Handling Soup

As a child, I pretended I was missing a hand.

I can't quite remember what instigated this forgery; possibly an after-school special about a handicapped kid, or maybe it coincided with 1989, a.k.a. the year my little brother got super cute. Either way, I decided that this was an appropriate way to get both attention and pity from everyone.

The idea came to me in the parking lot of Marie Callendar's, just before my family walked inside for dinner. The genius of it swept over me, and I became flush with excitement and anticipation. I pulled my right hand into my neon green sweater, made a fist, and pushed my hand back through the sweater until just the backside of my palm was showing.

Success!

I walked through the swinging door, passed the display case of $5.99 pies, and was presented with my first opportunity for sympathy. One of the waiters was taking his break behind the counter. I smiled gently and gave a meek, handless wave.

I'm pretty sure he still thinks about me and gets misty-eyed.

No one else seemed to notice my handlessness as we walked to our table for seven. I started to think that I should have saved this ailment for a venue with more public exposure. But I wasn't about to let this outing go to waste. My mind was spinning as I tried to find a solution.

And then... like a ton of bricks...

"I'll have the salad bar."

The lady behind me noticed immediately, and watched my every move while I balanced a plate on my handless arm and used my "good arm" to fill it with lettuce, ranch dressing, and banana chips. I carefully set my plate down at the end of the bar, and prepared to attempt serving myself a bowl of delicious potato cheese soup. The lady was now joined by her gal pal and I heard them collectively hold their breathe as I grabbed the soup ladle.

I became a graceful machine, scooping and filling, and filling and scooping the thick, yellowish soup into the bowl that was anchored in the crick of my elbow. The final scenes of the movie Ice Castles flashed in my mind, where the blind girl lands her triple lux at the championship ice skating competition.

I was beating the odds.
I was defying social preconceptions.
I was playing the hand I wasn't dealt.

I didn't see her coming because I was busy looking back at my adoring audience of gal pals and giving another gentle smile.

"What are you doing?"

The shock of my sister's arrival sent my obscenely overfilled bowl flying back into the heated vat of soup, and thick spatters of potatoes and cheese onto my face. My eyes darted back and forth between the gal pals, my sister, and the slowly sinking bowl.

My sister took mercy on me and walked away shaking her head. Aware of the gal pals still standing and staring, I looked at the sinking bowl, gave a this-is-my-burden sigh, picked up my plate, and walked back to our table.

With a limp. Just in case.

I Love You 11-10-73

Today is my parents 35th anniversary.

Would have been.

I really wanted to write and come up with something cute and clever and poignant.
Blah blah blah.

I can't.

I'm still a kid.
I want to go home.
I want to live with my brothers and my sisters.
I want my mom and dad to be together so I can give them their anniversary present and be at our old house and watch old family movies and talk about memories that don't involve the divorce, because the divorce would have never happen.

I can't.

So instead I'll sit here and twirl my mom's wedding ring around my finger, stopping every once in a while to read the inscription on the inside...

I Love You 11-10-73

Even though I stole it from my mom, I wish I wasn't the one wearing this ring.

Lindo Is Our Groomer

Why does Lindo listen to his Christmas mix tape in March?*

Why does Lindo ask me for Rocky Balboa's autograph? not Sylvester Stallone's, but Rocky's.
I do not know either of them.

Why does Lindo question if Beethoven is (not WAS) married?

Why does Lindo yell instead of speak?

When did Lindo start saying "OH my God"? When will he stop?

Who taught Lindo how to "pop-n-lock"?

Why does Lindo tell me I'm a "berry good girl"?

Why does Lindo bring in fake order forms and ask us to buy chocolate from his son?

Why does Lindo say that all Asians are the same because they all have the same eyes?

What will Lindo do wih the septic tank that I ordered online for him?

*I believe the answer to this lies in the song "Feliz Navidad." Lindo loves this song. I do not need to ask why.

If You Just...

I walked into the Avalon in Hollywood this past month and inadvertently caught the end of a Janelle Monae show.
Wholey Moley.
You might want to think about learning all about this.
Here she is singing Nat King Cole's "Smile."
I took this picture, then got booted out. The best part was when the security guard asked for my memory card; by that time I had wound up my lovely role of film and placed it safely in my pocket.
Yay film.

Hammerheads

Ang, Scout, and I drove up to see our Grama Doris this month. We stopped along the way to take pictures of the places that have not changed since we were kids.

There aren't many left, but this is one of them.

Going to see Grama Doris was always the best kind of weekend, and still is. Whenever we see the oil rigs off the side of the 2-lane highway, it means we're close.

My giant, iron friends, stuck in their perpetual bow, pointing us in the direction of milkshakes, AM radio, and the river.

I drive straight, and glance to the side.

Hi guys.

The Professional

This wasn't the first time Mary was soaked in pee and looking like a cavewoman. In my 3 AM just-got-woken-up haze, I couldn't quite make out the words coming from her face that was positioned two inches from mine. But there were a few that came across, a few that I was very familiar with.

"Mel.....please....wet the bed......please....embarrassed....please."

I still had only one eye open and looking through the peephole that was made between my sisters armpit and the pillow, I could see the still, sleeping figure in her bed across the room that was Mary's best friend, Sarah S.

Sarah S, who was pretty and cool and listened to George Michael and had a perm.
Sarah S who was not a bed wetter.
Sarah S who could possible end her friendship with my sister when she wakes up to find that Mary has peed all over the bed, the sheets, the blankets, herself, and yes, Sarah S.

I was the resident bed wetter of my family. It defined me from the ages of 2 to 9 (okay, 11). They called me "Smelly Melly"; they still do, but have shortened it to a simple "Smell."

Mary was the clean one. I don't know how else to put it. She was so clean. All the time. The only unclean part of her life was the side of her room that was inhabited by me.

I knew what I had to do.

The sheets were wet and cold. As I shifted from left to right and back to left trying to find the driest position, I began to have an odd sense of self worth. It was as if I were some kind of professional who had been called in. Like when the government needs to infiltrate a big bad drug cartel so they cut a deal with the street smart kid who got locked up because of his affinity for cocaine. The outcast was becoming the hero.

I slept soundly that night, knowing that when I woke up in the morning my sister would have a new found love and admiration for me, and my family would finally see the value of my undersized bladder.

I couldn't wait for the sun to burst through our horizontal blinds and for my new life to begin.

"Oh..... my..... god!!!!! Ugh no way! What are you doing here?!?!"

Ok, this may not go as I had hoped.

"Mary, your sister peed everywhere!"

I turned towards Mary, awaiting her well thought out response/defense of me.

And that's when I saw it.

She was embarrassed. It didn't matter that I had slept in her pee all night and sacrificed my pride and comfort. It didn't matter that i had saved her from rumors of a sleep-over-gone-wrong the next day at school. The only thing that mattered was that her little sister had peed all over her best friend, and that was mortifying.

She said the only thing she could.

"Geez Melanie, that's really gross. It's, like, so gross. Sorry, Sarah, she can't help it. She does it, like, every night."

I stared at her for a moment then shrugged my shoulders.

And back to outcast.

Attn Former Babies

This is the first in a series of notices that Adults will be playing Aug 24th at Daiquiri Attackeri during Sunset Junction.
Some things to expect: guns, meows, and wedding dresses.
Start napping now. You'll need the rest.
PS KB snorts her coke by the glass, ya'll.

Garfield Minus Garfield

Above is a Garfield cartoon minus Garfield aka my new favorite funniest thing I've ever seen. Go look at more. http://garfieldminusgarfield.net
Maybe they should re-release Garfield the Movie in this same manner. What I'm trying to say is they should definitely re-release Garfield the Movie in this same manner.
Thanks Gabe.
PS U.S. Acres. Anyone?

Finding Darryl Hannah

I'd been meaning to visit the Statue of Liberty since I saw the movie "Splash." So, although I didn't meet/rescue a naked mermaid, it was still glorious.

FYI

I love when people write important information in random places addressed to everyone and no one, in particular. It makes me feel like I'm in a secret society.

Jenny O

My friend Jenny O plays my favorite songs.
We go to small venue concerts together. It's kinda our thing.
Ain't she a beaut...

Live Free or Diner

Mary and I took the J train to Marcy and walked west on Broadway until we arrived at what I would have had no problem being my final destination, in general.

We sat at the bar.

"Molly sent me."

-----flashback-----"Mel, when you're in New York, go to Marlow and Sons in Brooklyn. Eat their food."

The waiter had locks upon locks of curly red hair that all crowded to a halt on the forefront of his head. His recommendations were firm and gentle, and he spoke of the Faro Primavera like my Grandma speaks of her father.

So we ordered it.

And the Market Veggie Salad.

And the Goat Cheese Salad.

And the Hamburger with fries.

And coffee. Oh, the coffee.

I wanted to see what else they had under their delicious sleeve. But alas, I was completely satisfied. I could have ordered and eaten for hours. Years, possibly.

"Thanks for coming, girls."

"Thank you for cooking."

The Williamsburg Bridge was glowing gray and pink while we walked back over it to Manhattan.

Taking Out the Trash

I've been running around the Jackie O Reservoir the past few days.  I listen to music simultaneously.  When "Time to Pretend" by MGMT comes on, I raise my arms high into the air, approximately 20 degrees forward from my head.  Then heavy streams of black, rotten trash begin blasting from my fingertips and into the sky where it all disappears.  When the song ends, I'm able to inhale all the way down to my toes.  

Go Funk Yourself

Do yourself a favor and go to this show.  All the cool kids will be there asking, "How is she not the biggest effing rockstar on the planet?"  Feel free to sing along, 'cause no one will be able to hear you over her windpipes anyways.  Get some new dance moves from the pretty gay boys on your right and feel wonderfully inadequate to the pretty black girls on your left. She'll make you feel like old times, even if you weren't alive back then.  When it's all over, you'll feel like you've been beaten within an inch of your life, but still asking for seconds.  This is Nikka Costa. Learn about it.  

PS That picture up there, I took it. 

adults

Kahlea and I are a band now.
We have hits. Two of them. Possibly three, as soon as we release the song "Kahlea, This is My Passport Photo" onto the Interweb.
Adults also has a few honorary members (Danny), and one probationary member (Rob aka Robo Ono).
Walter 2.o is our manager. This is because he is super awesome at "marketing ploys."
Chad takes photos of us and orange street cones. Also, big black luxuy vehicles can be in the background.
We will be touring with Dirty Coyote (Short Haired Mike Wilson and Gary) this summer, co-headlining the Things That Make You Go Boo Tour.
So, we're the worst.
You will probably be a fan, aka Former Baby.
PS We're a genie in a bottle, baby.

Melmorial Day

So, my holiday was great fun had by all. Or at least I know my dodgeball league had a fantastic time. Ben the Hero and I spent 20 minutes water-gunning the girl I call "The Useless Dancer" from the safety of our overturned floating chair. Hysterics.
Personal thanks to swimming pools, water guns, short shorts, colt 45, and corn.

Timbotron

My dad sent the 5 of us an email reminding that it's our little Timmy's birthday today. Like we could forget. The RE:'s started showing up in full force, with everyone writing his/her fave Tim memory.

Sarah: So, my favorite baby memory of Tim is from the birthday party when we dressed him up like a girl in a pretty, pink dress. "It's Timmy and the Punkers; it's Timmy and the Punkers! Timmy's a total... Punker."

Mary Lee: Well... I have memories of Tim when I wasn't with him.... But, I guess I could say I remember taking Tim and his friends to Ralph's market when he was little. We bought like all this guy stuff like TV dinners and beef jerky. Oh, and I let him drive mom's car home. He really sucked at driving. Then there was this time we went to Vons. I don't know. But it's a really good memory I have cuz it was just me and Tim; that's the main thing. Oh yah, and CHUNK! You little sausage-link finger baby!

Angelo: Well this is kind of a weird one, but it's big for me and Tim. I was trying to get Tim into Metallica at an early age. Like seven. So i was having him listen to the "And Justice for All" album. Now, in the song "Eye of the Beholder," during the second part of the guitar solo by Kirk Hammett, it breaks into this Lydian scale, which is very Egyptian sounding. Apparently Tim's a musical genius because 2 weeks later he came to me and was all, "Oh man, listen to this part, listen to this part." The Phrygian scale started to play and Tim looked at me and said," P-pyramid... pyramid." He was so small! He connected a piece of music to a cultural idiom! And the only word his seven year old brain could connect it to was "pyramid." So weird for that age! Haha, he was trying to get into Metallica, but he was watching Disney movies, too.

Me: On one of the mornings waking up in Yosemite, Tim, who was sleeping in one of the top bunks of our Pace Arrow motor-home, swung his tiny legs over the end of the bed. I remember looking at his tired little limbs dangling in front of me and thinking how his feet looked very small and amphibian-like somehow. At that point in my life, it was the cutest thing I had ever seen.

Tim himself: Goo goo ga ga.

Mom: He picked a scab after he fell and he had it for two years. Also, he drew a tank in his journal each day in kindergarten. People thought he was fixated on war and destruction, but it was really just the only thing he knew how to draw with confidence, sooooo tank is all you get.

Dad: The pig. *

Do I even need to say it, Tim? We love you. We're so glad you came.

*I will save the pig story for another blog. Really great. And there's video footage to go along with it.

Coverage

I have an umbrella.
Protection!
I don't get wet, I don't get burned
It's pretty, with little soldiers
They carry guns. Muskets, actually.

Sometimes I open it
indoors.
You know, for monsters on chandeliers
Or leaks in the roof.
It fits politely in small spaces.

That big old hole in my umbrella
I guess I missed it.
Like the six hairs on my knee
Now I think, that big old hole
It's been there for years.

Dear Camera

I love you. No one else can make me feel the way you do. I know we have our problems, like when I drop you and then you don't work quite right. But I'd still pick you over those new cameras, the ones with the batteries and memory sticks. When I look at my bank account, and see it dwindling, I sigh and think of all the fun and anxiety we've been having. I promise to buy you a new strap this week, and maybe I'll even clean all your lenses. Today you took a picture of my grandpa holding his dog that I get to keep forever, even after he's gone, even after all the computers crash. Thank you, camera. You make everything better. You make everything ok. Thank you for letting me hide behind you.
Love, Melanie

OH MY GOAT

Talking Goat
Please click on that pictue above.
I am still crying. This is good; like Fabio-breaking-his-nose-on-a-seagull-during-a-rollercoaster good.
Thank you, Tim. You've moved up the short list to "most favorite brother." Sorry, Ang, but what have you done for me lately?

Do It, Dewitt

The Dodgers played The Mets tonight and I had a Dodger Dog with mustard and relish. Rookie Blake Dewitt hit an in-the-park homerun. This is a big deal. The 8 year old with cotton candy face told me so. I had no idea. I just yell and jump up and down when everyone else does. Oh, and I'm super good at wearing blue and white.
Here we go Dodgers, here we go. Clap-clap.

The Mexico City Bus Trip

I was thinking about my parents today. More specifically, I was thinking about a bus trip that we all took together from Guanajuato to Mexico City in 1988.

So let's see, the bus driver was sleepy. That's a good place to start. It was a night drive. My mom stayed up with him, sitting on the metal rail next to his seat, talking to him in Spanish about whoknowswhat, and wiping the windshield with her bandanna every few minutes. The windshield wipers were sleepy, too.

Dad stayed in the back with us where, let's see... oh yah, Mary Lee (11 years old) peed in her jacket because there were no bathrooms and few rest stops on this overnight bus ride. Let me make myself a bit more clear: she took off her purple/midnight blue jacket, made it like a diaper, and went for it. At 3am, this seemed like a great decision.

Ang (9), Tim (3), and I (6) kept ourselves busy playing MASH. When we asked Tim, who he wanted to put in his "WHO WILL YOU MARRY?" section, he said

"Dick."

"Ok, Tim."

Sarah, just newly a teenager, was preoccupied waiting for her breasts to get bigger. She may have been crocheting a pink vest, as well.

Morning rolled around and we all felt accomplished. Our trip was almost over. Soon we would be in Mexico City. Ooh, Mexico City. I was gonna buy a shitload of candy and probably a Robocop doll. I remember staring out the big dirty windows, trying to match up the water spots to other drivers' faces. Then...

"Angie! Look at the huge tire! Haha! It's racing us."

It was, and winning at that. Hmm. Strange.

The bus started to rock, slightly. It is uncanny how well a huge bus can hide the fact that one of its wheels has decided to venture out on its own.

The rescue bus pulled up about 2 hours later, full of confused, yet welcoming passengers.
When we got inside, we realized just how nice and roomy our last piece of shit bus had been. My dad systematically began picking each one of us up and placing us carefully on random bus riders' laps.

Mexico City was incredible. I think. I don't really remember that part. But the point I'm trying to make is WHAT THE HECK?! seriously, WHAT THE HECK?!

If they could get through that catastrophe, then what was so damaged that they couldn't stay together? They were a team. We all were. And I know I don't understand, yet, but come on. The bus that was falling apart should have been some kind of glue for them... some kind of cheesy metaphor.

Whatever, it's late and my mind is wandering. I'm gonna go read some William Meredith and try to feel like everything makes sense.

Not Knowing, Not Caring

I just spent the better part of the last two days taking photos for my friend Nikka's album. It was my first "real" photo shoot. It pretty much went like this...

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing.

"Thank you so much, Nikka. I had no idea what I was doing."

"Mel, I know. And I don't care."

Hillside Campus

This changed everything.

Ms. Cormet, Do You Sew?

"Melanie, Dr. Winters needs your help with a cat up front."

Hearing my name over the intercom has always made me uneasy. Like just before the gun goes off at the start of a swim race that I won't be winning.

"Be right up."

"Melanie, this is Ms. Cormet and she's veeeeery worried about Bobby Sox here, so we're going to take a couple pictures of the little baby."

Ms. Cormet already had mascara all over her face. She took the term "blubbering mess" to a whole other level. Also, I had not seen this much pink before in my life. Her hair was unreal. And fake. But, it worked because so were her lips and her eyes and her breasts and her Gucci cat bag and her so on and so forth.

It was 4:45pm. I'm off at 5pm.

I walked Bobby Sox to the X-ray room and put on my red lead gown and blue lead gloves. Bobby Sox was swallowing. Constantly. Hmm.
I took a shot from her trachea to her pelvis.

Nothing.

There's usually nothing. Which is nice, because then we can tell the owner, "It's nothing."
Now, occasionally I get this intuition. NOT the one they promise you when you're a little girl that's supposed to help you with men and cooking casseroles, but one that tells me "That is not a real Gucci cat bag" or "Take an X-ray of this cat's head." So...

"Holy shit!"
I do not use this exclamation mark frivolously.

Now I'm torn. Kitty has swallowed a sewing needle that is now lodged its little kitty head and is moments from disaster. I want to take another X-ray for my "personal collection" because this one will go with her to whichever clinic we refer her to. Effing conscience.

"Ms. Cormet? Do you sew?"

She seemed pleased by this question. I took a close look at her pink-on-pink dress and realized why.

"Yes. I do. *sniffle*"

"Come with me."

So, normally I would tell you that we sent both Bobby Sox and Ms. Cormet to the emergency center, respectively. But not this time. No, you see, Dr. Winters had just gotten back from vacationing "with the family." His huge hands needed some barehanded action in the worst way. It's why he's still working after all these years.

"Melanie, put the baby on the table."

"Ummmm..."

"Now hold on. Tight."

"Shit."

I couldn't explain it if I tried. Maybe if you think about those magicians who float and then make a taxi come out of your purse, it might help you get the picture. I mean, seriously, Dr. Winters has huge hands. Huge, Montana-bred, Vietnam Vet hands.

As Ms. Cormet walked out the door with Bobby Sox, I stood there with Dr. Winters and his mascara/lipstick covered face. We both smiled and sighed, then laughed. Hard.

I taped the sewing needle to a piece of paper, put it up on the wall, and told Dr. Winters he was crazy. And my favorite.

Hiding Out in the Open

Some days hurt
More than others.
I borrow trouble
And it fills my pockets
Until there's no room
For all my change.

A void sits down
And fastens its seatbelt.
Sad songs and old photos
Try to help
But I think
They just like my company.

I'll stay quiet, still
You know anyways.
It isn't nice
To pretend you don't.
Hiding is painful
And feels so much better.

Getting Real w/ Charles Bukowski

This is some of the most profound shit I have seen in some time.

Death Valley

I highly recommend bringing a small child here. Zabriskie Point, 5:30 AM.

Guessing Secrets

"Dad, I have something I want to talk to you about."

It took me a good 7 years to say this.

"Ok, Mel. Name the place."

We met at a Coffee Bean in the valley. Sherman Oaks, maybe. I think there was a Mel's Diner next to it.
He ordered a passion fruit soy tea latte.

I fidgeted. And smiled. "I don't know how to start."

"Ok, well why don't you start by telling Dad why you're anxious."---Sarah had come, too.

Dad put his hand on mine. "Listen, Mel. I already know. And it's Ok. I've known for a while. But I think it's important you say it. We can talk about how you feel."

"Really, Dad? Wow. Like, I mean I hid it so well. Um, like, nooooooobody knew. Oh my gosh, ok. Well, that makes this a little easier, I guess."

"Go ahead, Melbee."

We spent the next hour and a half talking about how i developed body image issues and started throwing up my food in high school. The table we were sitting at was so small and i kept peeling off the varnish as I told my Dad and sister the thing I swore i would never tell anyone. Ever. Deep breaths. Being vulnerable is a rush.

Our's were the only cars left in the parking lot.

"Thanks, Dad.......... Hey, how did you know?"

"Oh.......... Ya, I thought you were gonna tell me you were gay."

Getting Your Parents Back Together

When i graduated from college, both my mom and dad wanted to fly out for it.
They each independently asked my sister, Sarah, to get their plane tickets online for them.
Sarah called me a week later and said she had a graduation present for me.
She had booked their flights for
the same day
at the same time
on the same aircraft
in the same isle.
We wanted them together more than they wanted to be apart. Even thought it was 5 against 2, we lost. But sometimes, we win.
Here they are together in this photo, and on my blog. Ha.

Dogs in Space

Last week, Russians and space travel enthusiasts honored Laika, the first dog/earthling to blast through the atmosphere and go weightless, ever. She was plucked off the streets of Moscow and beat out two other dogs competing for the title. Sadly, she died two hours after takeoff from stress and heat.
Today, I am honoring Scout, the first dog on a rollercoaster, ever. She almost died just after take-off.

Sis

I have two older sisters. Sarah and Mary Lee.
Mary and I used to share a room. I was messy. She was not. Once, Mary got me moved out of our room and into Sarah's for a month. She used to put up tape dividing the room in half. This tape was not to be crossed. Berlin Wall-style.
Now, Mary lives in Manhattan in a 2-bedroom apartment with no roommate. When I visit, we sleep in the same bed.
Sarah used to tie me to the swing set...with jump ropes. Whenever we went swimming, she'd pretend to drown. After 10 minutes of struggling to get her to safety, she would "come back to life." I thought it was real. Every time.
Yesterday, Sarah told me that if anything ever happens to her, she wants me to raise her kids.
I'm glad they exist.
The photograph above is of my nieces, Elaina and Abigail.
They are new sisters.

bread and water

Ryan Bingham and Dead Horses made their network television debut Friday on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno.
Faces were rightfully melted.
They are effing insane.
Buy the album "Mescalito" and enjoy. Look at the cover shot because I took it. Me me me.
PS Me.

Free Dolls

There are some free dolls across the street.
No, really. They're free.
I mean, unless I totally missed the point and the little girl that lives there is part of some radical doll liberation front.
PS Free the dolls! (just in case).

Mara Guana

I just found this photo of me and my old Mexican gang. We were based in Guanajuato, at a park that sat at the foot of a 4 story building inhabited by a priest. We mostly sat on steps. There was the occasional assault, though. I was the obvious choice as gang leader. We called ourselves Mara Guana.
So, front row right to left: Chucho and Lalo. And back row right to left: Peluca, Gordo, Smiley, and me-Blanca. That gesture I'm doing was my signature. I always took that stance before I went in for the kill. It was more of an intimidation factor type thing.
Anyways, we disbanded when they realized my brother Ang was way cooler than me because he knew ninjas back in California.

grama hearts marshmallow

So, there's this dog here. She's little. She's white. She's fulffy. I'm calling her Marshmallow. One week ago, she was stray and running around a schoolyard in Van Nuys. Now, one week later, she's spayed and running around the house in Hollywood.
Marshmallow is sweet like candy. She's taken on the responsibility of making sure all the other dogs' ears are clean. I know, kind of gross, but when you see it happen, it's effing adorable. Also, her preferred method of sleeping is on my head. Again, gross, yet adorable. Everybody wants her and she wants everybody.
Her first day at the dog park, she positioned herself between my feet the entire time. This is no small task, as I spend a lot of my time there running after the other dogs while they run after squirrels that run up into the hills. Marshmallow's next day at the park was like watching Roberto Benini accept his Oscar; only cuter and less annoying. She managed to be in mid-jump pretty much the entire time, landing on various objects, including but not restricted to: bushes, dogs, coffee cups, people. They all seemed to happily welcome her arrival, though; even the bushes.
On Saturday, I'm bringing Marshmallow up to my Grama's house in Springville (2 hours away). Papa died last year and Grama needs a friend. And since Marchmallow never seems to have enough, they'll be a good match. I was explaining Marshmallow's eccentricities to my Grama i.e. her head-sleeping. She said, "Papa would NEVER have let a dog in our bed! Are you sure you don't want to drive up Friday night?"
I already like thinking about Grama and Marshmallow walking down to the river and laying on the rocks. Or Marshmallow watching Grama make pumpkin pie and fried eggs, and getting to be the official taste-tester. This will be all things good. And I already don't like thinking about Marshmallow not being here. *sigh*--like for reals. I think that 2-hour drive might take a little longer this time around.