“…The Little Dog Laughed…”

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I put this outfit on to go on a date with my husband this past weekend. I picked it out especially for him, because he usually likes short skirts and I thought he would like the cute dog pattern. It was a slight departure from my usual baggy style. I was excited to show him my outfit. But the moment he saw this, his face scrunched up and it took on the look of severe inner contemplation. I suddenly felt very self conscience.

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“What’s wrong? You don’t like this?” I asked.

He didn’t answer at first, just kind of studied my outfit.

“It’s really short,” he finally mustered.

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Okay. He is sounding kind of mean. He is actually the nicest guy in the world. In fact just the other day, I saw him smiling and asked him, “Why are you so happy?” And he said, “How could I not be happy? I’m married to you.” For real.

So, I need to tell the real story about his reaction. It was not his fault. The poor guy was in shock. You see, I am leaving out a kind of important part. The first time he actually saw this, I was sitting on the ottoman in the living room putting on my shoes.

He was behind me on the couch.

When I stood up, I did not bother to do so in a ladylike manner. So, I kind of, sort of… All right… I completely mooned him. On accident, of course.

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And I definitely would be more careful in public.

Well, hopefully.

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But the deed was done. I knew I would be pulling on the skirt all night in order to not have any sort of repeat of offenses. And I wanted to enjoy my night and not worry about a possible wardrobe malfunction.

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So, I changed… After we went down the street and took pictures of this outfit, of course. It would have been a shame to not have any evidence of my crime.

After I changed, my husband looked confused. “I really liked that outfit. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

This made me giggle.

I will post what I actually ended up wearing later this week, but I still like this outfit. Have you ever changed because of an outfit malfunction? Do you like fun patterns as much as I do? I like the dogs or coyotes or wolves that parade across the shirt. I like how some of them are running away, while others appear to not be howling… At the moon.

I am sorry to say that everything I am wearing is sold out. The shirt is Anthropologie’s Ismay Buttondown (similar here), the skirt was from Anthropologie last year (similar here), the boots are Chie Miharas (similar here and here). I will talk more about agate necklaces tomorrow. Mine is by Leila Jewelry, the link is not (similar here).

*this post was edited using the VSCO Cam App C1 filter at level 3.

A Dream: The Baby Octopus

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The other night my brain tricked me.

I had settled into the most blissful sleep. In my dream my husband and I were strolling on a deserted beach. It was not too hot or too cold. If Peaceful painted a picture, this would have been Its masterpiece. I was wearing a white bathing suit that would never make an appearance on my real life body. The horror of seeing Suzy in the tenth grade get out of the swimming pool in her white swimsuit forever burned into my mind. But this was a dream. And in dreams white swimsuits don’t become completely see-through when they get wet. The tenth grade does not exist. And my thighs do not slap together when I walk. Which I kind of missed. It is nice always having your own applause.

The dream went on for a while this way. Walking and never tiring. Feet not burning in the hot sand. There was no tripping on seaweed. Just a blissful mist of seaspray in my hair. My husband stopped walking and turned to me. He never spoke in my dream. He simply opened his hand. In his hand was a shiny cotton candy colored pink Easter egg.

He solemnly handed it to me.

I rolled the smooth plastic between my hands. And then I cracked it open and peered inside.

Inside of the Easter egg lay the cutest, sweetest baby octopus. It was light brown in color and about three inches around if all of its tentacles stretched out in my palm, which it did as soon as I poured it from the pastel egg shell into my hand.

It tickled.

We continued to walk.

As we walked, I absentmindedly began to massage the octopus in my hand. I rolled it between my fingers. I stroked it with my thumb.

I did this until I noticed that something did not quite feel right. Something was not the same. The smooth skin of the octopus now felt sticky as if I had pulled all of its moisture from its body with my mindless kneading. My heart flipped in my chest. I opened my hand. The baby octopus lay in a still matted ball. It now resembled one of those sticky toys after it had been played with by a child for five minutes. Lint and stray hairs covered its now grey-tinged skin. It was a wadded-up mass of careless destruction.

Had I killed it?

I bent my face closer to see. I felt remorse all the way down to my sandy toes. Even my white bathing suit turned pink with shame.

My face grew closer and closer to the still octopus.

When it was about ten inches from the unfortunate creature, I paused and exhaled a breath.

It was dead.

Tears began to blur my vision. And just as I blinked and the world became clear again, it happened.

The balled up octopus unfurled itself in a red rage of flurry. Its beady black eyes were filled with the wrath only known to a creature used as a stress ball. Its beak screamed and it launched itself at my face in an unexpected and terrifying quickness of movement.

I woke up just as its sticky body was suffocating my nose and its tentacles were easing themselves down my throat.

And that is why I now have a new fear, folks. Of baby octopuses. Easter eggs. And gifts from my husband.

White bathing suits, on the other hand, are still fantastic… In dreams.

He Dares

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I couldn’t sleep.

I couldn’t sleep.

I couldn’t sleep.

And sometimes when I cannot sleep my mind drifts to my childhood. And somewhere along the way memories of Nikki get tangled in the carefree floating of my reminiscence. It weighs me down. Heavy. A heart still, after all of these years, soggy and bloated with unresolved tears.

After Nikki’s death, our school was a hazy daze. I had mentioned before that she was Junior Class Treasurer. I was Junior Class Secretary. Or perhaps it was flipped. We ran in the election together and it was all a blur. Honestly, all I can remember were joyful meetings of four young girls. Lots of giggles. And perhaps someone was supposed to write something down. Probably me. But I always preferred to giggle. Nikki made it impossible to not be happy in a room filled with her laughter.

As I lay in my bed and thought of Nikki, I could not help but think of her killer. What had become of him?

It had been over twenty years since he had shot and murdered my friend. I had always been scared to look him up. Know his fate. Fear of the consuming and hopeless anger I would feel if I learned that he had been released from prison.

Fear of the known.

But the other night I decided to finally google his name.

And I found him. At one o’clock in the morning. My soul cold in my warm bed. The house dark. My spirit on fire. I found him.

On an inmate pen-pal website.

I found him.

His picture. His sentence. His plea for a girl to write him.

His eyes stared from my computer screen into my own. My stomach collided with my heart in a sickening thud. Tears streamed down my face until his profile was a swollen blur of words I could no longer see, but could repeat to you verbatim.

I tried not to dwell on the tidbits of himself that he had shared. His birthday the same as one of my loved ones. His eyes hazel. His hair black. His entire profile full of friendly banter and devoid of one word of remorse. I tried to concentrate on the fact that he was serving life. Behind bars. With no chance of parole.

And I tried to make my heart feel happy with that news.

But not an ounce of that feeling could be derived from my bones.

You see, all I could feel was a sick rage that he dared to address the world with his tidings of loneliness. His woe of sadness. His boredom. His need.

He left my friend to die while he washed his hands of gun powder. He left her to die while he changed his shoes. He left her to die in his apartment when he went to call the police from a pay phone instead of using his own home phone. Her father sat waiting for his daughter in that very same restaurant while their food grew cold.

He left her to die.

And she did.

And he dares to complain of loneliness as he breathes air that should be in my friend’s unharmed lungs. And he dares to brag of a vast education after he stripped a straight A student of her own. And he dares to speak of his body when her body lies in the ground.

And I cannot sleep.

And I cannot sleep.

And I cannot sleep.

He dares.

Overheard In November 2014

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I was at the grocery store picking up my weekly stash. And by stash I mean shaved lunch meats. I have now taken to spoiling the kids with shaved ham and turkey from the deli and no sandwich can now be made with anything else. I don’t blame them. Shaved meat is the best.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Well, there was a man in front of me waiting for his sliced cheeses and it was a few days after Halloween. Next to him was another woman also in front of me (apparently I am slow on the draw) who was also waiting for some deli items. In her cart, a three year old little girl anxiously twisted in the uncomfortable metal seat.

The man smiled at her. “I bet I know what you were for Halloween,” he proclaimed.

The little girl shyly ducked her head.

“Were you Elsa?”

The little girl would not look up. Her mother answered for her. “Yes! She was!”

“I thought so,” said the man. “That is who my daughter was for Halloween, too.”

The woman working behind the counter at the deli piped up, “My granddaughter was Elsa, too.”

The man waited for the mother and daughter to leave before he told the woman the following story:

“My brother and his neighbors live on a cul-de-sac that gets tons of trick or treaters. They decided to play a drinking game. Every time they would see an Elsa, they would take a drink. He told me they had to quit after fifteen minutes because they were getting so drunk. Everyone was dressed up as Elsa.”

And now I want Halloween to happen all over again so I can play this game..

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I was at the grocery store on a different day. Pretty much, if I am not at home, I am either waiting for the kids somewhere or at the grocery store. I only overheard one sentence of a conversation but it was very intriguing:

“Timothy asked me to pour his ashes in the propane tank.”

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My husband and I were walking up to our favorite Cuban restaurant, outside an elderly couple was having a mild argument as they sat and sipped their coffee.

“You are always rewarding her bad behavior,” the woman said as her voice rose a little higher.

I thought in my head at that moment, I really, really did: So does my husband.

And right then, my husband turned to me and said, “sounds like me with you.”

We laughed over that and then went to eat breakfast.

Sometimes the truth doesn’t hurt.

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I was at the grocery store. Again. Always.

I was loading my groceries onto the conveyor belt. An old woman in her mid-to-late eighties was ahead of me in line. Ninny Threadgoode could have been her twin. She was a frail little thing dressed in a gorgeous embroidered sweater (which I later complimented her on).

She peered over at me and asked, “Is that a baby in your cart?”

I looked to see what she could be talking about. It was my purse.

I smiled at her and said, “No. It is just my gigantic purse.”

She made a comment about needing to get her eyes checked.

On her side of the conveyor belt, loose fruits and vegetables rolled along with the movement. I had never seen anyone not put their fruits and vegetables in separate bags. She noticed me staring at her fruit.

“I have to buy organic,” she said. “It is the only thing that sits right with me. I always have been allergic to California.”

I liked that last line. I liked what she did next even better. Her and the checker were obviously acquainted from previous purchases. They began talking about how their lives were going. She told him that she was still dancing. And then she shuffled her feet and twirled her arms in a quick little jingle of movements. She swayed in place when she was done and I worried she might topple over, but she just grinned widely said good bye to all and made her merry way out of the store. I hope to be exactly like her, not when I am older, but right now.

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“I swear I saw a black widow in my room the other night,” a young girl said to her grandparents over her panini.

She continued, “but then I realized it was just a daddy long legs.”

The grandfather scoffed, “They don’t look anything alike.”

“Yea. I know. Black Widows are thicker.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I went with Steve over to Norman’s house?” The grandfather asked.

“Well, we were all sitting around the table watching Norman cook. He was going all out. And we were just watching. Just then Steve jabbed me and pointed to the curtains above Norman’s head. There, crawling down the curtain, was the biggest spider I had ever seen. It was one of those tarantulas. Well, neither one of us wanted to tell Norman. We didn’t want him feeling bad since he was cooking such a large meal. So, we just watched the spider climbing down the curtain getting closer and closer to Norman’s head.”

Here is where I need to pause this story. Aaaarrrrggghhhhhh! What? What etiquette book did they get that rule from? Please, if I am ever cooking a meal and a tarantula is about to crawl on.to.my.head., you may interrupt my cooking to let me know. I will not mind. I promise. This is a new edit to the etiquette book I am sure everyone will concur with.

Let’s continue:

“Norman’s wife noticed Steve and I just staring with our mouths open at the curtain. When she looked up, she saw the spider and started laughing. ‘Oh, that’s just Henry,’ she said. ‘He’s our pet. We let him loose around the house and he takes care of all of the flies.’ Can you believe that? They just had a pet tarantula wandering their house. I actually held him once. He was very tame. He didn’t even bite.”

Did you overhear anything good in November? Do you have a pet spider? Would you tell someone if a giant spider was about to crawl onto their head?

If you missed last month’s “Overheard In”, you can find it here.