I’ve had temporary custody of Rowdy for about a week now. Heidi will be here sometime tomorrow to claim him and take him home…except I want to keep him.

He and Luna have finally started getting along (a little bit). And he’s gotten all cuddly. I curled up on the couch to take a nap yesterday and before I knew it he was squirming up against my stomach, pressing his cold nose against my hand. We snoozed for an hour or so.

Another bonus: Taking him for his daily walks has been helpful for my butt. Seriously. We walk to get the mail and back, in addition to my gym time (sadly Rowdy doesn’t come to the gym with me).

He’s always in such a great mood, besides. Dogs are so HAPPY. He waggles around, all cheerful and affectionate. Just seeing him chase his stupid, demolished lobter puts a smile on my face – partly because his legs are so short that it’s hilarious to watch him run.

But LOOK:

Would YOU give him back?

A while ago, some bad things happened to me. These things caused a rift between me and some of my family; I felt betrayed, and they thought I was being ridiculous. Things haven’t improved very much, despite the passage of time and the lack of discussion pertaining to what I’ll call The Event.

I never said a word about any of it to my oldest brother – partially because I wanted to forget and partially because I had a feeling I knew exactly how he’d react, and I didn’t want to lose another family member.

I’m wrong a lot of the time, but I rarely consider it a relief. Today it was. I ended up randomly talking to him about The Event – he brought it up – and was surprised by how understanding he was. His perception of things was more like mine than I ever would have given him credit for.

He was supportive. He was very nearly gentle, a word I can rarely apply to him. I definitely misjudged him.

I’ve got to start giving people more credit.

I bet some of you are wondering, “What’s a Rowdy Rat?”

That. That’s a Rowdy Rat. Actually, it’s an upside-down Rowdy Rat. He belongs to Heidi, who is currently vacationing in Lake Tahoe, leaving me with dog-sitting duties.

Not that I’m complaining. I like having Rowdy. He reminds Luna not to be such a major diva, like she ALWAYS is:

That’s Luna making herself at home on the dining room table. Luna dislikes Rowdy. She watches him disdainfully, then hisses in annoyance if he gets too close or too friendly.

It should be an interesting week.

As many of you know, I had emergency surgery to remove my gallbladder not long ago. Since that fateful weekend, I’ve been spending all of my fun money on paying the resulting hospital bills.

Today I got another bill, randomly, from the clinic – from my surgeon, to be more precise. Let’s see…the surgery was FIVE MONTHS ago and he’s just getting around to billing me!? THANKS.

I was saving, slowly (very slowly) for a much-needed pair of running shoes. The sole on my current pair is so thin I may as well go barefoot. (There’s something I never thought I’d say – I’ve worn out a pair of running shoes!)

I’ve also been squirreling money away for the second season of True Blood, because I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO LAFAYETTE. I refuse to ask my sister, who has SOME idea, because she reads the books. And I’m sorry, Sookie Stackhouse fans, but Charlaine Harris’s writing just doesn’t compel me. At all.

And then, yesterday, my DVD player broke. Croaked. Died. QUIT WORKING. So now, before I can find out what happened to Lafayette (my favorite character, btw) I have to buy a new player.

Any suggestions for money making/saving that don’t involve prostitution?

I’ll be at the lake for the next couple of days, spending quality time with my sister, her husband, and hopefully a pair of skis. Oh, and the Marine.

For those of you who don’t remember, a brief history: Smoking hot Marine recently out of service also happens to be good friends with my sister’s husband. We spent time together. We flirted. We went on one fabulous date. I was dying for him to kiss me, but NO. Which is fine, because I would’ve been breaking my first-date rule anyway. He was sweet, funny, HOT, and interested. And then he blew me off after I bought a new sweater for our second date (in retrospect, it was probably best, as that sweater wasn’t quite as flattering as I initially believed). Then he blew me off again. Then, there was a THIRD blowing off. So I said to my sister, “Screw the Marine.” Sadly, the statement was metaphorical.

And now he and his equally foxy brother are planning to go camping with us. With them, really, but I’ll be there too. So US. All of us, together. With fewer clothes on than usual.

WORSE, much worse, is that my body is not as bikini-ready as I’ve been hoping, largely (a key word, that) due to my consumption of, oh, every edible thing to cross my path. So maybe the Marine will think he isn’t missing much, which HE IS.

The important thing is confidence, yes? (And appropriate grooming). So I’ll just make sure to be happy and stick my butt out a lot.

I’ve been ignoring the crack on the floor of my cheap, ancient shower for about two months now. I fully intended to continue ignoring it, until a) one of my handy male friends actually listened to my bitching and offered to save the day (I know, feminists, and I’m SORRY), or b) I ended up moving. Except this morning when I hopped in the shower, the floor sort of wobbled and creaked, and I made a yipping noise and plastered myself against the side wall trying not to move, envisioning myself plummeting through the floor and into the spider-infested crawl space below, because I suddenly remembered the only thing holding me up besides a thin piece of fiberglass was the thin piece of PLYWOOD underneath it.

Which, after about two months, is probably soggy. And there’s definitely a bit of a suspicious smell. So I took myself down to the hardware store and pestered the various customer service personnel until one of them helpfully suggested 2 Ton Clear Weld Epoxy. Is it just me, or do those words seem synonymous with my doom?

STEP 1: Tear open package of epoxy, accidentally ripping helpful directions on back panel. Swear. Hold pieces together and read directions.

STEP 2: Go clean and dry floor of shower. Realize this chore should be repeated more regularly.

STEP 3: Wonder where the hell the “provided mixing paddle” the directions continue to mention is at. Rattle empty package. Double-check epoxy mix for mysterious attachments. Decide palette knife from brief obsession with oil painting will have to suffice.

STEP 4: Use palette knife to mix and apply epoxy to dried shower floor. Become slightly high from chemical scent. Think, “Will be having fun at work tonight!”

STEP 5: Remain in bathroom while epoxy perfume drifts through enclosed space, because what the hell. Rethink decision after light-headedness sets in. Leave bathroom. Open windows. Make plans to skip shower tomorrow, for fear of feet sticking to shower floor.

Honestly, I think it would have been better if JTT had been here, stuck in my tiny bathroom huffing epoxy with me. But overall, seeing as none of  my parts are stuck to other parts – or objects – I’m declaring this experiment a success.

I took Lara to her first official swimming lesson yesterday. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, so I did an awful lot of nervous smiling and prayed over and over that I wouldn’t have to strip down to my swimsuit – some of the toddlers were terrified enough, screaming bloody murder as they were cradled in the water, and I would have hated adding to their future nightmares. Luckily they had instructors already in the water who were both willing and able, so I was spared the humiliation of exposing my upper thigh flesh.

Lara wasn’t afraid at all. She was delighted, nearly skipping as we made our way over the gravel and into the pool area. “Let’s do it!” she exclaimed.

I took off her clothes and shoes and she bustled over to the ladder, only to come back a minute later and say, “Here, Auntie Amber!” before spitting her wet, lumpy wad of gum out and dropping it into my already outstretched hand.

Why…thank you. (GROSS).

I stood up to dispose of the gum (seriously? GROSS) and my heart sort of did a slow, dizzy roll in my chest. And I realized that while I talk a good game, I want kids. I really, really want them. Two or three. I love my niece so much, so hugely – every kid, actually. I love their sticky faces and their silly questions and their laughter.

I want children of my own someday, and while I still harbor deep fears that I’d be the kind of parent who has to set money aside for therapy instead of college, I’d like the opportunity to try.

I have things I could be blogging about, but instead I choose to bombard you with be-lated birthday photos. Because it’s my day off, dammit, and any effort is too much.

Brady’s 3rd Birthday Bash (at the start of which the birthday boy was pretty cranky and could only be bribed consoled with cake & presents):

He got a remote control CAT from me, a gift I snagged at the last minute, unaware that it also plays rock music & makes nifty construction noises. He liked it, but his dad liked it more…

…and I don’t think his mom liked it at all. Whoops.

Mmm, cake. Shown to it’s best advantage all over the kid’s face.

Speaking of cake, I’m thinking I should have taken home some of the cherry chip cake I made for Heidi. Too late now. Oh well, my ass is probably thanking me. (And I just realized I have ice cream in the freezer).

As you might have guessed, Brady’s birthday was good. Now excuse me while I go curl up on the couch with some bad TV and junk food.

Probably the most unsurprising news all year (aside from Speidi Pratt’s impending divorce, that is): I suck at money management.

It’s shameful. No respectable 28 yr old woman has a bank ledger that looks like mine. It gives me a splitting headache just looking at it. And then I look away, quickly, for the sake of my sanity. And nothing gets better.

Problem # 1: I hate math. I always have. Numbers give me topsy-turvey tummy issues. Don’t even get me started on Algebra, where they dare to combine my beloved letters with numbers. UNFORGIVABLE. Language is far superior to mathematics. End of story.

Problem # 2: I love to spend money. Sadly, I don’t spend money on anything worthwhile. Usually it’s a bunch of small stuff, combined to equal one big bill: eating out ($8), tabloids at store ($4), lipstick I absolutely loved in Walmart that made me look like a hooker when I actually put it on my lips ($7)…You get the idea.

Problem # 3: I write a lot of checks. Being a piss poor math student in high school has led me to be heavily dependent on my calculator as an adult, which probably works in my favor – as long as I remember to actually deduct things, which lately? Not so much.

Problem # 4: I’m a firm believer in ignoring the problem until it goes away. Except checking accounts don’t work that way. I ignore the problems and they grow, and MULTIPLY (fucking math), until I can’t ignore them and I’m forced to do something drastic. Like hide under the bed and suck my thumb.

Today I realized ignorance is one of the steps on the road to HELL. I’m putting my checkbook away, far out of reach, where it can’t tempt me with it’s fancy cover and seductive carbon copies. No more check-writing. No more it’s a very boring Thursday night and I really have nothing better to do than shop at Amazon splurges. No more eating out – although the thought of doing that much cooking for myself makes me want to starve. From now on I have to be responsible. I have to know that I can look at my bank statements without feeling panic or the intense desire to change my name and relocate to Mexico.

It’s going to be a long summer, in which I eat a lot of salad.

Tomorrow is Heidi’s 25th birthday.

I remember turning twenty-five. I was still excited to have birthdays – not the least bit concerned with those who teased, “You’re a quarter of a century old!” Twenty-five felt great. I felt exactly the way I felt at twenty-one, or even eighteen (perhaps not something to brag about?). I thought of my goals and dreams, my hopes for the future, and didn’t worry at all that I might be running short on time. I was five years away from thirty with the attitude of twenty.

I’m not twenty-five anymore, and while I’m not sad about it I’m acutely aware that I’m twenty-eight (and a half). I’m still jazzed when my birthday rolls around – I’m too narcissistic not to be – but I also start running through my mental checklist of milestones. I’m not worried about wrinkles (much), or sagging skin, or the inevitability of my ass dropping about two inches. People get older, and no jar of miracle cream can prevent it. I intend to own my wrinkles and sagging ass, to wear them proudly. I just might have an easier time doing it if I’ve accomplished at least SOME of what I want to accomplish.

Checklists aside, I love birthdays. I love that there’s one day of the year in every person’s life that’s just theirs, a day they can feel special and appreciated and glad to be alive (hopefully). I love the cake and the ice cream, the brightly wrapped presents, I even love the expression on someone’s face when they’re faking – “No, I love it, thank you!” I especially love themed birthdays (and fully intend to have one, when I can get the cooperation of my friends & family).

Last year on Heidi’s birthday, I’m ashamed to say that I dropped the ball. Big time. She ended up sitting home by herself. I consider that unforgivable, and fully intend to make up for it this year. Starting now – feel free to wish her a very Happy Birthday!

And have a great day yourselves.