Really. You need to see if there’s a root poking out of that molar on the left side of your mouth. When an errant popcorn kernel brings you to your knees, there’s something wrong.

Very wrong.

—- Did I mention I am a great big pussy when it comes to dentists? —-

Poopy the Puppy is adapting very well to city life. He loves his walks. He loves sitting out on the courtyard patio with me, Mr. Hot and our darling wine-drinking neighbors. He greets his new buddies, “Scrabble” (who appears to be the love child of a Basset Hound and an over-permed blond), “Percy” (a black pug) and “Knuckles” (a seemingly caffeine-addicted chihuahua*) each time they walk by. A little butt-sniffing here and there and voila! BFFs.

(If only it was that easy for everyone to make new friends.)

One thing he doesn’t love, though, are the random people walking under our windows. He burfs at them constantly. He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t howl. He doesn’t even growl. He burfs. Now, consider that we live approximately 50 feet from an El stop and random people walk under our windows approximately 24.5 hours every day. It’s like Burf City around here.

(Apologies to Jan and Dean. Also to Brian Wilson.)

If they walk close enough to the building that he doesn’t see them, he’s fine. If they’re on the other side of the street, as long as they don’t, y’know, TALK, he’s fine.

Otherwise – you got it.

“Burf. Burf burf burf.”

It’s not loud. None of the neighbors can hear it. It’s not even, as one may expect with the constant flow of foot traffic and tops-of-heads right under his nose, an all day thing, but sometimes? He gets started and won’t stop.

“Burf. Burf.”

Almost under his breath…like he hopes we won’t notice.

Then one of us will say, “Skeeter. Stop that.”

(Yes, his real name is Skeeter. Poopy is his nickname. He answers to both.)

Then he’ll come over and wedge his snout under our hands looking for pats and pets and assurance that we’ll protect him from those People! Outside! Who are walking!

And all will be well for a while.

Then he’ll forget what he was scared of and go back to the window and we’ll resume our television watching or computer game playing. Until the next time he hears a bump or a car door shut and it starts all over again.

“Burf.”

“Stop it.”

Nudge. Nudge. Nudge. Pat Pat Pat.

Repeat. Ad Infinitum.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, after a particularly burfy day, and a bunch of “Stop.That.Now.” and “No, I’m not going to keep petting you, just go lay down.” it got quiet.

Very quiet. Too quiet. Like, “What are you kids doing?” and then you go upstairs and find that they’ve redesigned their bedroom walls with Sharpies – that kind of quiet.

He wasn’t on the back of the couch. He wasn’t in the kitchen or downstairs or eating the cats’ food. He wasn’t even hiding under the dining room table.

He was in our bedroom, laying on the bed with his head on his paws. Very quietly and very deliberately NOT looking out the window.

He put himself in Time Out.

So now, the magic phrase has become, “If you can’t stop that, go get in time out.” and he does. He slinks off to the bedroom and stays there until we tell him he can come back.

—- We usually let him get up after 5 minutes even though he’s 7 years old. —-

*Yes, I know that’s almost redundant, but this is the most hyperactive of all of the hyperactive chihuahuas I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking he’s got a triple-shot expresso three-times-a-day habit.

So, what have I been doing in the three weeks I’ve been MIA?

• Working. Lots.
• Reading. Lots and lots.
• Unpacking. Still.
• Drinking wine with the new neighbors. Cool.
• Preparing for the Diva’s sister’s visit. Fun.
• Trying to think of something to post about. Unsuccessful.
• Watching World Cup Soccer. Weekends.
• Eating at a multitude of neighborhood restaurants. Yum.
• Listening to the thunderstorms. Loud.
• Mopping water from an unknown source. Fuck.

Things I haven’t been doing?

• Taking photos. Damn.
• Keeping in touch. Sorry.

—- But I think my break is finally over. I did manage to get this shot this week. And thank you to the people who checked in and the 102 readers still listed in Feedburner. —-

• Nice neighbors
• Gardening in the city
• Sleeping with the windows open
• Hugs from Shortman
• Baby feet

—- The nice neighbors have a 9-month old girl and I get to play gramma beloved aunt. —-

Wage a battle against embitterment and take part in Grace in Small Things. Thanks to Schmutzie, as always.

Damn, damn, damn. I really did have the best intentions to keep this place a little more current this month. But first there was a bored board meeting to attend. Then a corporate event last night. And somehow, here we are at June 4th (WTF y’all? JUNE??) it’s 7:55 a.m. and I’m sitting here in my office wanting nothing more than to put my head down on my desk and take a little nap.

……zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…….

Annnnnyyyyyywayyyyyyyyy.

I’ve been reading alot lately. ALOT. My commute to the office is 35 minutes each way – on the L. Nothing for me to do but stare out the window or people-watch…or read. I love to read, so I think it’s wonderful – BUT…books are heavy. And they take space to store. And we already have six bookcases that are crammed FULL of books. And there’s boxes that haven’t been unpacked that have books in them.

And then there’s the times that I’m only half-way to the office and I realize I have two pages left and panic sets in because I still have 17 minutes before I get to work and then oh mah holy hell, I’ve got to ride home again and what will I do because I’ll be bored silly and and and…so must buy more books before the day ends.

And did I mention that books are heavy?

So. Ehem.

When I received an Amazon gift card in the mail (credit card points), I did what any awesome wife would do. I asked Mr. Hot if there was anything that we needed to round out the massive post-move-to-Chicago purchases we had been making to replace all of the shit we figured we could do without before we left Ann Arbor.

(Seriously, I think that for everything we tossed there, we’ve bought something to take its place here.)

He looked at me and said, “I think you should buy a Kindle.”

Now, before I tell you more, you have to understand that I was adamantly opposed to EVER purchasing one of these because there’s something in my makeup that believes a book is a work of art. It has a smell and a feel to it that creates an energy that becomes part of the words you’re reading. How was I going to be transported to the world of the characters by a piece of plastic? If I stuck my nose down into the screen, was I going to be able to smell the slight mustiness escaping from my worn copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?

I looked back at my darling husband, squinted my eyes, wrinkled my nose and responded, “Meh.”

Then I opened up my laptop and started reading about what I would have at my fingertips. Bestsellers. Free, out of copyright books that I never got a chance to read. New authors and award winners.

And if I was mid-way through a southbound train ride and got to the last page?

No biggie. And no heavy. Fifteen hundred books fit on this thing that weighs less than my wallet when I forget to empty the change out for a couple of weeks.

And that did it. It made up my mind for me.

In the past week, I’ve read:

- Two-and-a-half Michael Harvey novels
- An issue of Electric Literature and
- The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair

ASIDE: Which reminds me – I copied a passage from The Jungle that I know you all will appreciate –

Surely it is moderate to say that the dishwashing for a family of five takes half an hour a day; with 10 hours as a day’s work, it takes, therefore, half a million able-bodied persons — mostly women to do the diswashing of the country. And note that this is most filthy and deadening and brutalizing work; that it is a cause of anemia, nervousness, ugliness, and ill-temper; of prostituion, suicide, and insanity; of drunken husbands and degenerate children–for all of which things the community has naturally to pay.

Because, really…now we can blame everything on having to wash dishes…which is exactly what I told my mother when I was 11. /Aside

Annnywayyyyyyyyyy.

And while I’ll never, EVER, stop loving the feel of a much-read paperback or the smell of cracking open a new hardcover, I have to say that I’ve named my piece of plastic “Preciousssssssssssssssssss”.

—- Why does the term philistine come to mind? —-