Heartbroken, and other emotions

This weekend was bad. Grandma Mae passed away on Friday, while I was at work. I really wanted to go visit her recently, and I have been thinking about her a lot, but I let stupid things like work and doing dumb stuff on the computer prevent me from driving the whole mile and a half to see her. I suppose it's a wake up call- I only have so much life to do what I want and to spend with the people I care about, and I am not going to live anymore in the service of anyone but me and the ones I love. I am sad because she is gone, but she had a long life and was surrounded by her family. She was the last of her generation in our family, even though she wasn't the youngest. She was a stubborn woman (a stubbornness that granted her ten years of life after beating aggressive breast cancer), so if she thought it was time to go, I believe her. The family has planned a fitting tribute- we're going to rent a hall, eat till we burst, cram some dessert in on top of that, and sit around, looking at pictures and laughing about that time she made grilled cheese sandwiches with the plastic still on the cheese. (But seriously, she was a really good cook, by Midwestern standards. Her magic bars were better than your grandma's.)

So that was tough, and I was already feeling pretty low on Saturday when my sister called to tell me that the dog died. The family dog, my childhood pet, called it quits after sixteen years. She was a good dog, and old. When I look at my puppies (or, rather, when I am being pinned to the ground and kissed by my puppies), I am reminded of the boundless energy she had as a pup. When we adopted her, the previous owners had said that she needed more room to run than they had for her. She was never a particularly athletic dog, but she loved to bound up and down the fence until she was pooped, and then she liked to sleep under the ping pong table in the garage. She never lost her puppy fur, and even as a big old smelly dog, she was still bunny soft, and she loved to be patted on the head. At the end, even my father, who used to joke about giving Angel her "monthly pet" would sit with her and stroke her fur. She was gentle, friendly, and patient. I loved my fuzzhead. I am glad that she lived a long life, but I'm sad to see her go- it's like watching the end of my childhood pass me by.

Secret Pal: I owe you some glamour shots of the soap you sent (I think my husband is going to steal it- he is a soap connoisseur). I've got some progress to show on the Jaywalkers and Petal, but it will wait till I feel like knitting again. Right now I just want to sit around and watch baseball with my family (yes, you heard me- I have watched a number of collegiate and professional sporting events on television. Alert the authorities- I've gone mad!).

Good boy, Carson

Carson passed away yesterday, on my aunt's birthday. She had to put him down because his health had deteriorated and he was suffering.

He was a good boy. Early in his life, he would bark incessantly at men (I remember a weekend my parents were dogsitting, and my dad just decided not to be around the house after listening for a couple of hours), but as he aged, whatever abuse of fear from his past faded, and he became affectionate and docile. My grandmother called him Barrymore because of his dignified profile which he showed to everyone (especially if you were petting him).

He was a loyal companion and a gentle pet. When it comes to dogs, that's all that really matters.

Happy Birthday, Dan!

I love you, I am proud of you, and I am glad to be with you. You've accomplished a lot in that 30th year- you got married, you went back to school, you got a promotion at work. Not too shabby! Here's to you, honey, and I look forward to sweeping you off your feet in Chicago this weekend.

Dan: King of All Cosmos

Quirkiness, sadness

So, I'm into the fourth ball of yarn for the blanket. I'm about 70% done at this point. It is kind of tedious, knitting a rectangle, and each time I tell myself it will be fun, and it is, but it's not exciting. I like how it's looking, and I am sure the recipient will adore it.

I love soda water. Love it. It's one of those things about me, I guess. I prefer carbonated beverages, and as a result, I drink a lot of pop (boo!). I prefer soda water, however, and it really grosses out some of my coworkers who see me spraying it out of the pop gun.

Speaking of food quirks, like my food at room temperature. I have never sent food back at a restaurant because it was kind of cold, because that's how I actually want it. I would never tell someone that, though, for fear of getting something that died a slow death in the window.

Dan claims to have no quirks, and I agree. It's more that he has a lateral perception of the world that is an act of volition rather than a confluence of weird habits.

He thought it was a compliment.

Gramma Mae is home now. Dad is off work, and Uncle Dan flew in from California to be with her. Were all just waiting, now. I can't help but think of the time I snapped at her because she tried to feed me (again) right after we had dinner. I feel so guilty, but it's the only time I can remember where I think I hurt her feelings. And that moment has shaped me as an adult, and gives me patience when I would otherwise have none.

I'd much rather remember the day I married Dan, the day we surprised her with a birthday cake. The cake she thought was a prize for the funniest hat.