Sweet Eddie


Oh, Eddie–where do I even begin?

You are such a love bug–except when you're not. And when you're not–well, you're just not.

You have the biggest dog feet I've ever seen.  When you sit with me on the couch, I love to hold your feet in my hands and just feel their weight. It's crazy–and no wonder you trip occasionally on our walks.


You LOVE to be loved–something I don't think you've had much of in your short life.  When we pulled out the garden hose the other day, you ran and hid from us.  Clearly, you were abused somehow, and we'll see to it that only loving hands will touch you ever again.


You aren't very crazy about sharing. Food. Love. Toys. You name it.  We're working on it, though. In a few weeks, I hope you'll understand that there is enough of everything to go around. You will never be hungry again.


So, my little Eddie bear, we'll keep the walks frequent, the kibble plentiful, and the love limitless and you just work on sharing with the rest of us. 

Meet Eddie

Hi!  My name is Eddie!


I'm a very sweet, very handsome 3 year old basset hound boy.  I love to play–I can be pretty silly sometimes.  I also LOVE going on walks.


I was dumped in a city shelter and I was so scared, but then a lady from the basset hound rescue came and got me.  Now, I am living with my foster moms.  They're pretty cool, but I sure would love to have a forever home of my very own. 



If you want to know more about me, please visit www.bhrsc.org


Feeling Stuck

I have been feeling completely discontent with life, lately.

Work is insanely crazy.

Our tiny apartment is constantly a mess because there’s just
no storage anywhere and the clutter is taking over.

The heat and our lack of decent air conditioning are getting
to us—leaving me with absolutely zero desire to cook, garden, or knit—basically
all of the things that make me a better human being.

All I can think about is buying a house—having space of our
very own. But we are HORRIBLE about saving money—absolutely awful.

Also, it’s hard to imagine living in a neighborhood other
than ours—and we can’t afford to buy in our neighborhood, which seriously
breaks my heart.  There is a fixer-upper house
across the street from us that backs up to the liquor store we rightly refer to
as the Murder Mart and a low-income apartment building parking lot and it’s
selling for $495,000.

Our budget is more like $350 k. 

Welcome to Los Angeles.

It’s all just so discouraging.

Add that to the mess I made of my credit in my early 20s,
and we’re just between a rock and a hard place. 
Fortunately, I’ve been working on it—it’s up from 630-something a year
ago to 680-something now.  Decent enough
for an FHA loan, at least, but Catch’s credit is SOOOO much better than mine—it
kills me that we will have to pay a higher interest rate because of my 20s.

I’m so done with this stage of our lives. I want a house. I
want a baby.  I want to feel unstuck from
this place we seem to be stuck in.



I have always thought of the concept of closure as being the
sort of made-up thing that we invent to make ourselves feel better.

I wouldn’t feel so bad about ____ if there had been some

But really, think about a time in your life when closure was

Yes, certainly—you have had an opportunity to speak your
piece—but was that enough? Maybe you feel better in the moment, but does that
feeling stay with you?

In my experience, no. 
In my experience, there is no difference between having time for all the
goodbyes in the world and having no chance at a single goodbye.  At the end of the day, the result is still
the same. Someone you love is gone. For whatever reason, they are gone. And the
only chance you will have to speak to them again is just in your head sometimes
when you’re daydreaming or feeling nostalgic or longing to hear a voice that
you will never hear again.

The only thing that comes close to matching the sort of
satisfied book-closing type feeling that closure is supposed to provide is the
one thing we have been robbed of to begin with: time.

Time will heal the wound. At its own pace, surely, and with
its own definition of “healing,” but it will happen.

To this day, I cannot see blue nail polish without seeing
the painted fingernails of my porcelain skinned high school friend as I gazed
upon her coffin. She has been dead now for more years than she was alive, and I
never got to say goodbye—but I know it wouldn’t have been enough.

I will never eat spaghetti sauce without comparing it to my
grandmother’s.  I told her that I loved her
more times as I sat with her in her final months than I told her in all the
days and weeks and months and years before. It wasn’t enough.

I will never see a man in a cardigan sweater without
remembering my grandfather. I made a point to visit one day toward the end—with
Catch in tow.  We walked in the brilliant
sunshine while he told jumbled stories with jumbled words, and the only clear
thing he said all day was to ask me if it ever struck me how lucky we are just to
be here in this beautiful place on this beautiful day. I could not hope for
more perfect final words from my grandfather, and yet I would take a thousand
less meaningful words if it meant I could hear him say them.

It’s not death that has me thinking about closure, though.
The concept applies to loss in any form, I think—and I blame a lack of it
sometimes for why I continue to think about people long past when I should have
stopped wondering. But really, it has nothing to do with closure and everything
to do with grief. I am mourning the loss of a presence in my life—one responsible
for far more smiles than frowns—and so, even though it is not death, but growth
that has separated us, I suppose time will heal this wound as well.

In the meantime, all I can do is continue to live my life to
the fullest—satisfied in the knowledge that I wouldn’t change it for all the
closure in the world.

Pet Peeve

I have some really strange "issues."  

I love being in the water, but hate having wet skin. I dry off thoroughly & immediately and use a plethora of baby powder to aid the process.

I absolutely positively cannot stand it when my dogs lick themselves.  Anywhere.  Anytime.  (I also can't stand when people make smacking or chewing sounds with their mouths.)

I am a messy, chaotic person by nature, but when I get the (albeit rare) urge to clean, I am going to clean the heck outta whatever I'm cleaning.

I think those things are failrly normal, but the one I find truly interesting is my keys.  When I'm driving, I cannot STAND to have my dangling car keys touch my leg.  It seriously just agitates me.  Most of the time, it's not an issue, but sometimes in certain heels it's unavoiadable no matter what I do.  I think those are the days I come home in a bad mood.


When Time isn’t Enough


A few weeks ago, a good friend of ours found out that her dog, Gus, has cancer. He is 12 ½ years old. 

This morning, he had a seizure, but initially, we all thought it was a stroke.  When we got the call, Catch & I ran down the street to see what we could do to help, and when we arrived, Gus was splayed out on the wood floors struggling to stand up, but he had no control over his legs and really couldn’t walk. It was awful to have to see him like that.

It was about 6:45 am when we got the call, and the vet we all go to opens at 7, so I went with our friend to the vet first thing.  By the time we got there, Gus had control over his legs and was able to walk, but he was completely on edge—hypersensitive and very agitated, and that’s just not Gus.  I’ve actually seen him at the vet before and usually he just sits there and goes with the flow.

Fortunately, it was a seizure and not a stroke, and he was able to go home with his mom—but man, it sure puts things in perspective. I wish I could have just stayed home with my babies all day.

It kills me to know that Gus’ time is coming. Our dogs have been friends since the moment we moved in next door to each other, and I know Twix and Rolo won’t understand what is happening to their friend.

All I can do is hope that Gus’ remaining time with all of us is pain free and filled with steak and snuggles.  We love you, G-dog.


Christmas Eve Hounds


Gus' First California Snow


Making their point on Halloween


Snuggles in our back yard



Recipe for a Happy Hound


It’s been hot this week, but I don’t think anyone has been as miserable as poor Twix & Rolo.  Their schedule has been completely upside down because it’s too hot for walks at the usual times, and they’re not getting nearly as much activity as they need.

Last night, we went for a walk around 8 pm—it was nice out, and all Rolo wanted to do was R-U-N.  He kept bolting off in front of us, then reaching the end of his leash and lurching backward.  Poor little guy.  Even after our walk, he paced around the house whining.  Catch played with him and he whined.  Catch gave him a loofah dog to destroy (he just loves ripping the squeakers out of those things) and he whined.  He didn’t calm down until we went to bed.

So, feeling sorry for my poor little man, I made a bargain with the devil (aka, Catch). It involved getting up at 5:30 am, throwing on some clothes and going for a walk.

Now let’s be clear—you don’t want to KNOW me at 5:30 am.  It took a good fifteen minutes before I could even open my right eye fully.  Catch put her arm across my shoulders and I shrugged her away.  I am NOT a morning person.  Especially when all the melatonin in the world isn’t helping me get a good night’s sleep.

But we walked.  And Rolo was happy.  And the photo above is my content, post-walk little man looking lazily out his window perch.  Shortly after that, he curled up on the couch for a nap.

Man, sometimes I really wish I was a dog.



It's one of those mornings where coffee isn't so much a desire as it is a necessity.

I used to drink it black, but now I use 2 tbsp of organic half & half (organic lasts longer in the fridge!) and about a quarter packet of splenda.

How do you like your coffee?

Side note: I can't wait to cut up that watermelon!

What Happens at Happy Hour

Lala Land has been H-O-T the past couple of weeks.  It’s too hot to cook.  Too hot to walk the dogs.  Half the time, it’s even too hot to swim—at least until the late afternoon when there’s some shade.  Last weekend, the water in my mom’s swimming pool was 87 degrees.  Heated only by the sun.

Our biggest challenge in this weather has been dinner.  By the time we both get home, we’ve been sitting in traffic, the living room is a balmy 87 degrees even though the window a/c unit has been on ALL DAY, and the dogs are splayed out on the floor as close to a fan as they can get.  At 6 pm on Tuesday, our back yard was completely shaded and still 97 degrees.

So, we look at each other from our respective couch cushions, shrug our shoulders, and go out.

Last night we went to Islands in search of mai tais.  I finished two in record time.

But that’s not the point.  The point is that we were sitting in the bar enjoying happy hour prices and somehow we ended up talking about No Doubt / Gwen Stefani.


Catch doesn’t mind her at all.  She even bought the new No Doubt song.  (Side note: their new song gives me road rage.)

So we’re having this conversation about how I think Gwen Stefani sings like a toddler with a cold, and I mention how I feel like every other song on the radio is No Doubt or Gwen Stefani and I am soooo tired of it.  Catch argues with me and asks me what stations I’ve been listening to.  We debate for a few minutes, and then suddenly, this is playing in the bar:


I laugh. Catch laughs.  We joke about someone having overheard our conversation.  The song ends, and we move on.

And then, I kid you not, two songs later, there she freaking is again:


Now, I’m convinced. 

It’s a conspiracy. 

Gwen is taking over the damn world.

Also, this is what happens when I let Catch play with Siri while we're at happy hour: