A new boyfriend

Raise your hand if you saw this link on Twitter or Facebook and clicked on it because you thought I had a new human boyfriend.

I shake my head at you. You should know better, after all this time, my luck with men...

No no. No human boyfriend. But a cat boyfriend?

YES.

A coworker squealed and gave me a hug yesterday morning when I told her that I had -- finally -- procured a cat over the weekend. She even set her coffee down to give me a full, two-arm hug.

I had to set down my breakfast eggs before returning the embrace. As hugs go, it was a high maintenance one.

Our nearby colleague may have thought we were a little too hyper for a cat adoption, but we were recognizing a legitimately momentous occasion. It is, on some level, on par with gaining a human boyfriend.

Too far? I'm not so sure. I'm a champion cat lady who should probably have a cat at all times and who had been without one for two years.

So the new guy's name is Office Max, and the short story behind his name is that he has been living in the office at the shelter where he came from for the last year and some months.

It will be not long at all before you start hearing about him all the time (I've already posted three videos to YouTube, and I got him two days ago), but/so for now I would like to honor the babe who graced my presence for the last 11 years (and who is gratefully still alive and kickin' it, just not living in California with me).

.......

I first met Dibbs when I was 18, through a picture. My family was visiting me at college during my first semester as a freshman, and they showed to me on the viewing pane of their digital camera the new tabby cat they had adopted since I started school. I guess they needed to fill the void I left in my absence, or something.

Also cats are great and they were moving out of a no-cats-allowed rental into a pay-a-mortgage-so-you-can-have-as-many-cats-as-you-want home, so duh.

I made my first venture away from the dorm to my parents' place for Thanksgiving, which was when I first met in person the cat who loved, even then, to curl up on top of crumpled plastic grocery bags.

It's a weird habit, yes, but it was one of the only ways my last (human) boyfriend could sorta, kinda, not really bond with the cat. He would fluff a bag upward to catch some air; Dibbs would watch it above him, then his eyes would follow it the whole distance to the ground where he would then automatically move himself to lie on it.

If you're waiting for more of a climax to that, you can stop. That's all it is. He just lies on the bag. And loves it. Personally I think a blanket would be a little cozier, but his fur is pretty soft so I guess he doesn't need more softness than what he's already working with.

When I came home for my freshman Thanksgiving holiday, it didn't feel like "home" to me. Having moved three times around the country before ever graduating from high school, I had long before abandoned the traditional sentiment of home being the place that houses your friends-since-kindergarten, your retired kindergarten teacher, your favorite restaurants, and your musty bedroom with your third grade spelling bee championship certificate still hung on the wall above 1980s carpet.

For me, I rekindled friendships with a few childhood friends when we moved back to a town we had lived in before; we had one Chinese restaurant that we still actually frequent; and to this day I have never put a hole in my own bedroom wall to hang a picture. It feels too permanent.

I am beyond lucky to have grown up in a loving, safe household, but all that side stuff that many are able to take for granted (a close group of friends to go to prom with, continually excelling on one sporting team, being recognized in school hallways) I wasn't able to take for granted. So for better or worse, "home" in the material sense hasn't necessarily carried a lot of sentimentality with it, and "home" in the up-for-interpretation sense has been where my parents, my brothers, and (more recently) the niece and nephews are.

And where the cats are.

I still don't really use the term "home" to describe much more than whatever apartment I'm currently living in ("I've gotta go home, I have work in the morning"), or to talk about the Midwest (because LA natives don't know the individual states -- I'm sorry, but it's true) when I'm flying to see my family ("I'm going home next week for Christmas").

I've gotten better in my adult years about not hijacking a simple conversation to start rambling on about how I'm so different because I have no traditional sense of home. During that first semester of college, I was learning with some discomfort how to patiently listen to my classmates' woes about missing old friends and their excitement to go home for visits. Half the class couldn't wait to play with their childhood Labrador again, the Wisconsinites couldn't wait to eat some cheese curds, and I just wanted to yell: "I'M SO DIFFERENT!!!!"

(That urge to yell that particular statement hasn't quite gone away, unfortunately).

When I "went home" for Thanksgiving as a college freshman, the sense of detachment to the place where I had spent my last two years of high school was amplified by the fact that my parents weren't even living in the home they were living in when I left for college three months prior. Their new house was very cool and funky looking (in a good way), but my attitude was one of shrugged shoulders and indifference. I really couldn't muster up any excitement beyond that, nor too much grief over the house before.

I was assigned the hide-a-bed in the basement as my sleeping quarters. Being on a nocturnal college schedule, my light was often on after the rest of the Brewers had gone to sleep that week. But the newest, littlest Brewer was still awake, and would follow the light and timidly trot his tiny four feet down the stairs to join me.

Holidays can be a loud occasion with my family, and I think all the noisy, extra humans in the house were stressing him out, and frankly, kind of frightening him. On those holiday-week nights, the basement was calmer, quieter. But also not isolated; I was there. And for me, Dibbs was there.

Diblets would make himself comfortable on the hide-a-bed and snooze while I occupied myself with thinking about my friends back at school, the absence of normalcy in my life, and probably shuffling through trinkets I hadn't taken to my dorm room. I would eventually crash around 3 a.m., and when I woke each day, my kitten friend would still be with me.

I really believe that we made each other feel safe that week, and less alone. And that was the beginning for us, and beginnings are important for the future, especially a long one with several bouts of time in which a pair doesn't always see each other.

For the rest of my college years, my breaks from school created something of a Bailey-Dibbs relationship cycle. And what I mean by that is I was continually in love with him always, more and more in love after each visit, and he was pissed that I kept leaving him. If I was home long enough, we would get back to our purring, snuggling things we had going before, but I always had to rebuild what I had worked so hard for after returning from another semester away.

Even so, I was always able to be more affectionate with the cat than any of the other family members, who lived with him full time. I could throw him over my shoulder for an (albeit quick) snuggle, and they had to catch him when he was too tired to move quickly enough away from their petting.

As time went on, I had even more victories of breaking the personal space barrier with the cat. Let's just say my face has been in his belly much more than one time.

My brother Riley told me once that he came home from somewhere, and the cat started to eagerly take steps toward him, only to back off when he realized it was my brother walking in the door instead of me.

Let's be real: I was winning. The cat race was mine for the keeping.

When I graduated from college and moved back home, and Riley (the technical owner of Dibbs) left for college himself, it was all over for England. Dibbs was fully mine and I fully his. When I left for graduate school four years later, the phone call with my brother was quick. He didn't fight me, or express a lot of sadness at the loss. "Yeah, he's your cat," he simply said, matter of fact, and I prepared the pet deposit for my new place.

Our new place.

In grad school Dibbs quickly became a household name among my classmates. Many of them met him at least once, usually while he slept (i.e. hid) during one of the many get togethers I held at my apartment. If I didn't bring him up in conversation first, then one of my friends would, never missing an opportunity to rib me for my cat obsession.

During my last semester at school, I applied to an internship in Los Angeles. Having grown tired of the Midwestern winters and non-dating scene, I wanted a change. To my disbelief, I was selected for the position. I had less than 24 hours to respond to the offer, and I took it.

It was a short window of time between when I received the offer and when I realized and gasped: "! Oh my God, Dibbs."

I knew I couldn't take him with me. I was going to rent a room in LA, and my cat would vomit and moan and poop in the car during a 2 ½ hour drive; I could only imagine a 2 ½ day journey. There was no way he was going to California, at least not for the short term. I would have to be committed to the region before he could be.

My parents took him back under their roof, and for months I couldn't eat macaroni and cheese with canned tuna mixed in. I would come very close to crying just thinking about how I used to let him lap up the juice from the fish, while I stirred the meat in with the noodles for myself.

Mostly, though, I was surviving and doing pretty well in my new home, spending most of my energy trying to understand stocks and dividends (my internship was at a business journal) and make new friends.

Eventually I got my own place in LA, and made sure it was one that would allow cats.

That was eight months ago.

Curious colleagues and friends have often asked, a little puzzled, why "my cat" doesn't live here with me. Over and over I would explain the situation -- how he doesn't travel well, like really doesn't travel well, how it costs tens of thousands of dollars (really) to privately fly cats cross-country, how getting a new cat would make my life less anxious and more happy yet how taking the final step to get a new cat felt like I would be breaking up with my cat, my beloved, my Dibbs.

It felt like I would be terminating a relationship with someone who had done nothing wrong. Even worse, someone with whom I was mutually in love.

I grew to hate this conversation about "the move" of the cat. It was on par with discussing a really nasty childhood fight with a sibling in therapy -- just didn't want to go there and touch all the still-prevalent emotions.

In the last few months I suppose I have tired myself out, the way a wailing baby will, assuredly, eventually fall asleep. I grew less upset at the feeling of finality of not bringing Dibbs to California and more eager to get a cat in my home approximately right this instant.

When my parents came to visit last month (and did not surprise me by getting off the plane with Dibbs), I stayed in a hotel with them. During their visit, when I would think ahead to my return to my apartment, I imagined that a cat was there. As in, I forgot that I didn't have a cat in my apartment; I just instinctively assumed there was one there, like a migraine aura.

I knew then that it was time.

.....

I love Dibbs so much. Too much, some might argue, but no. It's the right amount. Time and again he has provided me with comfort during my often difficult twenty-something years. Even while on very fun vacations with friends over the years, I would stop to think of him while he and I were apart (not in a crazy obsessed can't-enjoy-my-vacation way, but in a normal amount of crazy obsessed way).

Dibbs always met me at the door and purred before I even picked him up. He slept in my bed with me, something he's done with no one else. He's finally started to, reportedly, get in my dad's lap, an action previously reserved only for moi.

Dibbs used to bite my ankles while I would talk on the phone, because he didn't understand why I wasn't talking to him. My brother Patrick finds this to be incredibly disturbing. I think it is the sweetest thing ever (Patrick also finds that disturbing).

He is in good hands. He is less scared of my parents' two new kitties, and he talks to my dad in the mornings and likes to eat grass outside. (They would like him to go on a walk outside, but as with the plastic bags, he's content to sit, thank you very much). I love him love him love him, but I am finally content with finding a new baby to love, and that contentment is a gift as big as Dibbs and Office Max themselves.

Dibbs was the cat of my twenties*,

*full disclosure, I was 19 in this picture (looks like it was taken last week...)

and Office Max will be the cat of my thirties. Welcome, Baby.

Home sweet home (says Dibbs)

Well, Dibbs was happy to arrive home after a long visit with Grammy and Grampy.

His tail was actually wagging shortly after I brought him inside.

I think he was happy

a) to be out of the car,

b) to finally eat after being restricted so he could travel without getting sick this time,

c) to be away from those kittens who eat his food, and

d) to be away from those kittens who think his tail is such a fun toy.

Did I mention he's happy to be away from the kittens? What can I say, he's a spoiled only cat. Whatever, he loves me and I'm totally okay with that, even if he doesn't play well with others.

Anyway, I miss Grammy and Grampy (aka Mom and Dad), and good old Kansas (who is about to turn 150!), and I will soon miss the leisure of, well, not reading and writing pretty much all the time save for time spent sleeping, sitting in class, and--if you're lucky--eating something that actually qualifies as a "meal" or getting in a work out.

I know what you're saying, "Bailey, you're a total nerd, you're always practically bragging about how you're an old lady who reads and cross stitches and pets her cat and wants to be a writer."

I know, friends, but I have limits. Limits with margins! (Are you reading this, Pastor Dan? That was the topic of his sermon today, about living fully, serving God and His people, but leaving breathing space (i.e., margins) so you're not snapping at people all the time and, ultimately, not really serving people or God with a happy heart which is God's whole point of asking us to bother to serve in the first place. Okay I totally just summarized and probably botched what Dan said,

anyway!

If you go to this here linky (and scroll down a bit once you arrive safely there) you can watch Andy Stanley--the guy whose original sermon series Pastor Dan is modeling--talk to you about limits and margins. And then eventually when it's posted you can go here and watch Dan put his own spin on it.)

Point being. I like to read, yes. I love to write, yes (actually I love more so when I have written something than the actual act itself, but we're not getting into that now). But I also like to color (yes), watch TV, work out, occasionally be social (gasp!) and go out with a friend or two or ten, and then talk way too much and make a couple of people wish they hadn't come out with me. Ha ha. :)

So yes. I am a little frightened of re-entering the study-intense universe. But this break has been freakishly long and I need to just get a move on and quit whining, seriously.

And I'm hoping to do a major tear up cleaning, organizing, rearranging dealio on my apartment tomorrow. We'll see about that--that's the spirit, Bails!

Okay, loves from the newly displaced (?) Bailey and Dibbs. Chat tomorrow, same place, probably different time.

Boyfriend(s)

Just had another (what count are we up to, Brad? 100? 200?) amazing late night convo with Braden. It was so late that driving home my heart was pounding because I was afraid my Mom would be up worrying, but luckily she was sleeping soundly.

Dibbs has just emerged from under my bed, where he was waiting for me. Now he is lying belly-up, ready for some petting.

Here's to Brad and Dibby: love you both. Tons-ies.

The Gym

I've seen this episode a hundred times. Monica: I am not smitten! Phoebe: Oh you are so much the smitten kitten. I can't help but smirk ever so slightly, because I'm a sucker for that line, but when the episode is over I click off the TV. I know it is sapping my positive energy. Mom calls us to dinner. We had a late lunch, so I am not hungry, but I eat a bit. We watch part of another episode of Friends over dinner. Again, I stay until the end of the episode, but then I head to the gym.

I don my sports bra and tank, but decide to tote along my swimsuit as well. I think some hydro resistance will be good for my mind. It is racing. Well not exactly racing, but distraught and back and forth. My best friend's family is going through a crisis, and she needs some space, which I understand, but it is hard for me to provide it, yet at the same time hard for me to run at her with open arms; I am childishly hurt by the distance, knowing I shouldn't be but am nevertheless. My mom is in town visiting, so I am not sleeping in my own bedroom nor using my own shower. The bedroom I am lodging in is a mess. I tried to start shuffling items in between Friends episode number one and dinner, to move my bones and my sludgy, negative thoughts. I need better pay, better hours, more hours. I need one book that strikes my chords, so I can finish and snuggle and meditate in it, take comfort. Small to big, you name it, I want it changed. At the library today I allowed myself only one chick flick to take home, knowing that watching kiss after kiss would not be good for my psyche.

I get to the gym and decide to swim. The lanes are full, so I pause in the hot tub. It is then that I realize how many thoughts I have had in the last hour alone. The lyrics to a song my friends Dan and Holly wrote join the rest of my thoughts. "My mind is racing, but you are keeping pace, Lord." I pray, "please quiet my thoughts." I don't ask that He make me numb, I've learned in the past that ignoring things makes them worse. I simply request rest for the evening.

A lane clears, I seize the opportunity before another buoyant body might. I swim the length of the pool only six times, with breaks between. Wow, I am less prepared for this than I thought. I take peace in the exercise, though, in the deep breaths, in the semi-stillness. I head to the steam room. I am the only one inside the dripping walls. Another man joins me. He moves to lay down in the corner he has chosen, moves and makes noises like a flopping fish. I smile to myself, not out of rudeness but thankful for the entertainment provided. He is precious. He says something like, "Excuse me? Bebe?" All I gathered from it was that he was apologizing for interrupting my steaming session. I offer a smile that says, "you're not bothering me." Another young man comes in, doesn't sit down, just stretches for a few. We can faintly hear his pump-iron iPod tunes while he communes with us. The older man begins doing sit-ups and I think, never seen that before. Hmm. Both men leave and so do I.

I consider changing clothes and walking or lifting before heading home, but decide to soak in the hot tub instead. I let my hair down, gather my things from the locker room, head for my car. My body is warm, like a glowing ember. My feet are red with heat. There is a woman walking to her car, she looks a little sad, perhaps. I look to see if there is a ring on her finger, wonder about her life, how old she is, hope that she will find love and be happy. Maybe she is just tired.

During the drive I switch the radio to the Christian station. Michael W. Smith is singing "God you reign." A second song comes on, the opening lyrics about God knowing the number of stars in the sky. I am reading a book about Abraham. God promised him descendants outnumbering the stars in the sky, and Abraham and his wife Sarah laugh at God, because they are old and barren. They each wonder and fight with God, "how do we become the parents of many nations if we have no child?!" Sarah even lets Abraham sleep with her maidservant to take matters into their own hands and attempt to create an heir. Time passes and God proves his truth by providing them with their own offspring, Isaac. I wonder about my own life, and relate.

One of my best friends is moving far away in August, another told me today he quit his job, is thinking of going back to Ohio or maybe Indiana. I laugh a little bit myself at God for the irony. I can't sit still for two minutes, have spent much of the last two years daydreaming about other places to live, yet He is asking me to be the pillar, to stand in place where I am until further notice. The adventure seeker, the girl who wants to have fish chew on her feet, has been asked to remain in Kansas. And her little cat, too. I know that God will provide the pieces to my creative future eventually, and in the meantime he provides my daily bread, just like he did for S & A. He is teaching me patience, this is becoming pretty obvious to me. Perhaps He wants me to be an example and a resting place for others, my friends running to and fro around the country and the world. A wise sage at the watering hole, available via telephone and email, who can prove that they can make it, since I've made it too. Some days it is just harder to remain at the bit and not charge ahead, is all.

I get home, turn off my engine but listen to the rest of a song. It is not until I close the garage door that I realize the other car is gone. Mom and Riley went somewhere, there is no note. I come into Riley's room to type this. I stop down the hall to give Dibbs a few finger strokes on the head. A few minutes later I realize he has relocated to recline on the floor behind me. Later he gets up to nudge the hard drive tower. Riley has a USB drive that is lit up on the end, red. Curious Dibbs moves his nose to it, and for a second he is Rudolph the Red Nosed CatBoy.

2 Gross Things You May Want to Try

First. The fish pedicure. Heard of it? These little fishy fish nibble on your feet before you get the traditional lotion/polish procedure. They chew off the dead stuff. I think that sounds AWEsome. But it seems to be hit or miss with people I discuss it with, mostly miss.

Also, I was reading Spirit Magazine (the official magazine of Southwest Airlines, one of my favorite publications) about a year ago, and there was a whole article on Korean spas. Everyone walks around completely naked (at the spa, not Southwest flight cabins), there are hot tubs, and there's this whole body exfoliating scrub that I guess hurts like craz-ee but then your skin is amazingly soft. The article was kind of written from a neutral, I-the-author-didn't-hate-it-but-you-the-reader-try-at-your-own-risk standpoint, but I was up in the air sippin' my Dr. Pepper thinking, "Let's do this!! Right now! Awkward naked vulnerability? Potentially heinous procedure with baby-butt soft results? Sounds like an adventure to me!"

I like things that are untraditional.

[Also preferably a little gross and/or messy. My freshman year of college I was squishing into my dorm room after what I believe was my third impromptu mud football game of the school year. As I pinched my towel with two fingers on my way to the shower it occured to me, "maybe my roommate doesn't always appreciate me coming into the room covered in grass and mud after my little escapades..." Our mocha syrup at Starbucks expires after 24 hours and when Brad and I do the dishes and dump the product that is no longer good, we dump it all over our arms and squish our hands in it. We have goals, and I do mean goals, to be on Ellen, to share "the mocha bath" (trademark Brad) with the world. And, ideally, with Celine as well, if we can manage to make her the musical guest that day. But we're still in the planning process.]

Where were we? Oh yes. I like things that are untraditional. As well as a little crazy, way fun, a little scary and therefore exciting, and certainly worthy of a story. One thing I know for sure about myself is that while I would never sacrifice the experience, I usually enjoy telling the story better than actually doing the activity. Except for petting my kitty, who's at my feet right now. I love to live in the moment of his purrs. Nothing beats that.

'Cuz now it's time for the Birthday Rap!

Today's my birthday.

Thank you, thank you. :)

Well as you may have (hopefully) noticed, I blundered yesterday and forgot to post. But you will have to excuse me, because I was celebrating Birthday #1, aka Fake Birthday. So far it seems Fake Birthday went better than Real Birthday (although Real Birthday has been fine, honestly, I am blessed and aware of my blessings).

Fake Birthday (to review, Fake Birthday=yesterday) went as follows. Early alarm, sleepy girl, but all this was quickly shrugged off, because I had volunteered to wake up to an alarm to get RILEY FRANCIS, baby bro extraordinaire from the airport, i.e. my birthday present!!!! On the way home from the airport Riley and I had near panic attacks as we stacked more and more miles on the trip odometer and couldn't find a gas station. 310 miles when we pulled up to the pump, usually I refill at 270. Just saying. Then lunch with parents, grocery shopping for party, chores, blah blah blah, then friends and fam at my house for BBQ, cake, and general carrying on. A fine time had by all.

Real birthday (today). Earlier alarm than day before, after late night (see "general carrying on" above), due to early work schedule. Yes, that's right, I had to work, on my birthday, on a Saturday. "Yeah...I'm gonna need you to come in on Saturday..." It honestly wasn't that bad, but there goes the day, ya know? So then I get home and Riley and Mom and I decide to go get pizza and hit up a movie. Well after pizza Ri decides to ditch us (it's okay, he's forgiven), so Mom and I go to the movie, just the two of us.

We went to see Is Anybody There? with Michael Caine. Now, Mom and I both agreed it was a good movie, and Mom said she would recommend it to others, and I wouldn't say it necessarily has a bad ending, but let's just say I was a little unsettled. Now don't worry, I'm not going to ruin the ending for you, but there are just a lot of layers and a lot of emotion throughout the film, and I was very tense during the whole thing because I never knew what was going to happen. So whenever I see a film like that I think, "this better have a good ending or Girlfriend's gonna be mad." (Seven Pounds? Don't even get me started.)

I took an Intro to Theater class my freshman year of college and I remember we learned that Aristotle said that for the theatrical viewer, a play is a form of catharsis. You watch the actors go through a range of emotions, you feel the happiness/sadness/disgust/rage alongside them, and at the end, you are purged. Or something like that--whatever, I didn't write a dissertation on the man. Well Stotty was right tonight. So about ten minutes before the end of the film, there is an obvious scene where you feel, "this is the height, I should grab the tissues now." And you certainly have tears brimming on the lids. But then the scene is over, and ten minutes later the whole movie is over! There's closure (okay so maybe I lied, I realize I am ruining this for you, but I'm only ruining the concept, not the details), but you still feel "I didn't get my chance to cry! You made the scene too short, dammit!"

So then credits roll, Mom starts laughing and apologizing for bringing me to such a depressing movie on my birthday and I say, "that's okay, it was good, but now I need to cry!" And people are wanting to get out of our row, so I am in the aisle, hugging Mom, overwhelmed with unexpected emotion, not quite sobbing, but almost choking because I am so caught offguard by my own tears, arising too quickly for my slower awareness of them.

Anyway. It was a good film. View at your own risk. I wouldn't recommend going on your birthday. But this blog is getting long and I'm not done yet. So THEN, we get home, and somehow I manage to get these tiny tiny but MEGA painful splinters in my hand! Where did those come from??? So whatev, I'm thinking, "work, sad movie, splinters...." But I did have a profound thought as I was picking at my hand with a needle and tweezers, which inspired me to write this, and here it is.

So the difference between splinters and other injuries, bodily nuisances--bruises, scabs, sore muscles--is that you have to deal with a splinter right away. I would say I'm a big fan of instant gratification, but the emphasis there is on gratify. If it's a fun activity, I want to do it right away. If it's not so fun? The word "later" is one I've used probably more than most in my life, right up there with "precious," "holla," "Brad said," "Dibby Wibby," etc. But a splinter? Gotta deal with it. Birthday or no birthday, be it fake or Round Two, you've gotta stop what you're doing, and keep stabbing at the little punk embedded in your skin until it's out. Nothing else comes first. This is a hard concept for me, but one I continue to slowly learn nonetheless. I realize that grass needs to be mowed, bills need to be paid, doctor's appointments need to be made, before I watch America's Next Top Model, or read a whole book, or eat Laffy Taffy and whisper sweet nothings to the cat. Ahh, the first lesson of my twenty-fifth year. Thanks, God. Appreciate it. Thanks for 24 great years, an amazing family, all the people who love me and teach me lessons, kitties, and all your other blessings, day in and day out. All glory truly is to You.

"Make Good Choices!"

So it may not have made your newspaper today, but there was a hurricane last night. I lived through it, that's how I know. I was chilling with Brad and Melissa, and when a sudden freezing wind came through we decided to pay some attention to the brewing clouds, and they promptly sent me home, with orders to call when I arrived safely.

I got in my car, saw something orange and thought, "oh yeah, I forgot my car was on empty." Guess what? I drove home anyway. I somehow sucked 26 extra miles out of my gas tank. It started raining shortly after I got on the interstate, and then it started pouring. Now I pride myself on being a very good and calm driver in the rain. But this was still no fun. My thoughts ran back and forth through the following:

"I am going to hit someone because I can't see anything."

(going up hills): "I am going to run out of gas and be unable to get up this hill"

(going down hills): "There is going to be a ton of water at the bottom of this hill and I am going to hydroplane"

"I'm going to run out of gas in general"

"I'm going to pull off the road and wait this out"

"Nevermind, I'm just going to keep driving, Brad and Melissa will worry"

"I'll stop at a grocery store and call them"

"No, I want to get home and go to bed, I work early in the morning"

"There's a gas station, maybe I should stop"
"I'll get struck by lightning if I grab the metal gas pump"

"Well, nevermind, guess I just passed the gas station"

...Etc...

After passing many a gas station and grocery store, I finally made it home, miraculously on my one tank of gas, like the never-ending oil lamp. Dibbs was hiding under the bed. I rescued his cuteness in distress, who was happy to see his mama, then immediately reverted back to nonchalance when I told him it was cuddle time. I called Braden, who then typed to Melissa, passing the message that I was safe. Thanks, guys, for worrying about me. It means the world to me. ;)

Here comes the beep, you know what to do

Sometimes checking my messages is the most entertaining part of my day. I just came home to the following four messages:

1. My brother Patrick, asking if I want to go to a Royals game in June.

2. Patrick again, with his wife Jenny, the two of them saying "please call us, please call us, please call us" in varying voices, finishing with a giggle from Jenny.

3. Mom, saying she just got done volunteering at the Festival of Books, where she met Bob Barker and told him "God bless you." Then she said, "I'm waiting for the bus, here comes a bus but it's not mine, oh! A Previa! Love you, bye!"

4. Brad, calling for Dibbs. "Dibby? This is Uncle Brad. I just wanted you to know that Mommy's on her way home, I'm following her right now, she'll be there soon. Did you survive the storm? Dibbs? We were nervous too, we had a radio ready. Mommy'll be there soon. Bye Dibby."

Dibby Sweet Pea

Okay this post is going to be a little bit lame in its shortness, because I have a pretty mega headache right now. That's okay, because I was celebrating my friend Nate's birthday and he deserves it. Happy 24th, N8!

So I left for work just before noon today, then went straight from work to N8's birthday shindig, and just now got home. Best part of my day, every day? For sure coming home to Dibbs the cat. Precious little pookin baby. Mmm I love you kitty!