Dog Mania

Usually when I come home from school, I'm greeted by an adorable beagle named Elvis who bounds up to the door and gives me a "welcome home" kiss.  Yesterday, I walked through the door and was bombarded by FOUR dogs.  FOUR.  I was almost knocked over.  Allow me to introduce them:

This is Elvis.  You know him.  He's cute; he's lovable.  He likes to play and to sniff things.

This is Chewy.  His cuteness and lovableness is debatable.  I happen to think he's awesome, but Rex hates him.  We're fostering him for the Southern Nevada Pug Rescue.  I have to make a description of him to go on the SNPR website, and Rex wants him to get adopted NOW so this is the description he wrote: "This pug poops out money, loves to clean your house, and will do your taxes."  Ha ha ha!  Anyway, Rex hates him because he says he's "whiny."  I say that this pug has been through a lot in his tiny life, and we should just be thankful that he's friendly with our other dogs and hasn't pooped or peed in the house once!  What more can you ask for in a dog?  Anyway, I love him.  I hope he doesn't get adopted for a while.

These are Danny and Annie.  They're little wiener dogs that we're taking care of while our friends JB and Amy are out of town.  They are the most chill dogs you will ever meet.  They pretty much sit on the couch all day and watch Elvis and Chewy run around like crazy psycho dogs.  Danny has a special blanket that he curls up in on the couch, and he buries himself so deeply into the blanket that you wouldn't even know he was there.  I'm a little terrified that I am going to forget about him and just plop down on the couch one day and squish him.

This is Elsie.  She's not a dog.  She hates all dogs.  I think she's wondering why Rex and I are torturing her with all of these canines. I'm pretty sure she's trying to ship herself away to a new family in this picture. Sorry, Els!  We love you!

And THIS, my friends, is the layout of our apartment:

I bet you're thinking to yourself, "Gee willakers, Christine, how do you fit four dogs and a cat into that tiny apartment?!"  Well, I'll tell you:  It's not easy.  There's fur everywhere!  I'm always stepping on something alive!  This is even worse than two summers ago when we had eight rats (http://www.webbnewlyweds.blogspot.com/2010/07/day-66.html), because at least rats are little.  I mean, if I got really sick of them I could have thrown all eight of them in the dishwasher and let them crawl around for a while so that I could have some peace.  (I didn't do that, by the way, but the point is that I COULD have.)  I can't do that with these crazy animals.  There are TOO MANY OF THEM.  I'm going nuts.  Rex tried to sit down to watch a movie today, and this is what instantly happened:

Please notice that Rex is not smiling.  That's mostly because guess which dog loves him the most??  CHEWY. Chewy is always crawling on Rex and falling asleep on his chest.   Then he snores his adorable pug snore right in Rex's face, and Rex starts looking more and more annoyed.....but he doesn't have the heart to shove the little sleeping thing off of him.  Awwww...

Every once in a while I come across a situation in life that makes me take a step back and think, "Whoa, how did I get myself into this?!"  This is definitely one of those situations.  It's fun, but it's craziness.  Have you ever tried to walk four dogs at once?  In the movies, they make it look like this:

That's really funny, lady.  Are those dogs even REAL?  I bet they're dead and you just set them up for the picture so you look like a good dog owner.  Let me tell you the real story, reader:  when you try to walk four dogs at once, they try to go in four different directions.  Somehow, while they're going in four different directions, they get their leashes tied up in intricate knots that would take an experienced boyscout to untangle.  All the while, they're tugging at your arms with all their tiny strengths as if to say, "Come this way!" "No, come THIS way!"  It's exhausting.  And then heaven forbid one of them poops - try to hold four leashes AND pick up poop.  Go ahead - try it.  Tell me how that works out for you.  Walking these dogs is definitely a two person job, which is fun because I get time with Rex.....but we had plenty of fun just walking our one dog.  This is getting a little nuts.

Oh, and Rex's friend Steven needs us to watch his Labradoodle on Tuesday.  For the past few years I've thought about volunteering at a dog shelter, but I never wanted to run one out of my one bedroom apartment!!  Our neighbors are going to hate us.  Maybe we should just move out and leave the apartment to the dogs.

Teacher Appreciation Week

During high school, before Rex and I started dating, Rex and I used to play a flirty game where I would steal his assignment notebook and write random holidays in it.  I would take an otherwise boring week and spice it up with "Leave a Cucumber on Your Neighbor's Porch Day" or "Walk Backwards Through Every Doorway Day."  I was running out of ideas by the time I reached November, so I just put a line over an entire week and labeled it "Christine Appreciation Week."  Little did I know how much Rex would actually take that to heart and follow through on it!  Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, did he follow through on all of my made-up holidays?  Did his neighbor end up with a cucumber on their porch?  Hmmm...  Sorry Webb neighbors.

Anyway, Rex spent an entire week appreciating me.  I wasn't even his girlfriend!  I mean, he totally wanted me to be his girlfriend, but I wasn't yet.  Ha ha.  We were just best friends, and every day he did something different to show me how much he appreciated me and my friendship.  He left little notes in my lockers, picked flowers out of the garden in front of the school (hmmm...that was probably illegal).  He even made a pen case for me out of clay.  Come to think of it, that's kind of cheesy and weird, but....I still liked it.  Actually, I think I still have it.

The point of all of this is that I feel like most people don't get an entire week devoted to their appreciation.  I'm lucky enough to have had this done twice now!  Rex did it for me once in high school, and then my class/staff did it again for me this week - the national "Teacher Appreciation Week."

Now, when I was ordering flowers for my mom for Mother's Day last weekend, the flower shop website had a little sign that said, "Don't forget that Teacher Appreciation Week is next week!"  I thought, "Yeah, right.  Who remembers Teacher Appreciation Week?  I've never even HEARD of that.  I will be shocked if even one person mentions it."

WOW was I wrong.  I was dead wrong.  I have felt sooooo appreciated this week.  It started off on Monday morning when my boss called me down to her office to give me a bonus check to "show her appreciation."  Ummm...yes please!  You want to pay next month's rent because you "appreciate me"? No problem - I won't complain.  :-)

The Parent/Teacher Organization (PTO) provided lunch or breakfast for us every day.  We had bagels, smoothies, Buffalo Wild Wings chicken, a burrito bar, a sandwich station, and gourmet desserts.  DELICIOUS!  That must have cost them a lot of money.  Oh well!  Ha ha.  Various parents put treats in the teachers' lounge for us: edible arrangements, cookie cakes, baked goods, etc etc etc.  I think I've gained ten pounds this week (WORTH IT).

Also, today (Friday), they hired a MASSEUSE to be in the teachers' lounge with her massage table to give all of us free massages over our lunch breaks.  Thank you very much, PTO.  I love you.  No really.  I love you.

Even my students remembered to spoil me!  I got at least one present every day. Here's the list of presents that I got this week:  three Starbucks giftcards, one Amazon gift card, one Visa gift card, one In-N-Out Burger gift card, a candle, two dozen cupcakes, a dozen homemade cookies, and a bunch of cards telling me that I'm the best teacher ever.  Not bad for a holiday I didn't even know existed!

Probably the most creative gift was one that one of my eighth grade girls gave me.  She said she wants to do hair when she grows up and wanted to give me a "makeover" for my teacher appreciation gift.  Apparently my daily pony tail or messy bun wasn't really cutting it for her.  Let me tell you - it's a scary thing to put yourself at the mercy of a fourteen year old.  Anyway, she enlisted the help of another fashionista teacher to do my make-up, and what they came up with wasn't that bad!

Anyway, the point is, I had a good week.  It's nice to feel appreciated.  I think everyone should be entitled to an appreciation week.  Just put it in everyone's calendar, and hopefully they'll follow through!

P.S.  For your reading pleasure (and just in case I ever lose them for some reason), here are a couple of my favorite letters:

Dear Mrs. Webb,
I don't think there are any words to describe how amazing you are.  You are my #1 favorite teacher ever!  I'm not just saying that because I want a good grade.  If I'm having a bad day in another class, I can always count on you to lighten up my day.  You are the one teacher who allows kids to let their "freak flag" fly (including me).  I feel that "appreciate" is too small a word to describe the awesomeness that you come to school with every single day.  So I want to give you a HUGE thanks!


(Reader note:  I am copying this next letter EXACTLY as it was written.  I hope the irony of it is not lost on you)

DEAR MRS. WEBB,
I am going to write this letter with the right spelling, grammer, and punctuation.  HI Mrs. Webb!  Happy teacher's appreciation week.  Your the best teacher at this school don't tell the other teachers.  I know I'm your favorite.  Well my brain hurts right now so that's why I'm not writing alot.


Dear Mrs. Webb,
This is my appreciation note to you!  Mrs. Webb, you are the best teacher ever!  (and I've been with some really cool teachers).  You are like a super hero, but better because you teach!  I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you!  Whenever I was upset, you always made me feel better.  You helped me stay out of trouble before I even knew I was getting in it (see?  You're a super hero).  Everything you do is always to benefit someone.  I'm definitely going to miss you when you're not my homeroom teacher any more.  So yeah, just to sum it up:  I love you.



My Interview

Reporter:  Well, Ms. Webb, it's very nice of you to meet with us today.

Me:  No problem, Tim.  (I bet his name is Tim.  I don't know why.  Or if it's a girl it's probably Laurel).  It's the least I could do.

Reporter:  Tell us, what does it mean to you to have your home featured on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens for the tenth time? 

Me: Let me tell you, Tim/Laurel.  It means a lot.  There was a time when I wasn't very domestic.  I never dreamed that I would be featured in your magazine!  I mean, okay - let's be real - I dreamed of it.  I just never thought it would really happen.  And now here I am, featured on my tenth cover.

Reporter:  I think a lot of our readers would find it difficult to believe that you weren't always, as you say, "domestic."  It's obvious by your lush gardens that you were born with a green thumb. 

Me:  (shaking my head vigorously)  No!  It's not true.  I have not always been this way.  Actually, back in my early twenties, I tried for months to grow some flowers and totally failed.

Reporter:  Impossible.

Me:  It's true!  See this picture? (I pull a tattered, sun bleached picture out of my Chanel clutch)  I keep this with me at all times to remember my humble beginnings.  This is a picture of the flowers I tried to grow on the balcony of my apartment when I lived in Las Vegas.

Reporter:  (trying to sound optimistic)  Well...those don't look SO bad...growing flowers from seeds can be quite difficult.

Me:  I know.  That's why I didn't grow the flowers from seeds.  I tried growing flowers from seeds three different times that year, and I never got so much as a sprout of green to pop through the dirt.  I don't get it!  I followed the directions, I used Miracle-Gro plant food, I watered them every day...but nothing would grow.  Finally I decided to buy some already grown flowers and just transplant them into pots for my garden.  I put them in rich soil and spread out the roots just like my mom taught me, but here is a picture of them a week later.  Totally dying.

Reporter:  Wow.  Is that....a mixing bowl that the one plant is in?

Me:  Oh yes.  I ran out of pots for my plants, so I decided to use a mixing bowl for one of them.  I picked that particular one because I had thrown up in it a few times, so using it for cooking was a pretty unappetizing prospect.  Plus, I wasn't a big baker back in my twenties.

Reporter:  (GASP!)  You didn't bake very much!?  But your famous cookbook has sold millions of copies!

Me:  I know, I know.  I've changed since then.

Reporter:  I bet that mixing bowl would sell for a lot of money right now...

Me: Yeah, I'm sure lots of fans would love to have my puke bowl.

Reporter:  It's symbolic.  It shows people that not everyone is born into greatness.  I mean, here you are - a world class gardener featured in the magazine that is the worldwide authority on the subject, and you got your beginnings trying to grow dying plants in a recycled puke bowl.  It's inspiring!

Me:  I guess...

Reporter:  It's amazing.  There is hope for people around the world.  Do you hear that, failing housewives?  Don't give up hope!  Even Christine Webb started off with a less-than-perfect garden, and now look at her.  People come from all over the world to look at her five acres of gorgeous landscaping.

Yeah, I'm sure that's how that interview is going to go.  ;-)

Home Visit

She knocked on the door so quietly that I questioned whether or not anyone was there at all.  It's a good thing that I was close to the door, though, because she was there.  It was time for our home inspection.  I recognized Saira through the peephole, took a deep breath, fixed my hair, and opened the door.

I had been waiting all week for this moment.  Really, I felt as if I had been waiting my whole life for this moment.  Rex and I were having a home inspection to see whether or not we would be good foster parents.  This "Saira" got to judge us and our home and decide whether or not she would trust us with tiny lives.

Before you start getting crazy ideas, let me specify that we don't want to foster children.  I mean, duh - we live in a one bedroom apartment and barely have enough room/time/money for ourselves.  We want to foster rescue pugs.  Okay, fine, I admit it - I want to foster a rescue pug.  Rex just loves me enough to support the crazy shenanigans I get us into.

Last Saturday we talked to Saira to set up our home visit, and the visit was scheduled for Thursday at 5:00.  I spent all week panicking about it.  I mean, I LOVE pugs.  This could be so huge for me!  It's the perfect compromise for Rex and I, because I still get to help out pugs but Rex doesn't have to own one.  It's great.  It might be the closest that I ever come to my dream of being a pug owner.  I'd already submitted our application and met the board of the Southern Nevada Pug Rescue, so it all hinged on this home inspection.  I wanted it to be perfect.

I spent all week preparing.  I dragged Rex around town to get new balcony furniture and potted plants to make our balcony look like a beautiful, dog-friendly retreat.  I cleaned the apartment and purposely put Elvis's dog toys away but left just a couple out casually on the floor as if to say, "We're clean here, but we're not neat freaks.  We believe in letting dogs be dogs."  I brought home my pug page-a-day calendar from my desk at school and set it up inconspicuously on our DVD player.  I gave Elvis and Elsie extra play sessions in the hope that they would become friends before the Thursday visit (they didn't).  I fell in love with Rex all over again when he said, "I put two issues of Dog Fancy on top of the toilet for when she inspects the bathroom.  That way, if she picks up one to see if we just got it as a decoy, she'll see that we have two so we're REAL dog people."   If only we would have put the March issue on top (there was a pug on the cover of that one).   Perhaps that would have been a bit of overkill, though, and we wanted to seem nonchalant.  I even put thought into my outfit: jeans to seem casual, but a fancy top with jewelry so that I show that I'm not a total grunge-slob.  I felt like my life dream was resting on impressing this Saira with my love of pugs.  Even though I know he couldn't understand me, I had a long talk with Elvis about how he HAD to be good for this lady and prove that we were good dog-owners.  Also, he couldn't act psycho or she wouldn't want any of their little babies to stay with us.

Anyway, back to the part when Saira knocked on the door.  She knocked at exactly 5:01, while I was frantically checking my e-mail to see whether she had cancelled our appointment.  After all, it was past 5:00 and she hadn't arrived.  My heart was beating so fast - THIS WAS IT.  I opened the door and smiled brightly.  "Hi!"  I chirped.  Then I freaked out - was I supposed to shake her hand?  Should I re-introduce myself?  I mean, I'd already met her once, but still...  I hadn't practiced the greeting!  Aaaaaaaah!  I settled on some variation of "Great to see you again, come on in!"  As she walked in, I peered cautiously around for her clipboard and checklist or maybe even a tape recorder for her to take verbal notes in to be reviewed by the board after our meeting.  She was only holding her purse.  Hmmm...maybe the recorder was IN the purse, recording everything I said.  Maybe there was a camera in the button on her shirt!  Oh, except she was wearing a T-shirt with pugs on it.  There were no buttons to hide a camera.  She seemed deceptively casual.  I would have to tread carefully.

Saira and I made our way over to the couch, where Elvis performed perfectly.  It was as if he'd understood everything he and I had talked about earlier.  He jumped up on the couch and licked Saira's face to say, "Hi! I like you!"  He played around sniffing her for a few minutes, then when I said "Elvis, time to calm down," he obediently retrieved his bone from his "toy corner" and laid down on the floor to chew on it contentedly.  I beamed with pride - what a good dog!  See, Saira?  I'm a good dog owner!!  So what if he's putting on an act because I promised him a lifetime of treats if he made this visit go well?  He's being good!  Whoooo hooooo!

Saira and I sat on the couch and talked about the pug rescue and the responsibilities of fosters for about a half an hour.  We had a lot of fun discussing the pugs that are currently in foster homes (I have all of their profiles memorized from the website), and we discussed the idiocy of people who don't like pugs.  "Don't worry," she comforted me.  "My boyfriend used to think that he didn't like pugs either, but now we have three.  Your husband will come around."  We can only hope.

After about a half an hour, Saira picked up her purse and said, "Well, that's about it!  Thanks for having me over!"  I wanted to scream, "Wait!  You didn't take any notes!  You didn't notice the Dog Fancy magazines on top of the toilet.  You didn't look anywhere except the living room!  I haven't even shown you our 'doggie retreat' balcony garden!"  I quickly backtracked, though, when I realized that not showing Saira the rest of the apartment meant that she didn't have to meet Elsie.  Elsie is a complete psychopath cat who should not be trusted near any dogs or humans, and that is why we keep her in the bedroom.  She probably would have smelled pug on Saira and decided to kill her.  I figured that the less Saira knew about the Elsie, the higher my chances were of becoming a pug foster.  And that, my friends, is a very good thing.

When Rex got home from school, he asked how things went with Saira.  I said that I thought they went well.  He got a nervous look on his face and asked, "What did she say about Elsie?"  I told him that she didn't even meet Elsie, and he broke into a huge grin, high-fived me, and said, "Sweet!  Than we've got a chance!"  HA HA!

So maybe I over-prepared for that meeting a bit...but it's better to be over-prepared, right?  I am very happy to announce that within two hours of the end of our meeting, I got an e-mail telling me that our application to foster a pug had been APPROVED!  HOORAY!  Now I just have to wait for a little homeless pug to need a home to take care of him while he waits on getting adopted.  I feel like a horrible person for hoping that it happens soon, but I can't help it.  I'm going to (maybe, if they need one) be a pug foster mom! :-D

Pet-a-Palooza

I used to think that Rex and I were pet fanatics, but that was before I saw the people pushing their cat around in a stroller.  Their cat, by the way, was wearing a bow and a tutu.

Okay fine, I'll admit it.  I didn't really see the cat; Rex did.  I'm really sorry that I missed it, though, because it sounded pretty awesome.  Those pet owners could make me look normal!

This wonderful pet experience stemmed from a e-mail that I sent to the Southern Nevada Pug Rescue a few days ago.  Here was my first paragraph of that e-mail:

I am writing to you because I absolutely adore pugs and want to help the pug rescue out in any way I can.  I think I'm the biggest pug fan in the country who doesn't actually own a pug.  My husband and I moved to Nevada last summer, and Pug-O-Rama last October was like Christmas to me.  I don't own a pug myself because my husband loves dogs but thinks that pugs "look like someone threw them face-first into a wall" (a common misconception of the unenlightened).

I went on in the rest of the e-mail to explain that my husband studies a lot, leaving me with more free time than I care to have.  I would love to spend that time volunteering with the pug rescue...did they need any help?  I got a response almost immediately from Saira, one of the board members at SNPR.  She said that she would love to have me help out, and was I available to meet her and the rest of the board at "Pet-a-Palooza" this Saturday?  Of course I was.

I looked up Pet-a-Palooza online, and I was surprised that I hadn't heard of it before.  Apparently it's a huge annual event.  I told Rex that we had to go.  He didn't really argue...last year there were 15,000 people and 4,000 dogs.  Who wouldn't want to go to that party?

We arrived at the fields where Pet-a-Palooza was located, and our first reaction was "WHOA."  It was a lot bigger than we had imagined.  Picture a county fair that is completely made for dogs.  There were countless vendor tents, bounce houses, small roller coaster rides, and even a "food court" of vendor tents.  It was crazy.

It probably took about a half hour for me to find the SNPR tent, but I finally did.  I'm so excited to get involved with them!  The ladies there seemed really nice.  One large old lady who works there really looks like a pug...it kind of freaked me out a little.  If I hang out with pugs too much will I start looking like one?  I feel my eyes getting buggy...

Once we left the SNPR ladies, we kept exploring Pet-a-Palooza.  We had a total blast.  There was a jumping competition, and we watched one dog do a seven foot vertical jump.  WOW.  That was really cool.  We periodically took Elvis to the "watering tent," where they had about a dozen kiddie pools set up for the dogs to splash around in.   That was probably my favorite part.  There was always at least one pool that was completely filled up by some huge dog who just decided to plop down and cool off  (it was 96 degrees out, poor dogs).  The littler dogs jumped around and splashed each other, and then they jumped out and shook all of the water off of their coats, drenching their owners.  No one really minded, though, because it was so hot out.  Elvis made some cute beagle friends, and we got invited to join their owner's beagle club and go on beagle hikes together.  Cool!

Pet-a-palooza also had a mainstage where concerts were being performed.  It made me wonder - people think they've "made it" if they get a performing gig in Las Vegas, but does it really count if you're performing at a giant afternoon dog party?  I couldn't decide.  The performers seemed happy, though, so I figured they were counting it.

I guess the name "Pet-a-Palooza" doesn't really specify which types of pets were invited, but the overwhelming majority of attendees were dogs.  I already told you about the stroller cat - I feel like that's still a pretty normal pet (even if her owners were weirdos).  Here's what I want to know - who brought their PONY?  Yes, folks, someone was walking around with their pet pony.  I at first thought, "Okay, that is a HUGE dog," but then I felt dumb when I realized it wasn't a dog at all.  Oops.  Another person brought a giant pig that is probably the size of my students.  It spent most of the time rolling around in the mud.  It's owner went to go get it and the pig tried to bite her, so she let him keep rolling.  He's probably still in that mud patch as I type this.  There were other assorted ferrets, rabbits, etc.  I would not bring my rabbit around a bunch of dogs, especially breeds that have instincts to hunt rabbits, but oh well.  Not all pet owners are thinkers.

Anyway, our little Webb family had a great day.  Elvis fell asleep in the car on the way home, and he's been pooped ever since.  Here is what he's been doing for most of the evening:

Pet-a-Palooza was a lot of excitement for a small dog!  Just wait until I convince Rex we should be foster parents to a rescue pug...Elvis is going to flip out.

My Drug

The first step to curing an addiction is admitting that you have a problem, right? I fully admit that I have a problem, but I don't think I want to be cured of it. I love it. I revel in it. I partake in this addiction at all sorts of times of the day and night, and I have spent countless amounts of money on it. I've been addicted since first grade, and I see no relief in the future.

 I am addicted to new books.

 The first new book I remember getting (though I'm sure I must have had some before this) was a Boxcar Children book. My mom ordered it for me out of my first grade scholastic book order (thanks Mom!). I can't be positive, but I think it was the Case of the Mysterious Twin. Anyway, I remember sitting in my tiny first grade chair, holding the book that the teacher had handed out to me, and thinking, "Wow! This is MY book. I'm going to be the very first person in the world to read this particular book, and it's no one else's but MINE!" Call me greedy, but with the recent addition of my little sister to my family I was starting to fear I would have to share everything I owned. I stared at the shiny sky blue cover in awe, not even wanting to touch it for fear that I would put a fingerprint smudge on the perfect publisher-fresh illustration.

 Fast forward almost twenty years. Here I am sitting at my teacher's desk, and I just wiped a fingerprint smudge off of a brand new book that one of my students bought for me ten minutes ago. I guess I haven't changed much since first grade. The Scholastic book fair is at our school this week, and I bribed my students by saying that anyone who bought me a book from the book fair would get McDonalds fries next week (this bribe always works tremendously well. Fries and extra credit are my two secret weapons). I started to realize that I had an addiction when a student raised her hand and said, "Can we bring you books from home?" My immediate answer was, "No. It has to be a NEW book. Donate all of the old books you want, but I'm only buying fries for people who get me new books."

 Now, if you know me, you know I'm not a very high maintenence person. I rarely buy new clothes. I've never bought new furniture, and I don't think I'll ever buy a new car. I even told Rex that he could buy me a secondhand wedding ring because I didn't really need a new one (he got me a new one anyway). Still, I have a thing about new books. I love them. I must have them. Sure, I buy a ton of used books off of Amazon because they're cheaper, but they just don't give me the same high. I'm like a drug addict who is desperate for a hit of anything but who really wants to get a hold of the "good stuff." I get this thrill every time I hold a new book in my hands, and it's the same thrill that I had in first grade. This is MY book that NO ONE else has ever read. It's perfect - no pages are bent or torn, the cover isn't dirty or smudged, and no one has written anything in it. A tiny bit of perfection resting in my own two hands. It's simultaneously mystical and glorious.

 What caused me to write this blog in the first place is when I realized how weird I must have looked to any passers-by in the hall who saw me sitting here at my desk with my entire face literally buried deep into the pages of my new book. I open each new book to a random page and just smell. I suppose part of the "new book drug" is an inhalent. New books smell SO good, and they always smell the same. It's reassuring to me, like "No matter how crazy the world gets, you can always count on a new book to smell like a new book." Why don't they sell air fresheners that smell like that? I want to move into an old publishing factory or something so I can smell that smell all the time. It's better than the smell of roses or cologne or even puppies (yes, Rex, it smells even better than puppies. We're already married so you can't dump me for that). New books make me so happy. Who can be sad when holding a shiny new book? The world could save a lot of money on therapists and mental health drugs if they would just pass around more new books. Getting my Barnes and Noble Educator's card was probably my favorite part of becoming a teacher. 20% off everything at Barnes and Noble?? SERIOUSLY?? IS THIS HEAVEN!?

 Yes, I know, I have a problem. If you'll excuse me, though, I have a new book to read.

Gate B18

Hurry, flowered shirt woman! Hurry! If you run slower, you might miss your plane like I missed mine! Don’t worry about your hair…no one is looking at your hair because they’re too preoccupied with the ginormous shocking pink flowers splashed all over your shirt.

Oops, don’t run over that kid, flowered shirt woman! I know he’s totally mucking up the moving walkway by executing a poor imitation of Michael Jackon’s moonwalk. Of course he’s standing right in the middle, too. He just wants everyone to pay attention to him. Don’t take it personally, flowered shirt woman. He looks to be about in middle school, and I know a lot about that age. They’re pretty much all idiots. If the worst he’s doing is moonwalking on the moving walkway, his parents will probably call it a good day. Goodbye, flowered shirt woman! I hope you make your flight!

Oh, hello reader. I didn’t see you there. I’m too busy watching the insanity that is the Chicago Midway airport. As I sit on this very uncomfortable stool at a “charging station,” I see a plane taking off into the distance and flying into the sunset. Is that the plane I was supposed to be on? Probably not, but you never really know. It could be.

See, what I want to do is go home to Las Vegas to see my husband, my puppy (who turns 1 year old tomorrow!), and even my cranky cat. That’s not what I get to do, though. What I get to do is sit here and pray that the next flight to Vegas out of Chicago (which leaves in three hours) doesn’t get cancelled. I’m flying home from visiting my grandma in New Hampshire. The plane from New Hampshire to Chicago was delayed, and I missed my connecting flight by ten measly minutes! TEN! I should be on a plane right now, sipping complementary Sprite and dreaming of the happy “cling cling cling!” of the slot machines that will welcome me home at McCarran Airport. Instead, I’m here blogging to pass the time. Actually, correction: I’m writing a blog in Microsoft Word that I will later transfer to my real blog, because this airport charges $6.95 for internet access. Is that insane or what?! I just want to sign on and check some e-mails, surf facbeook, etc. I can get free wifi if I buy a $1 cup of tea at Starbucks, but if I drop a few hundred on airline tickets then suddenly I’m charged? This is silly. I’m sticking it to the proverbial Airport Man and not buying his wifi. HA! I will write in word, which you cannot charge me for.

Anyway, I figure I’ll sit here for a while and transcribe what I see for you. It will be almost as if you’re here with me in the airport. How fun! I have to warn you, though, that I am being strongly tempted by the smell of fresh McDonalds fries that is wafting over to me from the McDonalds next to this gate. I think scientists should do a study on how long people can sit and smell McDonalds fries without wanting to buy some. It’s not very long; that’s for sure. So I will probably follow my nostrils over there in a little bit. Until then…

The guy passing in front of me right now is genius, but I hope he’s not in a hurry. This man is in a wheelchair, and he’s rolling next to the moving walkway. He’s holding onto the arm rail of the moving walkway, so the belt is pulling him along and he doesn’t have to push his wheelchair. Good job, my disabled friend! You’re not going quickly, but you are expending absolutely no energy whatsoever in getting to your destination. That’s something not many of us can do.

The man sitting next to me at the charging station has taken notice of our disabled friend. He turns to me and says, “Well, that’s a new way to use the walkway!” I agree. Charging Station Man comments that we can watch the whole world go by from where we’re sitting. I agree again. Gasp – is he a fellow writer? Is he writing down everything he sees too? Perhaps he is writing about me right now: “This crazy girl with a way outdated MacBook is sitting next to me…she’s kind of quiet, but she’s super fashionable. It looks almost as if her grandma just bought her a whole new summer wardrobe…” Good job, Charging Station Man! She did.

I can’t stand it any more. I’m taking a peek at Charging Station Man’s computer to see what he’s writing. Oh! He’s about to eat a chip - perfect opportunity to peek.
That was anticlimactic. He’s working on a spreadsheet. It’s probably something for work. Maybe he’s a high-class businessman billionaire. I feel like only really sophisticated business people work on spreadsheets in their spare time. Perhaps his jeans and tee shirt are a disguise he wears when he goes out into public so that people won’t notice him and hound him for money or take unflattering pictures of him that will end up in Us Weekly or something. Let me check if he’s famous a second (he’s going to think that it’s weird that I keep looking at him).
Blast. Not famous. Well, not anyone that I know of anyway. To a normal observer he would look like an average guy working on a spreadsheet. Hmm… I must find another subject. Charging Station Man is boring me.

Oh look! A mobster pushing some luggage carts. Perfect. I am in Chicago, after all, so I suppose that fits. He’s probably not really a mobster, but he looks like one. He’s a mid-twenties tallish Mexican, and he’s not really skinny or fat. His hair is gelled straight up from his head, and it looks either like black flames or deadly spikes. It’s tall, too – probably about six inches shooting out of his head. Picture Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus as a Mexican, and you’ve got the idea. He also has a really thin mustache that looks as if he’s been trying to grow it out since he was fourteen but hasn’t really gotten very far. The gold chains clinking together around his neck complete the look.

Wait, are mobsters Mexican? I thought they were Italian… This guy is definitely Mexican; I heard him speaking Spanish. He didn’t sound Italian at all. Then again, I shouldn’t be mobster racist. I’m sure mobsters can come from any race. Black, White, Mexican, British….whatever. To the poor African tribal men playing bongos in your bamboo huts – YOU TOO CAN BE MOBSTERS IF YOU FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!

Crap. Charging Station Man got French fries. See? I told you that they were unavoidable! Now I can smell them even more…mmmm…. He got a cheeseburger too! Mmmm….cheeseburger… I will resist for now, though. I have more to tell you about.
Excuse me, woman with the stroller, did you notice that you have no baby? This woman is pushing a stroller with a stuffed panda in it, but no baby. No, I’m not kidding. Do you really think I could make this stuff up? I’m not that creative. I’m looking around her for a husband or other family member holding the child, but there is no one. It’s just this woman and her panda flying solo. I’m waiting to hear an announcement over the intercom saying, “Excuse me travelers – please check your strollers. If you are missing a baby, she can be picked up at Terminal 3.”

Seriously, this woman has no baby. Maybe that panda is really important to her. OH MY GOSH, what if she’s smuggling drugs inside of that panda?! She is just pretending to have a baby so that no one will suspect her. Panda Lady – the mobster went the other way! What if I watched a drug deal go down right here at Gate B18? Now that would be truly crazy.

Here is a poor woman who deserves a blog shout-out – a grandma traveling with four kids. Before you start calling me ageist, I know she’s their grandma and not their mom because they’re calling her “grandma.” More accurately, they’re yelling it across the terminal as they run in four different directions and expect her to follow them. None of the children can be over ten. No way. What is this, “vacation with Grandma” week? This poor grandma is dealing with the fallout of the fact that her grandchildren have discovered the moving walkway. Now that you mention it, Benny, it IS kind of like a mini-rollercoaster! Let’s play on it all night or until your grandma has a heart attack from trying to corral all of you – whichever comes first. I can tell you something: this will probably be their last vacation with Grandma. She looks really tired and entirely too old to be dealing with this. If I had a badge of airport honor, I would give it to her.

This blog is now three single spaced pages long, and I’m still an hour and forty-five minutes from my flight. GAH! Maybe I should suck it up and pay the $6.95 for internet so I can fight boredom. No, I won’t pay! I will hold my ground. You know what? I could buy a whole feast at McDonalds with my $6.95, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m coming for you, delicious fries!