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Ok, I got the hint. Due to the rather underwhelming response, I will keep the vomit stories to myself for the time being. Instead, I’m going to ruminate on lessons learned from my first crush.

Fourth grade. His name was Jake. He was soooooo dreamy. He was in my class. One day, after weeks of admiring him, I decided to do something about it. I’m not sure what I meant to accomplish, but I had to do something. I wrote The Note. You all know The Note, you’ve all probably written it at some point. But just in case you grew up as an orphan-child in a cave, here’s how it went:

Dear Jake,
I like you.
Do you like me?
check one: ___yes   ___no
warmest regards,
Shannon

I pretended to be busy at my desk until all the other kids left for recess. The teacher wasn’t there. I was alone. My opportunity. I snuck over to Jake’s desk and put the precious note under the book on his desk. Then I went out to play with my friends, half giddy at my boldness and the possibility of a positive answer, half terrified that I would be rejected.

So after recess, I tried not to look at him, tried to pretend he didn’t exist. It didn’t take long before he found the note, at which time I instantly regretted giving it to him. I felt so stupid, I wanted to take it all back.

He reads the note, stands up, begins walking over. My heart feels like it’s doing that dance people do when they find their personal space has been invaded by a spider. Is he coming to tell me he likes me too?

He stops. At Laura’s desk. Laura had been very open about her warm regards for Jake. He hands her the note.

"Did you write this?" he asks.

"Ha. NO. Why don’t you go ask Shannon if she wrote it?"

He walks over to me, holds out the note. "Did you write this?"

I try to look cool. "Uh, NO. That’s totally weird."

I learned a lesson. Play it safe. I didn’t try anything like that again until Junior High. And that attempt at proclaiming love like-like ended with equally disasterous results. Those experiences, combined with growing up surrounded by four brothers who spent their days showing me what boys are really like, taught me to pretty much steer clear of them for most of my teens. Pathetic, I know, but it kept me out of trouble. I’m a delicate flower. I don’t take rejection very well.

Feel free to share your stories about The Note. Please tell me I’m not the only one that tried it.Did it work out for you? Does it work out for anyone? Did I prematurely abandon a tactic that may have eventually proved successful and miss out on many happy moments with various crushes instead of becoming a bitter and spiteful teenager? Pretend you’re my therapist. Ready? Go.

When we thought about getting a puppy, I thought about what a great companion she would be. I thought about the memories my kids would have of her their entire lives. I thought about tricks she would learn, walks we would take, cute things she would do. Of course I thought about having to pick up poop in baggies, deal with occasional items deconstructed with her teeth, possible barking issues, I was ready for the good AND the bad.

But it never occured to me that my sweet little doggie might ever get diarrhea. And that said diarrhea would cause me to get up every two hours during the night, to run her outside so she can risk waking the neighbors with large amounts of noise from an area I like to pretend doesn’t exist. That she would embarrass me by pooping oozing in front of everyone at puppy class and sneeze a couple times, causing the instructor to warn me about possible deadly diseases she might be suffering from. That I would drop everything and take her to the vet as soon as they would see her, bringing two unruly kids along to make everything so much more exciting. That the vet would check her over and tell me she looks fine, keep an eye on her, and bring her back if she gets worse.

That the valuable advice from the vet would cost me $158, advice which, had it been one of my children, I wouldn’t have bothered to get because I know everyone gets it sometimes, you just wait it out until you get better or REALLY sick. But being a new dog mom, I’m starting all over on the whole learning what’s a big deal and what’s not spectrum. That learning curve stunk the first time around, but this time is a heckuva lot more expensive.

*edited to add*

Sorry for my previous misspelling of diarrhea. And sorry for spelling diarrhea at all.

You didn’t come here to read about dog crap. And here, I happened to dedicate an entire post to it. My apologies. But I can’t promise it won’t happen again.

Stay tuned for tomorrow, where I might tell my story that involves both vomit AND diarrhea. Wouldn’t that be fun? Maybe not… tell me…keep it to myself no matter how funny it is? Or make this week the all-time low point of this blog by telling the story? The future of this blog is in YOUR hands.

Dave: Franklin, what are you doing?

Franklin: Picking out my nose…. WHAT’S SO FUNNY?

My brother Steve and his wife Mindy are getting a new home. I am so excited for them. They agonized over which lot to buy, whether or not to move up to the mountains, what type of home. It’s been fun to watch, but not have to make any of the excruciating decisions. They pose the question, I give the "heck yes" answer. The "I know the lot cost more, but you won’t regret it. Just build the house you want now, you’ll be living in it forever. Check out that view, you’d be insane not to get it." And I was right. (and they totally made all their decisions based on what MY opinion was. Uh-huh) Check it out!

Isn’t it awesome? And that sign the builder put up. Makes my heart swell with pride. And it’s not even my home. Heck. It isn’t even a home! A sign, a pile of dirt, and a really great view. Even sleeping in that dirt would be fun, I think.

I can’t wait to visit, to watch movies in their theater, to let my dog run in their back yard, to pretend like it’s my home.

And to think. For the same price, they could have had my little fixer-upper-50-year old home here in California. I’m beginning to doubt I’ll be able to talk them into moving out here some day…

So my parents are here for a short visit. Very fun. They came to see Matthew get baptized. The best thing about having family here is all the reminiscing that goes on. Things I haven’t thought of for years come up. Stuff that cracks me up or makes me think.

I feel like I need to write it down. Why not here? While I’m at it… I’m taking requests. Something you’ve wondered about? Might jog a memory that is fun to share, so feel free to ask. Not sure why I’m starting with this story, but here goes:

First Person I Truly Despised.

I had a bus driver. I don’t remember his name. But the man really creeped me out. For the first time in my perfect little childhood, I was fearful for my life. I thought about how sometimes bad stuff happens to little girls and thought that perhaps there was something sinister about this guy.

No offense to bus drivers, but who gets a job driving school buses? It can’t pay a lot. There aren’t a ton of hours on a job like that. So to begin with, I’d have to question one’s motivation for doing it in the first place. One check against him, just for his job.

So every day, I had to put my life in the sweaty hands of this questionable character. I can still see him, his thin greasy hair combed straight back off his forehead, his body curled over the wheel as I boarded the bus. He’d watch me as I climbed the steps, his face contorted into something that I’m sure he thought was a smile, but looked to me more like a sneer. His eyes squinting, his top lip curling up over red gums. His front teeth had obviously gotten in a bitter argument and had taken up residence as far from each other as they could in his mouth. And the argument must’ve involved Toothbrush because from the looks of those teeth, Toothbrush hadn’t paid a visit in quite a while. Maybe it was a love triangle gone bad between Tooth One, Tooth Two, and Toothbrush. I don’t know what happened, but it was ugly. Battle lines had definitely been drawn. No offense to people with bad teeth. But seriously, you have to TRY to look as bad as he did.

But it wasn’t the way this man looked that grossed me out (I’m fine with people being ugly. People can’t really help being ugly, so I can look beyond that). It was the way he looked at me. I would catch him staring at me in the huge mirror that school bus drivers have above their heads to make sure kids are behaving themselves. EYES ON THE ROAD, MONSTER! And when I’d catch him looking at me, it was like he’d been waiting for me and he’d do that creepy smile/sneer combo that made my stomach try to evacuate from the nearest window. And who knows, if those stupid school bus windows weren’t so impossible to open, my stomach might have successfully escaped. I’ll never know.

And in addition to the creepy way he looked at me, was the fact that he had a nickname for me. "See you tomorrow, Goldie Coat." The thought of him saying that still strike fear into my heart. My fingers get weak and shaky and can barely type because it makes me scared. See you tomorrow. As if tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow he’d just take a little detour. NOT return us home, but drive us down one of those orchard roads that just disappear into nowhere. Who’s stopping him? A bunch of 3rd graders? A freckly girl with a yellow coat? Not likely. I don’t know what happened to Creepy Bus Driver, but do I know I was elated when one day, a different face smiled at me when I got on the bus that morning.

Last night, Dave and I were watching the last half of Lost on Tivo. The first half was not recorded, as the designated tivo-setter had been out of the house and the pinch-hitter had been too anxious to get back to a game of Pac Man that he hadn’t adequately scanned the viewing choices. So if anyone wants to tell me what happened during the first half, that would be nice.

ANYWAY….

So we’re sitting there, trying to figure out exactly what happened, but still watching instead of just waiting to watch it online (you’re thinking…just spit it out! get on with it! who cares about Lost! well, I do…) when suddenly a blurry-eyed, dizzy with sleep, mop-haired adorable two year-old wanders out, confused, and asks for a drink of water. Usually, such behavior is discouraged. But this was just so cute.

So I give him some water, smell his sweet head, kiss his neck, and put him back in bed. A few minutes later, he cries for a book. I know in his sleepy state, he doesn’t really need it, but I decide to get a little more snuggle time with the little dude and go in and sing him a song. I sing, he relaxs, I leave. A few minutes later, he cries again. I decide he’s just too scrumptious to leave him alone in there, crying in the dark, so I decide to go in and lay with him until he calms down. I walk in and he’s sitting up, confused, facing the back wall of his room. I come up behind him, curl myself around him, and lay down next to him.

And his bed is wet. Then and only then do I realize there is a sweet, sour smell permeating the air. And now, me. I turn on the light, and my horrible suspicion is confirmed. Vomit. Large amounts of it. And I laid right in it. Oh. GROSS. Gross gross gross gross gross.

Dave must have heard my surprised cry and came to the room. And immediately left. The man can’t come within 30 feet of vomit or he begins to gag. Or so he tells me. And has told me since our first incident with shared vomit responsiblity. So once again, I’m covered in vomit AND cleaning it up by myself. The injustice! His only suggestion… Are you just putting the sheets in the washer like that, full of chunks?! Um. Yes. Unless you want to pick out the chunks first, this is the best I can do. I’d rather pick washed chunks out of the machine later, if needs be. (Too much information yet?) Oh, the vomit I’ve dealt with in the past ten years. I have a really hilarious story that I could tell. But I think I should wait a while. I don’t want to overwhelm you (as if I haven’t already).

The moral of the story? Look before you leap…

This was SO fun. Tia, Amy and I took the light rail from the Convention Center to this place. It’s located under a freeway overpass. Artists come to sell their wares, people come to buy artistic stuff. I was SO inspired by all the creativity coursing through the place. I wish I could capture it all… put it in a jar and pull it out to play with it whenever I’m feeling bored or uninspired.

The common thread between all the artists was passion. Some people loved bags. Some loved hats. One person loved silverware. This cute dude loved tops. He was showing his tops and how they worked and it made me happy how excited he was about his cool tops. He was having a great time. It was contagious. Here he is, holding the car I bought for Franklin (I thought a top would be a little difficult for the little dude.)

One of my favorite things was people that took something old and made it new. Like Nicole from Flood Clothing. She took men’s clothing and made the CUTEST hats. And dresses. So original and fun. She was so excited and passionate about what she does. I told her that I’m just not a hat person, I just can’t pull off such a fun hat, and she told me it’s all an attitude. And I believed her. And bought a hat. And WORE it. (granted, it was to a party at church where everyone was wearing a hat, but still…it’s a start…I practice wearing it around my house sometimes, too. I like having it around. It just makes me happy.)

And Lizzy, from Shabby Knapsack. She takes old clothes and makes the funnest (I realize that’s not a proper word, but whatever) layered skirts. I bought one made out of repurposed men’s suits. With a pocket in it. SO fun.

   The whole experience was a total feast for me. The sights (so many colors!), the sounds (a reggae band playing), the smells (food available from every nationality, it seemed), the company… good stuff. I hope to make it back someday.

In conclusion, I think everyone should go to the Portland Saturday Market because it is very fun and nice. The end.

I really do mean to finish that last entry. I can’t wait to talk about the Portland Saturday Market. And I forgot to talk about rotten guts (I should issue a warning that steak and potatoes at eleven o’clock at night leaves you with insides that feel and smell like they are rapidly decaying. Once you’ve farted from your mouth you will heed my warning…) and the game of life and all the ideas I had to write about. PLUS!! Matthew’s birthday. Yesterday.

But alas…life calls. I just can’t seem to catch up around here and feel like it would be ok to spend that lengthy amount of time on a blog entry. Tomorrow, K?

Who am I kidding. Tomorrow it will NOT be happening, as Matthew’s birthday party and a bazillion other things. So. Maybe Sunday? Hopefully? Argh. Calgon…take me away.

The big thing she learned on her few days away is that there is an abundance of kindness in the world. Her faith in strangers had been tested in the past. She’d learned that there are people out there who lay in wait to try to snare you, then tear you down. For no other reason except that they enjoy it. It seemed to her that the world was becoming hostile and unfriendly at times. It was beginning to feel like she needed to pull away, to shield herself in her own cocoon, to protect herself, to hold others at a distance. But so many things over the course of a few days restored her faith in mankind. They were small, seemingly inconsequential things that added up to one big thing.

The older ladies who had been attending the breast cancer convention who stood at her side, giving her change, trying to get a finicky machine to spit out a valid ticket. They had no reason to do so…they were just being nice…and generous. The young girl on the train who struck up a conversation with a stranger and acted so interested in what was said. Marsha and Marsha who made her wish her name was Marsha as well, just so she could hang out with them longer and be one of them. Or at least to find a friend with her name so that she could be so young and free when she got to be their age. The local family traveling on the train that gave her all the information she would need. There seemed to be this magical familiarity between that group of strangers on the train that day. And finally, everyone over the course of the weekend who offerd her socks, because she had only the pair she’d worn, and those were getting pretty gross.

And passion. She felt a great respect and admiration for people with a passion over the course of those days.

Ali’s class renewed her passion for scrapbooking. She reminded her what it’s all about. It’s not about pretty pages. It’s not about free stuff or bragging rights. It’s not about being on the latest and greatest team. It’s about stories. Not that she had thought that, really, but it seems that most people forget that.

It’s about life. It’s about remembering and being grateful for what you have. It’s for celebrating and surviving and becoming. That is SO MUCH BIGGER than the pages and the industry and the who’s who. She noticed that so often, scrapbooking is a window. And people get so caught up looking AT the window, that they forget to look THROUGH the window and the beauty beyond and beneath that greatly exceeds the beauty of the window itself. And the way Ali treated the people in her classes reminded her that everyone loves attention. She acted like everyone there was a long-lost friend. Which, in a way, they were… lost for so long that this just happened to be the first time they met.

And the people at the Portland Saturday Market. So much creative passion in one small area… THAT is a post for another day…

(As talking in the third-person annoyed me by the end of my last post, the rest shall proceed in first-person. Unless I change my mind, which I reserve the right to do.)

The plane ride was blissfully uneventful. I only encountered one problem. A woeful lack of snack and drink. I expected a soda and some pretzels that I might be able to make last a good half-hour by alternating one pretzel, one sip of soda. But a little plastic cup filled with ice and a quarter-can of soda equals about one large gulp and the ramen flavor packet-sized bag of pretzel mix was only half full. I could’ve downed them both in the blink of an eye, but I’m good. I made it last two blinks of an eye. Still. After watching the crash on Lost enough times, I think a pathetic lack of treats on my flight is a fortunate inconvenience. But I can’t say I didn’t look around when I first got on the plane, wondering if I would make friends with any of these people in the event of a crash on a spooky island.

Getting off the plane, the show in my head switched from Lost to The Amazing Race. Not that I was in a hurry, but I thought it would be pretty cool if I could find my way to the taxi on the first try without finding myself desperately lost and crying in some bathroom. I could totally win the Amazing Race, because wouldn’t you know it, I found the taxi on the first try. Without crying. Without even asking for directions. Except from one person. And apparently she could tell I didn’t quite get it, because she retrieved me from the wrong line and pointed me to the right one. But other than that, I’d totally win The Amazing Race.

My taxi ride was also blissfully uneventful. Again, I was slightly concerned for my safety at first. I mean, how am I supposed to know whether Pavil the Toothless was going to take me to the Doubletree or some alley alongside the river? His picture on his license posted in the taxi offered no comfort. It looked awfully like a mugshot to me. And that powerful, overwhelming aroma of some awful cologne? Who knows… that might be to cover up the stench of a decaying corpse hidden somewhere beneath my seat. But my worries were for naught. He drove me directly to the hotel. Ok…maybe not quite directly, because somehow my taxi ride cost about five dollars more than Rachel’s for the exact same route. Fishy. Maybe he headed for the scary alley, but then sensed I could probably kick and scratch real hard so abandoned his dastardly plan and proceeded to the hotel. I’ll never know.

(This blog entry was also blissfully uneventful…)