility and progressive thinking. But the emphasis should not be placed too highly on completely renovating your life expectancy.

The very same person who ate the fabulous Cous Cous salad for lunch will still wipe their mouths with soy-based linens, re-apply their mineral SPF 15 makeup, donate a portion of their meal cost to starving farmers in Ghana, get into their mass-produced hybrid vehicle, and proceed to plow through a red light at an intersection....because they were talking on their cell phone about "The cutest little organic bistro downtown."

Oxy-moron

Lots of personal hygiene topics are discussed only at home, where the people who can't leave you are forced to put up with your eccentricities. Mine are no different. Bryan is continually subjected to my non-stop inspection ritual of finding a possible pimple.

Though having a zit is not a desired prospect, popping one is an entirely different monster altogether. You have to admit-or you don't, I suppose-in any case, some people may reluctantly agree that there are few things as satisfying as popping a zit.

I try and speculate why the attraction is so magnetic. If I do find one on poor Bryan, I can't for the life of me turn away. I must pop it. Immediately. It cannot continue to exist in my presence. My hands flex into pinchers and reach out to the offending object with the excitement and anticipation of a scientist discovering a planet. I become vaguely aware of my surroundings and Bryan is forced to tell me if my behavior is appropriate with phrases like, "Stop, that hurts", "I'm sleeping", or "I'm giving a toast, can this wait?"

And so the torture continues. I just don't foresee the draw waning in intensity. Bryan will continue to come home from work, be pummeled in the genitals by two bouncing dogs while juggling his laptop carrier only to get a pinch on the jaw from his ill-adjusted wife.

Celebrity Corner

Of all the celebrity conundrums these days; questionable attire, attractive mugshot photos, "baby bumps"; none is more perplexing to me than the petite celebrity.

You would think these were a rare breed, with the larger-than-life CGI grand-scale epic tales on the silver screen. but the hero/heroine of these films are often no bigger than my 84 year-old grandmother. It occurs to me that perhaps this is a genetic trait, wherein the characteristics that are required in cinema, like a commanding voice or dimples, are produced on a smaller scale. Maybe it's about cost effectiveness. Saving money on fabric for costumes or such. whatever the reason, it never ceases to alarm me to find out that their height is anything less than mythical in proportions.

Even if you don't care about famous people whatsoever, you have to admit, when you watch a movie and the leading man is giving a passionate farewell kiss to the leggy model/actress in front of a burning pyre of airplane wreckage, it is disappointing to find out that he was, in fact, standing on a milk crate. And that in the period piece you caught on TV last week, the pioneer soldier going off to war was actually riding a Shetland pony.

Just something to consider when you are browsing a rag in the grocery check-out aisle and the red-carpet photo of the actress promoting the latest Tarantino flick could be passed by as nothing more than a well-dressed sixth grader.