blood splatter analyst I am not.

while snoozing my alarm, I notice blood drops on my white comforter. Rome is asleep next to me and immediately I scour him for an injury. he appears fine... and newly irritated that I have woken him with such a stir.
scanning myself, I find no place for blood to escape.
I look at the ceiling and think, I can't believe I am looking at the ceiling.

there is just no way this makes sense.

I demote myself from Dexter status and get ready for work.

while painting my face, Rome meanders in to my restroom to observe. he dog-shakes his head... sending splatters of blood across the walls. the end of his airplane-ear cracked and is dripping. I hang a towel over him and tell him STAY.

the vets were oddly excited to fix him, informing me he would be returned to my arms wearing a babushka - they giggled their way to the back with him. after gluing the cut on his ear, folding and wrapping it on top of his head, he entered the waiting room Girl-with-the-Pearl-Earring style.

the enormous amount of sadness in his face skyrocketed my worry.
he would wear this for 3 days; it is very tight around his neck; do not let him exert a lot of energy; give him 1/4th of this pill, twice a day; $230.
ok ok ok.

after cutting every kibble-bit in half so that he could swallow easier, I told myself I needed to relax. I was convinced his wrap was far too tight and he would suffocate to death during the 5 seconds of every minute that I was not staring at him.

a few friends offered reassurance that he will be ok; others offered Photoshopped versions of Rome in famous paintings; I offered myself a cocktail.
thanks to all of those efforts, I felt much more at ease and left him alone.

Rome got through 2 nights of this before the vet removed it (whew) and I took over with a pathetic Aunt Jemima version.

mm, pancakes.

in other news...
...good thing I do not own a horse.
...today Rome is wrap-free and living it up as an apartment-dog in Campbell, California.
...Van Gogh's Ear is my favorite.

acHOO!

from this place I sit, I hear laughing crows and hummingbird wings.

I scream-sneeze, and Romeo rushes to the door to ensure I am still alive.

it is not a horrible day.

last week, we visited the beach together. it humbles me to see Romeo excited to simply get in my car, regardless of the destination. in a lot of ways, I feel that same lost joy.
it does not matter where I go, because in being there, I will be happy.

sometimes I suggest an adventure to someone other than my dog, and in return I hear...
Is it supposed to be fun?
Will it be good?
Have you been there before?
Does it have decent reviews?

DOES IT REALLY MATTER? "it was the best of times, it was the worst of times" are both nothing without times. just go, and decide for yourself.

in other news...
...in a recent gym competition, I ranked 3rd (out of 12) for my 3 minutes and 10 seconds plank. I felt proud.. until the trainer told me the winner recorded a time of 5:30. NO ONE TOLD ME WE COULD TAKE STEROIDS.
...QUOTE OF THE DAY goes to my father, who exclaimed over the phone: I KNOW I HAVE TOO MANY HOBBIES AND AM DISCOMBOBULATED. BUT THAT'S SUPERFLUOUS BULLSHIT.

it was a run-by pooping

my purse, gym bag, pair of heels, laptop bag, and a set of keys juggled to the ground as I unstuck a note taped to my front door.
after blaming the note for everything wrong in my life (I was hangry), I read the bubbly-written letter aloud to Romeo.

even HE rolled his eyes at the number of "OMG"s in this thing.

in summary, a fellow tenant threw a bag of dog poop in to my patio and broke something.

I cannot say Romeo's poop has ever broken anything. (EVER). I mentally applaud her rock-digesting pup while racing to my patio to see the damage.

a decorative light was smashed... glass pieces lay beside the guilty poop-bag defendant.

over the next 24 hours, I marvel at the fact that a stranger's bag of dog poop was
a) hurled in to the air
b) hurled in to MY PATIO and
c) broke something.

I was (and still am) pretty amused.

since she offered to fix it, I told her it was simply from Target and not a big deal.

the next day, I returned home to a gift on my door step. she not only purchased the replacement bulbs, but wrapped them in tissue, placed them in a bag, and included a card.

BEST POOP-HURLING DAY EVER!!

in other news...
...2 pink Peeps is what I had for breakfast. I am pretty sure Easter candy exists because someone said HOW WILL WE GET FAT BEFORE NEXT CHRISTMAS??
...I spent 10 minutes earlier watching cat videos. on CNN. so, you know... it was NEWS.

365.242 days in a year

Heather always covered her face with both of her large hands when she laughed.
I remember that the most.

each step she took was long, quick, and clumsy - her tall frame loomed over most people. the pale skin on her cheeks instantly painted pink at the slightest bit of unwanted attention. she was a quiet comedian... who did not laugh when I forgot her 17th birthday.

we met at our neighboring lockers at school that morning and after noticing I held no present, card, sweet treat, flowers, nothing... she largely spun around and stormed away.

immediately I knew what had happened and felt an enormous disappointment in myself.

the following year I stumbled in to school carrying balloons, gifts, and freshly-dropped-in-the-parking-lot cookies... excited to show her I cared and remembered.
(yes, I admitted to dropping the cookies. yes, we ate them anyway.)
she was incredibly happy to vote, have her job at Safeway, and start life after high school.

Heather unexpectedly passed away that summer.

...

on my book shelf lies a stack of new, ready-to-be-given birthday cards. they are there as a vow to my friends, my family, myself... to not forget another birthday; each passing day is a gift - 365 'passing days' is a celebration!

Happy 33rd birthday Ms. Lane!