On and off, I’ve fancied the idea of moving, but there are just so many downsides: mostly, the moving part. Houses and duplexes right now are just so expensive, and doubling the rent would only afford about 50 more square feet, one less fenced back yard, two less covered parking spaces, and 5 less windows in a new place. Not to mention the fact that 2 dogs make for a really expensive deposit, fee, and additional non-refundable deposit. I’m wondering when it occurred to property managers that allowing a dog on the property entitled them to financially rape their tenants. Don’t dogs usually add to the safety and security of their property?

Never the less, I’m not moving to a new location, but about 50% of my stuff is moving to a new home in either the dumpster or Goodwill. It is a nice cleansing feeling to get rid of things I realize I never realized I had. It’s refreshing to use the closet to house the things I will actually use in the foreseeable future. Part of me is becoming a minimalist, and part of me is realizing that in order to organize things around me, I need to get rid of most of the filler. Surprisingly I have not found it hard to part with sheets that are too scratchy, a vacuum cleaner that doesn’t work, massive amounts of crafting supplies, books that were loved or forgotten, shoes that I can’t believe I actually wore, and purses from other lifetimes.

The hardest part of this is the wasteful feeling. It’s so easy to purchase something without a thought of how it will affect me for the next decade. It’s easy to keep things around in the top of a closet for a decade, thinking: well, I didn’t get much use out of it YET, better keep it around just in case. However, hoarding stuff is perhaps more wasteful than giving it away to Goodwill. In my case, the precious closet space that is occupied with so much STUFF is the biggest waste.

Long forgotten hobby supplies are the hardest thing to part from. However, I realize that right now my golf clubs and mandolin take up a lot of room. Though I use them frequently, they are not the kind of things I want to have displayed in the hallway or living room. It’s a clear decision that I need to part with the paint-by-numbers I was so fond of in college to make room for my new affections.

I’m hoping this purge helps me to be a more mindful shopper, to embrace how my habits change and to commit to hobbies that take up less room … like thinking with my brain.

On the left side I find plastered:
“Their goal is global control.”
“What luck for Governments the people do not think. - Hitler”

On the right is printed:
“AT&T Your Word Delivered.”

I get in the slowest moving checkout line ever in the universe, per the usual. In front of me in line is a grandpa character, dressed all dapper at 8:30AM on Monday morning, suspenders and all. As we’re waiting on the woman in front of us who is apparently having payment problems, I notice that he even combed his hair before his grocery store trip. Being in the presence of such a distinguished gentleman, I become mortified at the thought of placing my super thin regulars on the conveyor belt behind his groceries. And then he unloads three ginormous packages of Depends from under his cart and I feel a lot better.

Cute Dude: “No, the country music two-steppin isn’t quite my thing.”

Nerdy Girl: “So you don’t dance…”

Cute Dude: “Well, I can, and I will at a wedding or something where I’m forced to.”

Nerdy Girl:“So do you like hip-hop or what?”

Cute Dude: “Hip-hop? No not really. I’m more into house music.”

Nerdy Girl: “House? What’s that, you mean elevator music?”

I have very little tolerance for air conditioning on a wet swimsuit.

Fresh fish tastes amazing, and it tastes even better knowing the person who caught it.

It is possible to obtain a gorgeous tan even while wearing spf 75.

Sharks are so cool to look at, and not just because they swim all cool-like. Though watching one die out of water makes me want to gag.

I can de-hook a perch or a croaker with my bare hands; gafftops and hardheads are something I don’t want to be touching; sting-rays are hard to get back in the water one you take them out; and they’re called speckled not spotted, and porpoise not dolphin.

Fishing is something I enjoy, so much that I’ll stay up past my bedtime and get up before my alarm.

I need to invest in a pair of goggles.

Sausage-wallet is my new favorite put down.

I could go the rest of my life without a computer or cell phone.

Friday evening. I did not make any babysitting commitments (thank god) and instead had dinner with my grandparents. Grandparents make for the best double dates ever. Mine are a wonderful mix of levelheadedness (Grandpa) and conversational (Grandma.) Plus, they let me talk and talk. Having a boyfriend who enjoys being around my family is something I like to exploit, as well. I remember being younger and wanting to hang out with the g’rents, but was too confused about the generational gap to ever make real conversation. Today it is my most favorite part of our conversations. Grandma is great at capturing and relating memories. Dates like these are the best I’ve ever been on.

Saturday morning. 8:30AM is early for a Saturday morning, but I signed Shade up for an agility class in hopes of helping him become the dog he always wanted to be. It was quite a roller coaster. He was great at the obstacles, but is bored by so called “focus activities.” For a few milli-moments at a time I would capture his undivided attention and he would actually forget there were other dogs there (yay Shade!) But then every time he remembered, he felt the need to body lunge in their general direction. You see, then my arm would either come out of the socket or he’d pull my whole body forward with him. I fell out of my chair twice because the weimaraner barked.

Saturday afternoon. Ran errands with the boy all afternoon. One of which was to get a specific kind of dog treat for Shade’s class. It’s called a food roll. Looks like a very VERY large summer sausage (seriously, I had to use two hands to hold it.) I felt the need to yell SNAUSSAGE all along the ride home. I considered getting the video camera out, unwrapping the whole 12″ roll and seeing how quickly the dogs consumed it, while yelling SNAUSSAGE! Instead cut it up into a million trillion pea-sized bits and refrigerated it. As wacko as that sounds, the point when I said “I think I want a fanny pack to hold the treats” was the defining moment of my dog-craziness.

Saturday evening. Did I tell you I got a mandolin? The thing is awesome. We had company over to our house, following the necessary mad dash clean up (such a plus!) The conversation was great, the food was nonexistent, the animals were wild, and the music was … experimental? Jeremy played guitar and I accompanied/tried to keep up on the mandolin and it was just wonderful. I’m so glad he had the foresight to record it, and now I’m in a band. Well, a musical duo, and we even came up with a name. And thus is Ginger Root.

Sunday. Another early wakeup was followed by a day of golf. Being outside in Austin, the season change to summer could not have been celebrated more effectively. I think I ended up 7 strokes shorter than my last game, thus confirming that the adorable shoes were an appropriate purchase. I also got some pointers on my form, two free meals, and quality time in with the guys, not to mention a great tan.

Sunday evening. June Birthdays/Father’s Day celebration out at the lake. Grilling, more music and awesome cousins. Hilarity ensues when grandma says “poop.” I can’t wait till we get out the wine at the family reunion.

To cap it off, I got to visit with my most wonderful friend in Dallas on Monday afternoon. The girl time was much overdue, though there was a disturbing lack of lingerie pillow fighting.

Like when the puppy starts limping. After a whole afternoon of roughhousing with 3 larger dogs, Kerbey stopped putting weight on one of her paws. The whole evening and subsequent morning, she hobbled around on 3 paws. Her injury did not phase her energy level, such is with puppies. As she hops around on only three legs, my mind also jumps to some conclusions…

She looks like she’s in pain. She must have broken something. Or maybe has a birth defect. I’m going to have to take her to the vet. Can I afford the vet? It’s my doggie, I would be willing to spend my whole tax return if she needed it. She’s going to have to have x-rays. And they’re going to find something, and it’s going to require surgery. And while in surgery they’re going to determine they need to take her whole leg. They will return her with only 3 legs and every time I look at her my guts will implode with guilt from something that is entirely not my fault. I will of course get depressed and then die.

Or, I woke up with a very intense pain in my stomach. As I attempt the morning 3-S (shit, shower, shave) ritual, the pain intensifies, and spreads all over my body as the following thoughts filter through my head. What is wrong with me. Why didn’t I pay more attention in anatomy class? I would really like to know exactly which organ is causing me such pain. Ok, it is clearly my appendix. It is about to burst. I will be dead soon. I’m not ready to die.

No, it hurts too much to be my appendix. Must be my kidneys. I have a kidney stone. Or five. I hear those hurt, a lot. Yes, most definitely a colony of kidney stones. As I go to my computer and google kidney stones, I am not relieved one bit. I come to the conclusion that it might be a kidney stone trying to pass, or something else. I will never be sure. Maybe the autopsy would be conclusive. That gives me no comfort.

I could go to the doctor. But then I would have to pay him for his services. They would have to take x-rays. Or a CT scan or something. I would have to miss work. I would loose my job. Wait, maybe it’s just cramps. It’s not low enough to be cramps. (I calculate using advanced mathematics in my head that it is entirely possible for me to be having excruciating cramps right now.) Wondering if I would be the first person whose tombstone read: “Perished from Intense Cramping.”

Turns out the puppy was okay, and I didn’t have to spend my whole tax return on her vet visit. She was proscribed some yummy anti-inflammatory meds and was diagnosed with a young-dog bone-marrow problem. She will grow out of it. She can keep all of her legs. Had to keep her at rest for two whole weeks.

As it turns out the intense pain in my stomach-region was cured by 2 motrin and the assurance that I was imagining it all, anyway. I’ve managed to stay alive for two whole days since then. I cannot wait until life returns to normal and I have a job waiting for me in June.

One day her tail was torn up, and then the next day it was her fins, and then she looked like she was getting better, then worse, then even way worse. Each day I would watch her, holding back the tears, digging deep inside my soul to will her to get better. I even fed her the specified “Angel and Butterfly frozen fish entree” to make sure she was getting the necessary nutrition for a speedy recovery. And then she disappeared. And I cried. And I have been forgetting to feed the fish this past week. I’m pretty certain this is called denial. And it’s not just a river in Egypt. Denial is like forgetting to feed the remaining fish in your tank because your favorite one of them died.

I finally got around to a non-bleary-eyed look at the tank today. As I reached my hand into the water to clean it up, a fish bit me. Let me rephrase that: My clownfish took a bite out of the back of my hand.

Hey Clownfish! There is a specific reason I do not keep piranhas stocked in my tank! Mr. Bitey kept circling my hand, threatening another attack. I swished my pointer finger around in the water threatening a ride down the porcelain express should he ever do that again!

Then the whole world started whirling around when it occured to me who ate my beloved angelfish. The. Mister. Bitey. Himself. (The Mrs. Bitey may have helped judging by the way she was sneakily swimming.) This enraged me to no end as the camera zoomed in and the sequence of flash backs started playing in my head. Dang clownfish, who have been the downfall of many an uninhabited anemone. Who kill many of my beautiful corals because they insist on making homes in them. Swishing their little fishey selves all over the colorful corals until they just don’t bloom anymore, then moving onto the next. The same clownfish that have eaten 2 pair of flasher fin fish and a goby.

Not to mention all the other fish who don’t make it past the clownfish misconception of a welcome to the tank party. Think of the volcano scene in Finding Nemo except for the part where they all become friends at the end. In my tank the newbies get bugged and nipped and finally eaten. Sometimes I manage to save them from impending doom.

Now I’m taking it into my own hands. The clownfish apparently have a misconception about who rules the house, much less the tank. I will not be bugged into submission and I will not be eaten alive by my clownfish. Rather, the other way around. Sushi, anyone?

No, I will not be flushing my clown fish down the toilet either. I will be selling them to the fish store and re-stocking the fish inhabitants of my tank this weekend. After I feed them some specialized frozen Angelfish and Butterfly Frozen Entree.

I paid my dues, was a good, uninterested girlfriend during our time in Golfsmith. I discreetly enticed him to make a purchase ASAP and we got out of there with a full new set of clubs within an hour (awesome!)

He understandably wanted to try out his new clubs at the driving range, and after an unsuccessful trip to The Domain, I offered to drop him off at the driving range while I could shop at the nearby Target (see above definition of ‘roped in’ and apply.) For some strange reason, I got out of the car at the driving range. For a stranger reason that I will never understand, I stayed to watch him swing and see how he liked his new clubs. I guess I was overcome with his contagious new-golf-club-excited-energy and actually got interested in what he was doing. So much that I picked a club out of his bag and started swinging. at. an. actual. golf. ball.

And then the earth shattered and fell into a million pieces. You thought that shaking-of-the-entire-house-feeling came from the Indianapolis area, but in fact, it was a result of me making contact with a golf ball with an actual golf club. A driver even.

The last time I picked up a club, it was an old step-father’s and that trip to the driving range nearly resulted in tears. Needless to say, I’ve avoided the g-word as much as possible, ever since. Until this weekend.

The first shot, I admit I got pretty lucky and landed the ball in a place other than where it started between my feet. I started stealing more balls from Carson’s bucket and eventually got the hang of it. At one point, he convinced me he was paying a compliment when he said I could hit it better than his grandma (apparently she has played golf before.) The driving range also proved to me that I needed to go to shopping for a golf glove instead of the intended Target run.

I own a golf glove. I never thought I’d be saying that. My golf glove has accompanied me through 18 holes so far, and has a lot more to look forward to, believe it or not. I truly don’t believe it. I am actually enjoying learning the game, and can’t be more surprised every time I actually make contact with the ball and send it flying through the air.

Guaranteed, I’m still working out how to actually hit the ball on the first try so I can stop lying when I say “no, that was just a practice swing.”

Later in the afternoon, fingernail polish still glossy on my arm, it starts itching. Underneath three layers of Opi Quick-Dry Top Coat, clearly not chiggers. The little red ninnies would not be able to stand the fumes. Maybe a bee or fire ant or something got stuck in my sleeve and bit me repeatedly. Maybe something just scratched me, or I got rug burn on the underside of my upper arm, you know, when I was applying my deodorant wrapped in carpet. I know these wishes are only in vain, for the true cause of my itchy arm is from the depths of itchiness hell, the devil incarnate in plant form … THE POISON IVY.

In case you couldn’t tell, The Poison Ivy tops the list of things I want least to happen to my body. I prefer being hit by an 18-wheeler to being in contact with The Poison Ivy.

As a girl scout, I was trained to tell the difference between poison oak, poison ivy, poison sumac and variegated pothos. I was not allergic to any of these plants and could roll around in any ivy patch as a youngster. I would emerge from a raging pit of ivy, positively identify it as poisonous, and walk away with merely a fond memory of a good romp. Later, I went to college and the poisonous plant knowledge base was replaced with some less applicable knowledge.

Now, I unknowingly get covered in the plant’s oil, apply it liberally all over my body and miss-remember the stuff exists. I call this the idiotic stage.

A few weeks will go by. You heard me. A few weeks, as in, a month. As in, the time it takes you to tell if you’re conceiving a baby. Nothing abnormal, nothing itchy happens for a whole month. I call this the blissful ignorance stage.

And then a rash shows up. During this stage, I cannot do anything to spread the rash, the damage is already done. The rash will merely be showing up wherever I was in contact with the poison ivy, a few weeks ago. Slowly at first. Little red bumps appear then turn into blisters that itch to high heaven. And it gets worse and worse. And it starts showing up in other spots. And then every stray spot on my body gets investigated. Each little spot on my body could give me a hint to whether one poisonous leaf just wisped by one spot on my arm, or if I accidentally performed a sadistic tribal dance, wrapping poisoned vines all over my body. In the latter case, I know to look forward to a month of hellacious body-itching. I call this the hopeless utter confusion and torture stage.

The worst part about the hopeless utter confusion and torture stage is the amount of brain space confiscated by the itching. I find myself unable to do my taxes because the part of my brain that used to be able to fill in forms is replaced by the thought of itching. What used to be an easy task of cooking mac and cheese (the Velveeta kind where all the ingredients come in the box) becomes an inedible dinner of mush because I got distracted with trying not to scratch all the itching. And then I end up hungry and itchy, and it just gets to be too much to handle!

Right now, as I’m not itching this little spot on my under-arm, I am imagining the rash came from a walk I took in the woods about a month ago. Trying to remember what I did a month ago is confiscating my remaining brain space. I’m trying to imagine I did not contract poison ivy in my own back yard when I did some minor yard work about a month ago. I’m trying to imagine it came from a very far away place that I will never visit again.

If the poison ivy is in my back yard, however, I’m doomed. I spent this entire weekend in the back yard, clearing and bagging up brush and miscellaneous vines. Which means, while I am currently suffering from a minor prior encounter with The Poison Ivy, I might just have been having a unknown rendezvous with a whole mass of it this weekend. I might just have spent the whole weekend in the idiotic stage. Which puts me in the blissful ignorance stage for the next month. Except right now it’s more like a horrifying fear of the hopeless utter confusion and torture stage.

There’s nothing I can do right now, I took a shower and washed all my clothes. The damage is done, and my brain is rotting from all the thinking about not itching, and remembering what I did, and fearing for the future, and promises to not even look at the back yard ever again.