the hardest part is saying goodbye…

I lost my beloved dog of fifteen years today.

I wasn’t sure how I would feel. I sort of thought I’d be all right. Maybe shed a few tears…but I really thought I wouldn’t be that bad.

I was right. I didn’t feel bad.

I felt devestated.

Buster was my puppy (and yes, even at 15, he was still my baby puppy). We got him when I was eight. I wanted a hamster…we ended up with a dog. He was the funniest, weirdest dog ever to exist. Buster was not one to perform on command. He knew a total of zero tricks, couldn’t sit or stay and thought going outside was meritous of getting a treat. He didn’t really walk, he pranced. He didn’t like other dogs, probably because he was in denial that he was a dog. He would run around outside in circles, stop abruptly and have a coughing fit. He was a nervous, neurotic little dog that freaked out when a storm was coming, when he met a new person or when he heard a doorbell on television.

Seriously. He fit in perfectly with the rest of us.

And he was a sweet dog. Really, he had the sweetest temperment of just about any animal I’ve ever known. Up until he was maybe 13/14 he could not sit by himself ANYWHERE. If there was an open lap or an open set of feet, rest assured that he would be on top of you in a manner of minutes. No matter how horrible my day was, I knew that the minute I walked in the door, I’d hear him scamper to the door and greet me with a wagging tail and doggie kisses (which I hated at the time, but right now would give just about anything for). He was the one who shared my sandwiches when I couldn’t finish the other half, ate my bagels some mornings when I left them within his reach, the one who would join me on walks around the neighborhood and the one who took naps with me on the couch. I don’t quite know what I’m going to miss most.

I’ll miss his big brown eyes that would look up at me after exclaiming “BUSTER, can you please leave me alone so I can enjoy the rest of my dinner”…and then instantly feeling bad. I’ll miss his doggie kisses when I’d been crying and all I wanted was a little affection. I’ll just miss him. My dog. My baby.

Rest assured he lead a very nice life. This was a dog that had free roam over the house until just a few years ago. He was never caged. He never had to do any tricks. He got treats for going outside…or just sometimes because he was cute. He had a family that adored him and refused to kennel him when they went on vacation because they were afraid that he’d be scared that they wouldn’t come home. Most of all, he had my dad, who in the final days of Buster’s life, showed more love and kindness unlike any I’ve ever seen. This is a man that barely slept for three days, only leaving the dog’s side if he had to, sleeping downstairs in case Buster had to go out. When Buster could barely walk, it was my dad that carried him outside, cleaned up after him and constantly told him “It’s ok, buddy. You’re a good boy. You’re okay.”(I’m crying just thinking about it). My dad’s was the last face Buster saw and I know the face that he will miss most. That’s the kind of life Buster had.

I know he’s in a better place now where he’s free of sickness and pain, and believe me, that little animal was in a lot of pain the last year or so of his life. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. I’d had him most of my life. He was as much my sibling as Nicole or Erik…and the fact he’s gone hurts like hell. Buster was another chapter in my childhood that came to an end. I don’t know if I’ll ever want another dog…I don’t know if I could ever truly love another animal quite like I loved Buster. I think because I still had that childhood devotion to him. We had Buster since he was two months old, when he was a little black mop of a thing that barked and ran and chewed on dirty underwear (true story). I’m not eight years old anymore…and I don’t think that I have the capability to love another animal like that. People tell me “of course you will”. But I know me. And I really don’t think I’d ever be able to love another dog who, for me, would always be a poor replacement for my Buster.

And now I have to say goodbye to someone that I loved so much (although sometimes I didn’t know it…or show it) for fifteen years.

So goodbye my dear sweet friend. I hope that wherever you are you’re happy and healthy…and know that you were so loved and you’ll be missed forever.

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this is probably not why instant messanger was invented…

MOM: how are you – long time no see
MOM: so, what have you been doing lately
ME: couldn’t we have done this verbally…especially since we are sitting less then 10 feet away from eachother
ME: i understand words are hard to form when you have a hangover
ME: but doesn’t the computer screen hurt your eyes?
MOM: i thought you were the chld who liked to use her imagination
ME: pssh…that was like fifteen years ago. I think I sold my imagination in college for a case of natural light.
MOM: actually, i was telling dad, I think rum is my drink
MOM: no hangovers, i don’t feel cloudy – great buzz. AA here I come
ME: ohhhhs lucky!
ME: maybe you could make some friends there
ME: i bet you’d find my friend dewey there
ME: then you could introduce us
MOM: i thought i saw him parked on the street thismorning
ME: in his car?
MOM: on his harley
ME: or on a lawn?

To clarify, my mom and I went to a bar to hear a band that my mom needed to see. Since I’m the most fun child (and the only one of a drinking age), I went with her. We met a few of my friends there, including Kristine, who, like me, appreciates polos, alcohol and sitting in judgment. We make a fine team.

I should preface by saying that I’m not a horrible snob. Just a regular one. While I may not be the hottest person at a bar, I always make sure I am the best dressed and the best groomed. Yesterday, for example. I had on wide legged khackis, a yellow lacoste polo, pearls and flip flops. Informal, yet cute. As we walked into the bar I realized I was dressed VERY wrong. Had I been wearing a cowboy hat, cutoff jeans and a 70’s shirt (or perhaps a tee shirt that said “I’m with stupid”), I might have fit in better. Oh, and had maybe six or seven tequila shots.

I have perfected the “bitch face” as I like to call it for when I am in a bar and only want to converse with the people I came with. With my ensemble and standoffish expression, I was easily the most elitist person there. As we looked around and people watched (and watched the gross leather wearing dude sitting next to my mother strike out every time he spoke to a woman), I pointed to a portly dude with a flannel, zz top beard and trucker hat and said to my mom “think i should go introduce myself to the future mr. stacey?”. she about died and I continued my observation (aka judgment) of the rest of the crowd. The band was pretty good…but when my mom asked if I was having a good time and I responded “well, it would be better if they played my favorite song,” my mom looked at me half-curious, half-terrified of what I would say. “Duh, ‘All I Need’ by Jack Wagner” (if you have never heard this song, I suggest you download it. now. You are missing out). “Think they know it??”

We then decided it would be a good time to leave.

i hate small angry woman

So, since I started my new job and am not on the road 24/7, I’ve made it my personal goal to get healthier and lose some weight. I’ve tried every diet known to man (and have failed at every. single. one. of. them.). So this time I decided no diets, just changing my eating habits and not depriving myself…just eating in moderation.

And exercise. Lots of exercise. I never thought I’d be one of those people that busts out of work to hit the gym. I used to make fun of those people. “Ha,” I’d think, “You fools–you’re are off to sweat and be miserable at the gym and I’m on my way to dinner with my friends where I will demolish chicken and pasta with a goatcheese sauce and dried cranberry, several gin and tonics and a huge piece of chocolate cake” (quite possibly my favorite meal EVER–cheese, booze and chocolate. all the things that make the world go round). Unfortunately this mode of thinking caught up with me…so now I am one of those people. And I’m finding I really LIKE working out after work. Especially since moving back to Cleveland, I’ve found myself ACHING for some “me time”…and my daily battle with the elliptical provides me that. Since I’m ridiculously competitive like every other member of my family (seriously, who else gets angry and all gloaty during a friendly game of Trivial Pursuit? The D-Squad, that’s who), I have competitions with myself. Like…can I go for 46 minutes instead of 45…or can I push a little harder until “Bye Bye Bye” is over. While this is all well and good…sometimes I feel like my arms and legs are going to fall off.

Since I started watching and working out, I decided the best way to keep tabs on myself is to start going to weight watchers. now, I ADORE weight watchers. I think they have a great program and you can actually EAT and enjoy food (and I do love food).

This is what happened at my meeting.

I go to step on the scale, confident I’ve lost weight. My clothes are fitting looser and my torso is becoming more defined. I smile at the small angry woman with a bad perm and sort of feel sorry for her. I’d be angry too if my hair looked like. I hand her all of my papers and step on the scale. She scans it and looks at me and says, “Hmm, down a little” (meaning half a pound). Now, it wasn’t just in what she said but THE WAY SHE SAID IT. It was like she was judging me and didn’t believe I was sticking with the program. So now, not only am I pissed because I kill myself every day at the gym and have all but given up booze and chocolate (which is a harship, believe me) all to lose HALF A POUND. Trust me lady, you don’t need to make me feel bad, I already do.

I wish I would have yelled at the woman like I wanted…some sort of variation of “Don’t give me that look lady…I’ve busted my ass every day at the gym for the past week, wanting to kill mr. elliptical and whoever thought crunches would be a good idea. So please don’t sit there and make ME feel bad about myself…especially when I’m not the one with the hair starring ever bad perm come to life,” Fortunately I had the foresight to keep my mouth shut. I like the meeting and I love the leader, Jen. While it would have been sweeeeeet to tell her what I thought, I’m glad I just glared at her, grabbed my bag and sat down for the rest of the meeting.

Afterwards I met my best friend for lunch (where I definitely consumed a million calories of chicken, spinich dip and cheese) and pedicures. Definitely what I needed. So while my run this morning was definitely canceled out by my calorie-fest, it was definitely worth it.

“Put them in my purse, they’ll never know!”

I haven’t blogged for awhile. I sort of forgot I even had this. So I’m going to make it a point of trying to post something at least once a week.

Big news is the vie de stacey is this: my best friend had a baby! Nathan is perhaps the cutest and best baby ever. Sweet temperment, gorgeous olive complexion…and falls asleep when his father’s twentysomething friends are over playing Rock Band and “Battleshitfaced”.

What is Battleshitfaced you ask? It is the brainchild of C’s husband, J-Sark and his compadres from college. It appeared to be a game of quarters with added features of battleship. There was a (homemade) game board and tiers of glasses. Rules changed during the course of the game and since I was the only sober one, I got to drive to Giant Eagle to buy more beer…and subsequently steal a box of girl scout cookies that were sitting in the middle of the beer cooler. The exchange between S and I went something like this:

Me: Hey, there’s a box of Samoas
S: (looks around) Should we take them?
Me: Um, yes! Why wouldn’t we.
S: Because technically it would be stealing.
Me: But they’re SAMOAS.
S: (thinks about it for a minute) you’re right. It would be a waste for the cookies to get ruined sitting in the beer cooler. Obviously the original owners didn’t care much for them.
Me: We will give them a home that appreciates them…they’re much better off with us.
S: Shit, I think that’s a cop! (pointing to rent-a-cop in the store)
Me: quick, put them in my bag, they’ll never know!

We then bought three cases of crappy beer so we could aid the boys in their ridiculous game of Battleshitfaced…and devoured the box of cookies in record time.

For the record, stolen girl scout cookies tast waaaaay better then cheap beer.

"Put them in my purse, they’ll never know!"

I haven’t blogged for awhile. I sort of forgot I even had this. So I’m going to make it a point of trying to post something at least once a week.

Big news is the vie de stacey is this: my best friend had a baby! Nathan is perhaps the cutest and best baby ever. Sweet temperment, gorgeous olive complexion…and falls asleep when his father’s twentysomething friends are over playing Rock Band and “Battleshitfaced”.

What is Battleshitfaced you ask? It is the brainchild of C’s husband, J-Sark and his compadres from college. It appeared to be a game of quarters with added features of battleship. There was a (homemade) game board and tiers of glasses. Rules changed during the course of the game and since I was the only sober one, I got to drive to Giant Eagle to buy more beer…and subsequently steal a box of girl scout cookies that were sitting in the middle of the beer cooler. The exchange between S and I went something like this:

Me: Hey, there’s a box of Samoas
S: (looks around) Should we take them?
Me: Um, yes! Why wouldn’t we.
S: Because technically it would be stealing.
Me: But they’re SAMOAS.
S: (thinks about it for a minute) you’re right. It would be a waste for the cookies to get ruined sitting in the beer cooler. Obviously the original owners didn’t care much for them.
Me: We will give them a home that appreciates them…they’re much better off with us.
S: Shit, I think that’s a cop! (pointing to rent-a-cop in the store)
Me: quick, put them in my bag, they’ll never know!

We then bought three cases of crappy beer so we could aid the boys in their ridiculous game of Battleshitfaced…and devoured the box of cookies in record time.

For the record, stolen girl scout cookies tast waaaaay better then cheap beer.