Happy Friday!

The sun is shining, it is supposed to be a beautiful day, scratch that, a beautiful weekend, in Chicago. Did I mention that we are on the verge of a three-day weekend? 'Tis a lovely Friday indeed.

Oh, did I forget to mention that I got assigned another case with a co-counsel who on this lovely Friday is leaving for Hawaii? Yes, so I must watch his mail for anything that comes in relation to this case. If there is a request for discovery, I must get on it immediately. Additionally, if the results of that other case we handled together comes in, I need to be prepared to respond immediately while he is gone. Terrific.

Oh! Another coworker that shares several cases with me will be leaving for Spain for two weeks. This means I get to make sure our responses are on file for all of our shared cases, handle all of our court appearances on our shared cases, and handle all court appearances on her cases. Did I mention I have to check her mail for the next two weeks as well?

Sigh.

I fully admit that I am jealous beyond belief at those individuals who may get to take a vacation, especially exotic vacations right now. I have not been on a real, longer than a weekend, vacation in over five years. I'm tired. I want to sip on drinks out of pineapples and practice MY espanol too! (Womp, womp, womp. That's for you, Ms. Sass.)

And now is the part where I talk to myself: "Suck it up, FA. You go to New York in THREE WEEKS for three days of fun with some more of the best people you know. Furthermore, you and P.I.C. are planning a fabulous Central American vacation for the later half of the year. You know, when your vacation time has accrued more than three days. Quit being a baby."

Pep talks to myself in the third person are very helpful, don't you think?

At least it is a three-day weekend, and I get to share it with some of my favorite people in the world. And the weather will be gorgeous.

A random thought.

Last night in the midst of a very tortuous run (seriously, running in 80-plus humid weather is really asking for it), I noticed a piece of a hair extension on the sidewalk. I began to wonder how that extension came to lie on the ground.

My thoughts:
(1) There was a wicked girl fight and it was ripped out as a result. Actually, this is usually what I think when I see a random hair extension on the ground. I find them more often than you would think.
(2) A woman in a passing by car noticed it was loose, pulled it out, and let it fly out the window. This disturbs me. One, I hate littering. And two, I thought hair extensions were very expensive. If you're paying that kind of money for your "hair," why would you throw it away.
(3) It blew out of someone's garbage. This is probably the most likely answer, don't you think?

This morning, I wonder, is there a woman walking around with a bald spot in an awkward place, or did she go immediately to have it repaired?

And, to accompany this odd assortment of thoughts, here is a photo of me trying on some of Jessica Simpson's finest extensions.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

I cured a cold in a week.

My friends know that I rarely get sick. I am capable of massive amounts of whining about inconsequential things in my life or stressing about those same things, but sickness and me? Not really a match. Perhaps it is my good genes (thanks, Mom) or just the fact that I regularly eat quite a bit of fruits and vegetables, but my immune system treats me well.

Let's rewind to two weeks ago, the final night of our cook club. My coworker, Ms. Sass, spends the night at my house afterwards, a veritable slumber party with stupid girl movies and giggling long after we were supposed to be asleep. Ms. Sass seems to have the opposite luck with the illness. She catches something if she hears someone sneeze. Of course, two days later, she sends me a text message and tells me, "Just so you know, I have strep throat so bad that I had to go to the ER."

Great. Even though I am pretty tough, I start to feel a tickle in my throat the next day. To me, it feels like I am getting a cold, but I don't know, I've never had strep throat. My throat progresses into a rather annoying cold, not strep throat. So I go through the motions of buying orange juice and cold medicine and extra tissues for my constantly running nose. In the meanwhile, Ms. Sass has to go the hospital for her ailments (poor gal.) She is in the hospital for five days. Me? I am essentially cured in a week. The orange juice seemed to help.

The sad bit? Ms. Sass was supposed to be en route to greener pastures, AKA California. Literally, greener pastures, or so the cows in the commercial say (you know, "Happy cows come from California"?). Lucky for her, she was able to just work an extra week, be covered under insurance and then proceed westward.

And I get one more week with Ms. Sass in our lovely office kicks. I am glad she's on the mend. I'm glad my cold is gone. But I am sad I am losing my best office bud.

I may be able to cure a simple cold in a week, but she gets to move her life to sunny California.

The office will be a lot lonelier for me without her. And short a lot of sass.

Coach, I gotta USE it.

When they are not making us want to pull our hair out, the girls on our softball team are quite hysterical. They are antsy, silly and funny. (Hey, kinda like me!)

One of my favorite things they say is in reference to the rest room. Well, I don't think that you can technically call a portapotty a "rest room" but you get my gist. Because some of our games take so long, and apparently we are a team of tiny bladders, at least twice during the game, the girls will come up to either myself or C and say, "Coach, do I have time? I really gotta USE it." I had never heard this way of expressing the desire to relieve oneself. Of course, the universal antsy dance was my key to completely understanding what they were after. Once I figured out they meant make a trip to the portapotty, we always answer the same: "Yes, but you have to RUN."

"Using it" always makes me laugh. It makes me think of them dancing around, full of the sugary pop they consume all throughout the game and the seriousness with which they take our directive of "RUN." (Well, that's only sometimes. There are times we have to holler at them again if we see dawdling.)

Of course, the last time we let more than one girl go to "use it" at a time, there was an altercation with another team on their way back resulting in a parent and her children running across the field in the middle of the play to go find out what was happening.

New rule? Only one girl can go "use it" at a time.

A summer meltdown already.

"At least you'll get a blog entry out of this, right?" P.I.C was stretching, as I continued to sniffle back my tears, mopping away at my sticky floor.

He was right. And here is how I ended the first summer day of the year mopping the sticky strawberry juice off my floor and sending P.I.C. down to the alley with a bag full of spoiled groceries at 11:00 P.M.

Let me back up to how the day panned out. We opened our eyes to summer in Chicago yesterday morning. Sunshine streaming through the mini-blinds, birds chirping, and the quiet hum of the fan it just felt like summer. Furthermore, it  was hot. As in ninety degrees hot. Humid. Sunny. Summer. Yay, right? Well, we rang in the weather with a patio-ed brunch, bloody marys, good friends and sun dresses. Well, I wore a sun dress. P.I.C. didn't embrace that summer tradition, obviously.

After our leisurely brunch, we all went to our respective homes to get ready for the day. P.I.C. and I had barbecue plans (fully summer, right?) to watch the Chicago Blackhawks playoff game (watching hockey is decidedly not summer, but hey, playoffs are playoffs!) I proceeded to get a large glass of ice water, feeling thirsty and hot after my walk home. After a few minutes of relaxing, I had to get going, so I filled my cup back up with ice and water and took off.

More lovely times were had in the form of friends, homemade guacamole, Brooklyn Summer Ale, and a big "W" for the Hawks. We made it home in time for the Lost series finale. (Still processing that one. No spoilers here, but I feel inherently unsatisfied as their form of resolution of the series.)

Entering my now stifling apartment at nearly 11:00 p.m. with my arms full of groceries purchased that afternoon, I grappled with the decision to turn on the air conditioning. No sooner had I set the bags on my chair in the kitchen when I see P.I.C. push closed my freezer door. I looked at him, perplexed. I didn't buy any freezer goods at the store. Then I realized why he had done that.

I had left the freezer door ajar. Not just a little. A lot.

I walked over the freezer, feeling my feet get slightly sticky from whatever was on the floor and slowly opened the door, dreading the sight to unfold. a melty pitcher of water sat there next to my two ice cube trays containing...water. My half-gone bag of frozen strawberries had created a gooey mess down the front of my fridge and then my floor creating the stickiness underfoot. A brand new bag of frozen chicken breasts was a soggy mess. Frozen broccoli florets were no longer frozen, instead sloshing around in their plastic bag. Frozen salmon filets, carefully chosen because they were wild caught, not farm-raised, were only partially thawed, perfect if I had been pulling them out of my fridge for dinner that evening.

My reaction? A bit delayed. But sure enough, the waterworks came out. "All....of...that food....wasted...I...don't....have...money....to restock my freezer....I feel....sooo.....stupid" I sobbed to P.I.C., feeling completely distressed. His reaction? He started laughing, as he reached out to hug me. Of course, at this time, I was perplexed at his reaction to my distress, and sobbed to him, "Whyyy....are....you...laughing at...meee?" which only made him laugh harder, apologizing through his ridiculous laughter.

"I'm sorry, honey, I'm not laughing at you. The situation is just kind of ridiculous and funny."

I knew that. But still, I was upset. Who could blame me?

We then began to sort through the carnage of what used to be my well-stocked freezer. The chicken could be salvaged if we cooked it up all early this week. The fish wasn't completely thawed, so it could be salvaged as well. The unopened veggies? Some of them weren't entirely thawed, so they could go back in there. I now have one package of tilapia, a bag of mixed bell peppers and a bag of frozen berries in my freezer. Oh, and I refilled the ice cube trays too.

And how could I forget my bottle of vodka. It was salvaged as well. Cuz, come on, the next time something like this happens, I might need a drink.

Turns out, P.I.C. was right. I can blog about this. I'm not, however, laughing about it, the pain of losing most of my contents of my freezer is too fresh. But perhaps you can laugh.

A funny encounter down-state.

Today I made my first of what is sure to many treks down to Ottawa, Illinois to the LaSalle County Courthouse. (Well, first I made a stop at the LaSalle County Government Center which funnily enough, is NOT the courthouse. Oops. Thank goodness for GPS and smart phones, yes?) My new job has me traveling all over the state. Well, north of Springfield, that is. Makes for interesting experiences in my court appearances.

Downtown Ottawa appears to be very charming by my cursory trip through town. Free parking nearly everywhere in close proximity to the courthouse made me swoon, even when it was apparent I couldn't park in the lot directly adjacent to the courthouse because I didn't realize that I had to enter by turning left on the following street. The courthouse was typical of the less-populated counties in which I have attended court: large, made of brick, and very old. They always look like a courthouse which is wonderful for people like me who just might be directionally challenged. (It is a true story that I usually get lost the first time I go anywhere. Once I get lost, I very rarely make that same mistake twice. It is almost the shame of getting lost that prevents me from making the same mistake twice.)

Another factor that makes traveling out of county more pleasant to more rural areas is the friendliness of the courthouse employees. For the most part, the security officers at the metal detectors tend to greet you with a smile. The clerks are rather helpful and will answer your questions or at least direct you to the appropriate person. And the bailiffs in the courtroom tend to be a lot of fun. Helpful and friendly, I almost always walk away with a story to share.

And so goes this particular incident. I was in the courtroom, waiting for my case to be called, when the judge decided he was going to hear a particular matter in which all other persons had to exit the courtroom. That included me. I parked myself on a chair right outside the courtroom to review my motion and the bailiff starts up a conversation. Now the bailiff is an older gentleman, but very friendly, as per usual.

B: "That kid in there must be a mechanic. He's got a muffler burn on his neck."
F.A. (clearly not getting his point) "Huh. Must be."

I threw in an appropriate chuckle since the bailiff was getting a kick out of his comment.

B. "I don't even know if people call them that anymore. I know they did when I was in high school. I mean, that was a year or two ago."

At this point, I begin to catch his drift. He meant a hickey. Ooooooh. Got it. My chuckles turned real as I realized he was making fun of the kid's hickey. Of course, as the kid exited the courtroom, I had to take a look at his neck to see the "muffler burn." Sure enough, there was a bright purple hickey clear as day.

Good eye, bailiff. Good eye. Once again, you have shown me that the smaller county bailiffs never disappoint in the entertainment department.

Is it a smoothie or a shake? You decide.

Lately, both P.I.C. and I have been trying to get in shape. This involves efforts at the gym and eating better. We share recipes and both come up with creative and healthy dinner ideas to further this endeavor. Furthermore, the constant dining out was breaking the bank in addition to expanding both of our waistlines. Honestly, this is the best way to change your lifestyle, buddy-style. We are moving in the right direction, I firmly believe.

However, the other day, I go into P.I.C.'s freezer and notice that he has ice cream in there. Here goes the conversation.

F.A.: "Um, how come I didn't know you had ice cream in your freezer? I'd have tapped into that awhile ago."
P.I.C. "Oh, I don't eat the ice cream, I use in in my smoothies. You know, with the berries and oatmeal."

Silence.

F.A. "You mean the smoothies you make for breakfast?"
P.I.C. "Yeah."

Silence.

F.A. "That is called  milkshake."
P.I.C. "But it has fruit. And I eat it for breakfast. It's a smoothie."

Silence.

F.A. "Nope. If it has milk, it's a shake."

The subject is dropped for awhile, we go about our business. But perhaps twenty minutes later, I remind him of his odd morning meal choice.

F.A. "I can't believe you've been eating milkshakes for breakfast."

He had no response, obviously. The other night, I was assembling leftover dessert from my cooking night. Alright, I know I said we were taking efforts to eat better, but I'll be damned if I'm about to let homemade dessert go to waste. I was heating up the homemade hot fudge sauce. (See here my dessert attempt and for  a picture. Yum, right?!) Here's the ensuing conversation.

F.A. "Man, I should've gotten some vanilla ice cream at Dominick's. This hot fudge would be kick ass on that."
P.I.C. "I have ice cream in my freezer, silly."
F.A. "Oh, right. For your smoothies." (Yes, smoothies was said with accompanying air quotes.)

There was silence as I diligently spooned the steaming hot fudge sauce onto the panna cotta.

F.A. "Oh, well, do you want the leftover hot fudge to take home? You know, for your smoothies?"

And now you know, I always get the last word. Always.

(P.S. Let's do a reader poll: Do we think P.I.C. is having milk shakes for breakfast? Or are you buying his smoothie explanation?)

New blog, ya'll.

I'm going to try the double blogging venture. After discussing my recent endeavors in the kitchen, a wise man suggested, "Why don't you start a food diary about your cooking so you can remember what you have made, what works, and what didn't?"

Um, hello. I'm going to blog it. Cuz it's my new thing.  And, for your reading pleasure (or not), here is yet another piece of writing from yours truly:

http://mishapsandmasterpieces.blogspot.com/

Bon appetit!

Our first victory!

This past Saturday afternoon marked the first victory of my softball team, the Reds.

At this time, I will pause, and let you take a break to dance up and down. I'm sure you've been anxiously awaiting this day.

You good? Alright.

Our previous games were not complete blow-outs, but we are still finding our way as a team, both teammates and coaches. Our first game, which I missed, we lost by forfeit. The second, we lost to the Bombers, a team coached by their parents, we believe and one that "played by the rules." Their coaches wore jean shorts. While they were not great, they definitely played better together as a team so they ended up winning. Our third game was against the Diamondbacks. Again, we lost, but their team clearly had a "team" spirit going.

And thus we get to our fourth game, the game of our first big "W." Again, we played the Bombers, that team coached by the dads with their jean shorts. This was a team fond of the rules. For example, you throw the bat, you're out. Makes sense, right? Well, I'm a newly minted coach. I haven't played softball myself since I was about twelve years old. The specific rules are rusty to me.

Several of my friends got a kick out of me coaching softball as they'd never known me to play the sport. Rest assured, I have always known the basic rules (my short stint in t-ball and softball as well as growing up with a brother that played baseball). Furthermore, I knew that my abilities as a "Softball Mom" would be killer. I AM the cookie baking-, snack pack buying-type. They love that. So what if I need a little direction in how to fill out the score sheet.

In any event, I was learning the specific rules of the game. So the "throw the bat you're out rule" was one I had to learn before I could enforce it in any way. Turns out, there are more rules. Once the pitcher has the ball, the play is over. No more running the bases. Got it. Oh, and you can't run outside the baseline to get to another base. Even if the play is nowhere near the baseline you're running. Whaaaa?

Yeah, that last one threw us for a loop. Especially when the girl running home was clearly a newbie to the sport and was so excited to get a run. Even moreso when that girl had been running the wrong direction on the bases only two weeks earlier. (True story.) So, jean shorts coach number 2 decides to yell about her being out. But he only began yelling after the next batter had taken two pitches.

Argh. So, not only do we have a large-bellied man yelling at us that we are cheaters, we have young girls wondering why they are being called cheaters. Our team has minimal parental attendance at the games. No moms and dads to stand up in the bleachers and start yelling at the umpire or the other coach. They have no one to advocate for them aside from us. Me? I tend to go a little passive here because I don't know all the rules. But Coach C decides to give them a piece of her mind. She is the more softball-minded of the two of us, obviously. The run ended up standing. Victory!

Furthermore, Coach C is mad now. This coach showed up late, delaying our game by fifteen minutes. He has been complaining about how we are breaking the rules from the very beginning. This was the last straw. So at one point, she notices six people in the infield. There is an extra player in between first and second base. She asks the umpire to stop the game, telling him that it's not fair for them to have six people in the infield. The coach gets all upset. He says that it's fine, there is nothing in the rules about this. He then snottily asks the extra player to take two steps back. She is still in the baseline between first and second plate, along with the girl playing second base. Annoying, yes? Well, joke was on them. Honestly, as Coach C pointed out (and I was nowhere near as astute to the strategy as was she), they would have been better served throwing an additional player in the outfield. Each time we had a big play, it was because they could not get to the ball in the outfield. Clearly their efforts to pad the infield were for naught.

We ended up winning fourteen to four. The games are supposed to last six innings or two hours, whichever comes first. After two hours and twenty minutes, we had finished five innings. Coach C goes to talk to the umpire about wrapping the game up. We had been there since noon (the game was at one) and were pretty beat. The girls had played very well and were getting a little distracted, moreso than the usual level. Of course, Jean Shorts calls us "cheap" for this, and accuses us of trying to end the game because we were afraid they were going to win. Seriously.

Umpire calls the game, and the Reds walked away with their first win. Oh, but we had to move out of the diamond because Jean Shorts had his team run the bases as punishment for their loss.

Seriously.

A fabulous coat.

It would seem that I am not the only one of my friends to have awkward moments. Of course not. We all have awkward moments. So, Ms. Sass comes into my office this morning and says to me, "I have to tell you what happened on my way to court. You should write about it. It is the definition of awkward."

Nice.

A little back story: Ms. Sass had been dying for a trench coat a few months back. Despite the fact that trench coats are worn perhaps only two days out of the year, we all love them. They make you look put together even when there is a hot mess hiding underneath. I should know, I have two. Ms. Sass finds the perfect trench coat in a lovely deep purple about six weeks ago and has been rocking it ever since. It suits her perfectly.

This morning, she was hustling into court, in her trench coat, naturally, when an elderly lady (EL) stops her.

EL: "Excuse me, miss, your coat is just lovely."
MS: "Thank you." (She smiles, thinking today might not be so bad after all.)
EL: "The color is nice on you, it is just a nice coat."
MS: "Well...thank you."

(At this point in the story, I am thinking that she's about to tell me that she got wooed by the world's oldest Mary Kay lady. I was wrong.)

EL: "You know, honey, in my day, that's the kinda coat we would wear with nothing on underneath."

Silence.

EL then winks, walking away, leaving Ms. Sass speechless (a very difficult feat, I might add.)

Ah, Ms. Sass was right. Today is going to be a good day. Awkward moments from the get go. I like.

Nothing but love for my feline roomie

Oxford has been giving me the old side-eye lately. I was wondering why this might be until it dawned on me: He read my blog about wanting a puppy. Busted.

Therefore, I have decided to write a little diddy about my little Prince of Fur. When I decided to get my very own apartment in the city, I also decided to get a feline friend, allergies be damned. Well, honestly, I knew that my parents' Himalayans cats didn't bother my allergic sensibilities, so I thought if I got a similarly flat-faced cat, I would be alright. One visit in response to an ad in the local paper to see a little of the little guys and I fell in love. Eight weeks old, not much more than a little ball of fur, literally, I knew he must be mine. Two days later, on my way back to my new apartment, we swung by to get him for good. He as all mine, and I named him Oxford.

On a side note, I went thought many different names for this cat before I ever even laid eyes on him. Since I knew I was going to get a cat when I returned from my European excursion that summer, I had been trying to figure out a creative and fun name for him. He as Giovanni Paulo Due when I was in Rome (you know, the last Pope). Then he was Johannes (this was another version of the pope). I settled on Oxford. I can't imagine him having any other name.

The first day I left him alone in my apartment, he cried. Little baby mews I could hear the instant my heavy door shut. I remember plodding down the green carpet of my first apartment building with tears in my eyes, feeling rotten for leaving that tiny little soul alone. He was so tiny at that point, he needed a pillow to serve as a step so he could jump up onto my couch. Of course, I gladly obliged. He was so cute, there wasn't much I wouldn't do to help him.

The same sentiment rings true to this day. Next month, he will be seven years old and considered a "senior" according to some cat food packaging. He is still spry and loves his cat nip cigars and his Trader Joe's double wide scratcher. He will get a little wild and do the sideways run. He still will sneak up to you when you're not paying attention and slyly bite your toe if it's dangling ever-so-temptingly. (This was a favorite past-time he had as a kitten. You wouldn't dare let a foot dangle from underneath the covers for risk of getting a sharp kitten tooth in your toe.)

His latest shenanigan? Puke bombs. This has happened before, resulting in a very expensive trip to the vet with x-rays where they told me, "We don't know, maybe he is allergic to his food and that is why he keeps throwing up." Well, he did it again. Apparently, he became allergic to his affordable food and I now have to spend twice as much on "natural" food from a fancy pet store. Honestly, it's worth it to not get "puke bombed" and step in his vomit when I'm half asleep (GROSS). But for this:

It's hard to not do anything for that little sweetheart. Call me a crazy cat lady, I don't care. He meows when he hears me coming up the stairs, he snuggles with me in bed, he's my little guy. And clearly, he is the boss. I mean, his subtle side eye prompted his own special posting.

Well done, cat.

Ode to my favorite drug.

Last night, as I laid in bed, willing myself to fall asleep, I consoled myself with the fact that when I awoke in the morning, I could make a lovely pot of coffee that would make my day start off right. That thought made me think, "Wow, coffee is truly an addiction for me."

I was not always a coffee lover. In fact, I recall telling my mother rather sassily when I was younger, "I will never ever drink coffee." My family has always been big coffee drinkers. Every household from my mom's to my grandparents' had that trusty drip machine, always going at the first light of the day.

When I went to college, I was struck with the realization that it was cool to hang out in cafes and that those Starbucks cups were the ultimate collegiate accessory. I started off drinking a medium cardboard Starbucks container half-filled with Starbucks bitter blend, topped off with a hefty pour of milk and a long pour of sugar. Slowly, I worked the ratio down to just a little topping of half and half and then no sugar. In fact, by my sophomore year, my gal pals and I would get into the habit of having "dessert and coffee" after our cafeteria dinners. We'd fill our little diner mugs with the coffee and keep our fingers crossed for something really good, like cherry pie or desserts. But coffee was always included.

A summer spent in Europe many years ago further nurtured this love of coffee. Quick espressos sipped standing up at train stations in Rome, frothy cappucinos enjoyed at Rinaldo's before class in the morning (despite learning that cappucinos were afternoon drinks in Italia) and sitting outside under the awning in a summer rainstorm with an americano in Strasbourg, France, coffee was sexy, and a real lifestyle, over the pond. And, aside from realizing that tea was the better option in London (instant coffee is ggggggrrrrosss), I had some of the best coffee of my life that summer.

From that early time over ten years ago, coffee has become a critical part of my day and my life. I make it at my home every morning and do not comprehend how people can make it all the way to work before they have their first sip of coffee. I have a fancy-ish coffee pot that grinds my coffee beans stored in their own vacuum Tupperware container every morning for the freshest brew possible. In fact, when I started dating my boyfriend, he advised me that if we wanted to keep dating, I would have to kiss the Folgers goodbye. Clearly, the best part of waking up for him was not Folgers in his cup. I like him, so I decided to fancify my life and have fresh-ground beans every day.

I know that I'm full-blown addicted. My boyfriend this weekend says to me, "Amanda, when you have kids, you're really going to have to ween yourself off of coffee. I think if you went cold turkey, you'd kill someone." He may have a point there. I do try to avoid all human contact before I have had my morning coffee.

Perhaps one day I will have to ween myself off the good stuff. But for now, I will continue to support my addiction. Just a smidge of real creamer and no sugar, thanks.

"She's got puppy feeeevah" (sung to the tune of J.D. from Scubs as he waves a french fry across the table, taunting Turk.)

Yep. I do.

So, P.I.C. starts in on some cruel activities today. He sends me a seemingly innocuous link to a website stating only: "I want so bad I could cry." I open it up, and to my utter horror, it is a web page for PUPPY ADOPTION.

Let me back up a bit. He and I have discussed how we both want a dog. Unfortunately, my landlord has forbidden that occurrence (as has Prince Oxford for now). Furthermore, we came to the conclusion that getting a dog would be a much easier endeavor when we live together. Which will happen soon, but not that soon. So what does he do? He finds the most lovely, beautiful puppy in the world with eyes begging me to kiss her little snout and take her for a long walk. And he sends this picture to me. What a jerk.

I love animals. Perhaps it is because for the majority of my childhood, I didn't have pets. When I was very small, my parents had Great Danes (amazing dogs, by the way, I highly recommend). But after my parents' divorce when I was young, my mom was on her own and therefore we went pet free. As a young kid, I thought my mom was horribly mean for this. (I also thought my parents were the meanest people in the world because we had to go to...MICHIGAN...every summer rather than Disneyland. But that's a story for another time.) Turns out, as a young lady living on my own, I get it. I can't imagine having a dog right now living on my own. My puke machine cat is a handful enough.

When I finally got my own apartment, I made the decision to get a cat. I knew that despite being tested and diagnosed with cat allergies, for whatever reason, Himalayan cats didn't bother me. So shortly after a summer abroad, I found my little man, aptly named Oxford from my recent studying at the University. However, I always knew that I wanted a dog too. I'm an animal lover, fuzzy friends bring a level of joy to my heart that can erase the memories of any crappy day as good as a stiff drink. Why not go for one more?

Since I am being a practical adult by not getting a dog knowing that I cannot properly care for one yet, I like to pet other people's dogs. In fact, I will cross the street to make myself available to pet other people's dogs. I like to think of myself as a dog whisperer. More times than not, if I make eye contact with the dog I am approaching (and the owner seems friendly and not in too much of a hurry), that dog will go NUTS for my petting skills. (Truthfully, my dog whisperer skills are put to shame by those of my brother. He can train a dog in a ridiculously short amount of time to do the best tricks. Bang, bang, Chewy.)

In any event, dogs make me go weak in the knees. They just do. I love them, and their slobbery, sweet and dumb expressions. I love their enthusiasm. I currently am having a very difficult time resisting the siren call of this dog they call "Goldie." Of course, I will rename her something fantastic. Like Sassafras. Or something else clever.

Sigh. All I have to say right now is for those people walking their dogs on my way home, look out. I will likely walk a half block out of my way today just to pet your dog.

Don't be afraid or creeped out. 

Today.

Remember how I said awhile ago that I realized I was the tallest person in the elevator and wanted to shout that out?

Today, I was in the elevator at the courthouse. But this time, I realized I was the SHORTEST person in the elevator. And I felt sad. And small.

Today, I did not want to shout out about being the shortest person in the elevator.

(Just an observation.)

Worst. Flight. Ever.

As you know from my last posting, I took a quick jaunt down to Florida for a weekend of sun and fun on the beach. Not to worry, fun and entirely too much sun was had, but the trip did not start out the way I had planned. I got to the airport early, as is my usual custom. I like to stake out my gate, grab something to eat, and perhaps find a perch in the bar and enjoy a cocktail and watch the travelers. MDW to TPA is the perfect flight for a good nap. A little over two hours, when I fly in late knowing that we will be going out straight away, the nap is perfect.

Well.

The airport was packed. No spots at the bar for me to sit. Oh, and all flights to Florida were delayed, causing me stress, thinking that I was going to be delayed. After a nice chat with my mom, I was relieved to note that my flight was only five minutes late. I found that the Greek place in Midway offered Greek yogurt and fruit, so I had something healthy to eat, boarded the plane with ease and settled in for my planned two-hour nap.

But I was thwarted. I pretended that the baby that boarded during the "Family Boarding" hadn't let out a horrific shriek as he boarded. I pretended that he did not make that same shriek as I sad down several rows behind him. But as I put in my headphones, I realized with horror that the baby would. not. stop. crying. Despite cranking up my ipod to a relatively loud volume, that baby shrieked every five minutes or so for the entire flight. Oh, and turns out, there were some sorority girls sitting two rows behind me heading down to Tampa for a beachy weekend too. I realized that about an hour into the flight when their squeals of "I am SO ready for the beach, Courtney," began to pop out of their mouths, adding another dimension to the baby shrieking. Oh, and twenty minutes before landing, something really hilarious began happening because I discovered I was sharing the plan with a clap-laugher. You know what I am talking about, the guy that punctuates each "ha ha" with a loud clap.

Needless to say, with the baby, the girls and the clap-laugher making such a disruptive symphony of annoyance, I did not get my nap.

Rest assured, I did have a cocktail to recover soon thereafter. And vacation was back on. Thank goodness.