Sometimes you have to go looking for it....

There have been a few times in the past couple of years when I've tried to remember the last time I felt happy and couldn't do it. It makes me sad just to say that, to say that I had no memory of those moments when you stop and suddenly realize, "I am happy." I could say I was surviving, that I was getting by, that I was making it through the day, that I was productive, that I carried on, that I kept my chin up...but happy?

A few weeks ago I was talking to my BFF from back home and recalling going home for the holidays, how wonderful it felt to be with my family and friends, how great I slept in my mom's guest room, how loved I felt. And when I returned home, after a two-day drive, to my roommate packing up to stay the night at her daughter's house (it was New Year's Eve) and how I had to hold back shrieks of pure joy that I was going to have the house to myself and a quiet night and a shower and clean sheets and my cat and my dog curled up in my warm bed...and I realized it was JULY and the last time I could remember being happy was in fucking JANUARY (well, technically December 31). It made me sad, but before the pity could kick in, I took a giant step back and asked myself, "have you been looking?"

I hadn't. I'd been so consumed with surviving that I was failing to thrive. In pediatric medicine, this is something infants can die from: failure to thrive. It can also be applied to adults, mostly geriatric. I wondered when I became such a grown up that I forgot to look for the joy. One doesn't need freedom from worry to be happy - or money, or the perfect job, or any job, or confidence, or all of the other things on my crazy mental checklist that I waited for so I could finally thrive again.

Granted, in the past couple of months I have been able to cross a few things off that list. I have a roommate to take some of the pressure of the bills off and a new job that I really like, which means a regular paycheck every two weeks. But I was still holding back, still denying myself, still insisting on frugality, refusing to spend a penny on anything I deemed "unnecessary."

Last Saturday, I went to lunch with the roommate and a friend and we stopped at a big box store afterward so the roommate could return something. I found myself wandering the school supplies aisles with my friend, exclaiming over pencil cases and notebooks and gel pens. I had a wonderful sense memory smelling a box of crayons. I remembered that the best thing about the new school year when I was a kid was the new school supplies: a brand new notebook, pens, pencils, a binder (or if I was lucky, a Trapper Keeper, pink - and damn, do they make cooler ones now), paper and dividers and pencil cases. And the waxy smell of crayons.

Standing there, in the middle of rows and rows of Hello Kitty notebooks and pencil sharpeners and multi-packs of pens and wide-ruled filler paper, I realized this was me being happy. Feeling joy. Remembering the possibilities that came with a new school year. Thinking about the possibilities that lie ahead of me now. And I bought that box of crayons. Even if I never use them, I am going to keep them on my desk at home to remind me of what possibility really feels like. Possibility smells like a new box of crayons.

Skip this one if you're not a dog owner and/or are easily grossed out...

Because dogs are gross. As many of you know, after being a cat person for most of my life (with the exception of briefly living with my former roommate's rambunctious beagle-hound mix that I never liked), I became a dog-mom to a Pom in December of last year. My Miss Kitty is still the love of my life and gets lots of attention, though you wouldn't know it by looking at my Flickr photos (more than 100 photos of Lulu the Pom and only 16 photos of the cat). But I LOVE this dog. I mean, I really love her. I never thought I could love an animal this much. And here's proof:

I have never changed my nieces' or nephew's diaper because I have a strong gag reflex, but I have cut more dingleberries out of my dog's butt fur than I can count. I pick up poop with a bag over my hand. I let her lick my face, fully aware of where that mouth has been. And more than once I've had to do a bathtub butt-wash on an angry puppy who clearly ate something that didn't agree with her (because sometimes the poop scissors just won't cut it, no pun intended).

The first time Lou threw up, I completely freaked out when she snapped at me when I tried to clean it up because SHE WANTED TO EAT IT. I have since learned how to play keep-away with the dog vomit, dog in one hand and paper towels in the other.

My adorable, sweet-faced puppy took a chunk out of my arm when I tried to move her off of my mother's living room rug while she had a t-bone in her mouth. She made me bleed and I blamed myself, not the dog.

She won't eat dog poop, but her affection for cat sh*t is much like a gourmand's for rare and expensive truffles. We have many outdoor cats in my neighborhood and when Lou takes a dive under a bush while we're on a walk, I know exactly what she's after. Most of the time, I am able to pull her away, but I have had to use a poop bag on my hand to extract cat sh*t from her mouth. Also, if I am not on litter box patrol 15 times a day, I am likely to find Lou somewhere in the house by the trail of clumping cat litter. And since Miss Kitty is purebred Himalayan (i.e. not that bright and very change-resistant), she refuses to use a covered cat box. I also have to keep an eye/ear out for Kitty hacking up a hairball, because Lou likes to eat those too.

Speaking of where Lou's mouth has been, we love to walk in Hampton Park, but I have to be hypervigilant because Lou also adores duck poop. I think if I had a steak in one hand and duck poop in the other (ew), she'd pick the hand with duck poop.

She licks my ankles when I get out of the shower or when I put lotion on. And I let her. I don't know why, because it grosses me out to be clean and then immediately covered in dog spit, but she likes doing it so much I feel bad about telling her no.

I do not want to admit how many times I've played "what's that smell?"

I've taken Lou shopping at SuperPetz and Petsmart and let her pick out her own toys, even if it's a toy like her fleece-covered squeaky man that she loves, but I know he's going to be covered in spit and will no longer be white within five minutes of returning home. And she'll want me to touch the spitty thing and play with her.

I think it's adorable when she farts while sleeping and wakes herself up, even if it smells really bad. I still laugh.

Cats are easy. When I brought Miss Kitty home, she weighed about one pound and was so teeny I initially followed her all over the house. I also thought I'd have to train her to use a cat box. Within 24 hours I realized she already knew how to do everything herself, that one does not train a cat, and that she was the boss of me anyway.

Dogs are a completely different story. Lulu was 8 weeks old when I brought her home and was the neediest creature I've ever met. I spent all of December and a good part of January cleaning up after her, as she peed joyously wherever she stood. I got up three times a night to take her outside in 30 and 40-degree weather. "Crate training" lasted for two days and she has been sleeping on a pillow next to my head at night ever since. There was even a two-week period during which I cried at least once a day because I thought I chose a mentally-challenged dog that would never stop biting me, eating anything she found on the sidewalk, and peeing everywhere except on her puppy pads.

Then the training kicked in and she no longer bites me (except for the t-bone incident), she only potties outside or on her puppy pads, and she's just big enough now so I no longer have to pick her up and put her on my bed when it's time to go night-night. I beam with pride when people tell me she doesn't act like a "yippy little Pomeranian." I say thank you when they tell me how adorable she is, as if I am somehow responsible for her cuteness. I can have the worst day and come home to a wildly spinning little furball who is overjoyed to see me, even if I've only been gone for an hour.

So yes, dogs can be gross. But they're worth it. And now I completely understand all my friends over the years who let their dogs slobber all over them. I get it, and I hope I wasn't too judgmental about it. I feel bad about the times I've visited friends and they've had to patrol their dogs so they wouldn't jump all over me (as I stood frozen with my arms in the air in a "no touchy" position). I welcome it now, really. Jump and slobber away.

Also, if any of my sisters or nieces want to have more babies, I promise to give diaper-changing a shot.

I love brunch...

I would brunch every weekend if I could. While in Charlotte on vacation this weekend, Aleigh and I met our friend Lindsey for brunch at a lovely restaurant called Lulu. The food was A. Maze. Ing.


This is me waiting for Aleigh to snap the photo so I can dig in to my Lulu Benedict. It had lobster and a fried green tomato and something spicy and hollandaise sauce and I think it was from heaven.


Lindsey and Aleigh are ready to dig in too. Yay, brunch! I hardly missed the bloody marys and bellinis.

What one does when one finishes a book manuscript in just under three months...

I finished it on Friday afternoon and sent it all to my editor. And then I did the following:
1. Cry (happy tears).
2. Giggle my ass off.
3. Schedule a 90-minute massage for early Saturday morning.
4. Go home, sleep, wake up for an hour, go back to sleep.
5. Get massage. Feel human and amazing enough to grocery shop at Whole Foods following massage.
6. Eat lovely roast beast sam from Whole Foods Deli for lunch.
7. Sleep, an excellent nap with no fits or guilt or jerking awake.
8. Wake up, call BFF, go shopping at mall.
9. Return home and wonder what to do with free time. Decide to watch Shortbus (loved it; incredible, riveting, shocking...but would not recommend to the even slightly prudish).
10. Feel inspired and write essay for May issue even though I promised to stay off computer for 24 hours.
11. Wake up early Sunday morning with the whole day stretching in front of me like a lovely giant yawn. Eat cereal in bed, go back to sleep until noon.
12. Spend balance of day washing clothes, cleaning house, going through weeks of mail, and calling much-neglected friends.

Now that I know I can do this book thing, I've got three or four more ideas rolling around that I might put to the test in the next few months. For now, I'm not jumping into anything else too quickly. I have a long overdue haircut scheduled for Tuesday and lots of parties to take my new party dresses to this weekend.