Can you think of a better reason?

Tomorrow, as I’ve mentioned, I’m walking in the Alzheimer’s Memory Walk in honor of my Grandma Sara.

Grandma Sara, me, and Mom on Grandma's front porch.

I’m about to go visit her now, but I’ll tell you, the visit is more for me and to make sure the nurses know she has family who visits her than it is for her. She won’t know who I am. If she’s having a good day, she’ll politely smile at me for a few seconds, and maybe say a word or two that doesn’t make any sense. She might laugh if I say something in the right tone of voice. But she won’t know I’m her only granddaughter.

She won’t understand when I tell her that, this past weekend, I went to the beach where she and my Grandpa Chuck used to vacation. They’d come down from La Porte, Indiana, where they lived all their lives, and go to Treasure Island, Florida. They stayed at the Trails End motel and ate at Gigi’s, which is now one of my favorite pizza places of all time.

Grandma Sara, Grandpa Chuck and me in Treasure Island, FL, 1983

She won’t remember the story about the last time they went, before Grandpa Chuck died. How I was three, and my mom and I came down for a week. How I jumped off the diving board into the deep end and nearly gave Grandpa a heart attack. How I fed bread to the seagulls and swam until my eyes were so irritated by chlorine I couldn’t open them in the sunlight for a whole day.

I’m nowhere near meeting my fundraising goal, but I’d still like to raise as much money for the Alzheimer’s Association as I can. I know times are tight, but if you have even just $5 you can donate, please consider doing so. It means a lot to me, and I know it would mean a lot to Grandma. If you can’t donate, but have a story you’d like to share about a grandparent or someone else special in your life, leave a comment — I’d love to read about it.

But, you know, if you want to donate, too, well, that would be swell.

The end of the circle

This morning, I made the most difficult call of my life. I made an appointment to have Yuki — my Yuki — put to sleep.

The coolest dog I ever knew.

As many of you know, she’s been having some difficulties — running into walls, panting nonstop and circling, circling, circling — and as it turned out, it was from a tumor or some other form of swelling on her left forebrain. Yesterday, we took her to the neurology department at UF, and, short of putting her through radiation therapy (which would have cleared out our savings and given us no guarantee that it would help or make her less miserable), we had just one option: Put her on a steroid to see if it reduced the swelling. We knew it would be borrowed time, even if it worked, but if we could make her comfortable for a few days, we felt like we owed it to her.

After coming out of the light sedation they gave her yesterday in order to do the x-rays and ultrasounds on the rest of her body, she was worse than ever. Jared and I spent the whole night holding her and trying to keep her from running (well, trotting) straight into walls and corners. She didn’t know us and didn’t seem to be aware of where she was. The decision was obvious to us — get her in to the vet as early as possible in the morning and put her out of her misery.

Still, it was the hardest decision either of us has ever made. The entire ride to the vet, I held her in the back of the car, and tried to memorize every bit of her. I love the way the white spot on her chest wasn’t symmetrical, and the way her black fur was actually kind of brown. Three paws had bits of white on the toes, while one was all black. And her tail had a slight upward curl that made her look so happy.

Cute as a puppy. Nothing changed.

It was hard to walk in, harder to listen as the vet explained how the process went, and almost impossible to hold her and try to calm her as the medicine took effect and she slowly sank to the ground. By the time she took her last breath, her coat was wet with our tears — the vet’s included.

That’s part of what makes this so damn hard. I know, everyone thinks their dog is special (and of course, they are). But man, Yuki was something. She touched the lives of so very many people, and I can’t imagine how many tears have been shed today. Without any training, she was a wonderful companion when I took her to my grandmother’s nursing home and visited with the Alzheimer’s patients. She was calm and gentle and let them pet her at their own pace. But, she was also a fantastic running buddy, and immensely entertaining at the dog park and at home.

Are you going to throw the stick? How about now? Now?

Above all, god, was she ever a good girl. All she wanted was to please us, and she brought us such joy, such happiness. She loved wearing bandanas — I think she liked the extra attention people paid, and she would just prance around like a show pony (although maybe this took it a little too far).

Our family portrait, shortly before Rudi came along in 2007. Photo: David Bowie Photography

As a puppy, she was absolutely fearless. She would run full speed and jump off of docks or dunes or anything. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. She played so hard, as puppies are wont to do. Shortly after we got her, we took her to a friend’s get-together where she played for hours with people and pets. I had to carry her tired little body to the car and put her on my lap, and she was so worn out that she peed in her sleep. All over me.

Her first birthday party was attended by tons of people — it didn’t take her long to worm her way into anyone’s heart. We held it at the dog park so the dogs could play and the people could eat. She might not have appreciated effort that went into making the homemade dog treats, but she ate them with gusto, just the same.

All dressed up for her first birthday party.

And she loved the water. When we took her to Canada, to my parents’ old cabin, we were wondering how to get her down to the lake — the house was on the lake, but there was basically a small cliff leading down to it. Within moments of arriving, Yuki found some way to climb down and was happily splashing in the water. Fortunately, she found a way up again, too.

For seven years, almost to the date, she’s been by my side. She was in our wedding, she attended my graduation (which consisted of me, my family and friends sitting outside at The Swamp after my last final), she moved from apartment to condo to our house with a yard.

We couldn't have found a cuter flower dog. Photo: Aaron Lockwood Photography

I had planned on another seven years of her chasing tennis balls and sticks and squirrels, barking at the UPS guy, and licking our faces endlessly (particularly when sweaty). She should have had another chance to climb in the chair with my dad and clean out his ears, and there were supposed to be more trips to the dog park. I wanted more walks and treats and time to cuddle. And even though I held her as the last bit of breath escaped from her mouth, I just can’t believe she’ll never be here again.

Diving in head first -- that's my girl.

To Yuki: The dog who taught me so much, brought smiles to so many faces, and asked for so little in return. You’ll be missed more than you can possibly imagine. Your circling has stopped, but my broken heart is just getting started.

If any of you have a favorite story about Yuki, or any dog for that matter, I’d sure love to hear it about now.

Don’t you forget about me

The death of John Hughes brought with it a flood of memories for millions. Who among us didn’t try to do the lipstick trick? (Turns out it doesn’t work so well when your cleavage consists of a training bra stuffed with toilet paper.) And it’s hard to find someone my age (or five to 10 years older or younger) who doesn’t have an important adolescent memory closely tied to one of his movies.

While some of those memories are sure to be happy, some are certain to recall pain. But at least we have them. Not everyone does.

Grandma Sara and me at my high school graduation open house, 1998.

When I was in sixth grade, I remember getting so annoyed with my Grandma Sara for asking me whether I had homework multiple times on the way home from school. “God,” I thought, “why doesn’t she just listen and pay attention?”

A few years later, after she’d been officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s but was still well enough to live on her own, I remember being frustrated that she’d forgotten to make the pie for Thanksgiving. She made the best pies, and when I’d asked her whether they were done (as a helpful reminder — I wasn’t a completely terrible child), she assured me they were. People with Alzheimer’s sometimes tell you what you want to hear, not even realizing that they’re lying.

The following month, I tried to get out of going to her apartment because OH MY GOD, if I had to hear that poinsettia story ONE MORE TIME I would definitely die (in the way that teenagers often die). Yes, Grandma, I know they used to be all tall and spindly and kind of ugly, and you’re right! Now they’re so lush and full and beautiful! It is amazing.

I would give anything — ANYTHING — to hear that story from her one more time. Or any story, for that matter.

Grandma Sara has been in a nursing home for the past eight years and has dealt with Alzheimer’s for close to 18. She can no longer put together a sentence or tell us what she’s thinking. At 90 years old, her physical condition remains mostly good, but mentally … she’s mostly gone. On rare occasions, she’ll light up for a second when she sees one of us. Whether she recognizes us or is just happy to see a smiling face, it’s impossible to tell. She hasn’t responded in a way that makes sense to anything I’ve said in years. Mostly, she just tries to be polite to these people who come and sit with her. Sometimes she laughs, sometimes she’s weepy. We never know why — we’re just thrilled when we visit on a good day.

This is a woman who used to put on lipstick to get the mail. She had her family convinced she liked the wings of the chicken best because she knew everybody else liked the other parts better. One time I asked her if she’d ever sworn in her whole life, and she responded, “Don’t tell anyone, but I might’ve said, ‘Oh, hell,’ once or twice.”

She made the best cookies and pies, as well as the most beautiful formal gowns for my mom’s high school dances, and she took care of me after school for years (always making sure I had a snack). I taught her to shoot baskets, but never took the time to let her teach me how to sew.

Yuki has raised a lot of money in past years. She's not too keen on the UF mascots, though.

On October 24, I’ll be walking in the Gainesville Alzheimer’s Memory Walk in her honor. I’m looking for people to walk with me — if you want to raise money, great. If you just want to show support, that’s great too. I’m also taking donations — you’ll see a small button over to the right if you want to donate online, or you can contact me if you’d rather do it in another way. Or, if you just want to share a story about how Alzheimer’s has touched your life, I’d love to hear that, too.

**Ed: I forgot to mention that anyone who lives in the area and wants to donate or become a part of Team Go for Grandma is TOTALLY invited to a par-tay at the Seymour residence following the walk. There will be food and booze — what more do you want?

But wait, there’s more! The BlogHeriness never ends

You might be under the impression that, at last weekend’s conference, all I did was eat and drink and laugh. And while that truly comprised a huge portion of the weekend, I was actually really busy. I swear!

Watch out, women drivers

On Thursday, I attended the Ford What Women Want event, where we learned a lot about Ford’s efforts toward sustainability. I’ll write more on this at GreenDaily, but I have to say I was amazed and impressed. They’re working to reduce emissions and waste from start of production until well after the car is in our hands, and they’re using incredible new technology to create new fabrics that get rid of the need for nasty chemicals and plastics. Awesome.

(Plus, they let us drive around some phat cars — one had a refrigerator inside. Can anyone say tailgate? Actually, no, they can’t, because everyone else was a mom and excited about the juice box possibilities …)

With Jessica in front of the car that HAD A FRIDGE. I want.

A Hair Affair

After cruising around with Ford, I headed out to a little boutique called Sparrow, where some lovely women were gettin’ their hair did (plus, the salon was serving champers and cheese — score!). It was an amazing salon, and I have no doubt that, if I lived in the area, that’s exactly where I would go. It’s a beautiful old barbershop, and it’s updated enough to be modern, but retains enough of the original to be oh-so-classy.

Bottoms Up

I wouldn’t have minded spending more time at Sparrow longer if it weren’t for the fact that there was a cocktail party that night, and holy moly, I met so many people that I actually ran out of business cards (not entirely, just out of the ones I’d taken for that evening). This was the first of the incredibly late nights, ending with a cheesy enchilada at, uh, 2:30am? But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been moving the next morning without it.

Susan and Cat -- two of my favorite people, and not just on the Internet.

YTBA, represent!

Due to my predilection for cheesy goodness (see above: cheesy enchilada in the wee hours of the morning), I don’t have the flattest tummy. So, when I was asked to be a Yummie Tummie Brand Ambassador at BlogHer, I didn’t hesitate to do a cartwheel and spell out HELL YES with my pom poms. I already had the strappy tank, but at BlogHer, I tried out the boyfriend tank. It’s shapewear, but it’s comfy, and it’s actually okay for people to see the top and bottom, so it’s perfect for layering. And for hiding an enchilada belly. (Oh, and because I did SUCH a great job as a YTBA, you’re totally eligible for a 30% discount if you order by August 8 and use BLOGHER30 as your code. You’re welcome.)

Suave and Degree Party at The Wit

You know how, when you were a kid and you imagined a cocktail party, you had a distinct image in your mind? This party was exactly my image. Stylish couches, amazing views, fun music, a fireplace, delicious food, wine and cocktails. Oh, and the company wasn’t so shabby, either.

Susan, Whoorl, Metalia, me, and Chris getting ready to take shots. Yes, really.

But seriously, this was low-key done right. The time flew and we all had an amazing time. Perfection.

MamaPop Sparklecorn Extravaganza

Yep, those are glowsticks. When aren’t they a perfect accessory?

If two out of those three words don’t make sense to you, don’t sweat it. Just know this — those MamaPop folks? They know how to throw a party. The music was great, particularly the excellent selection of Beastie Boys, and the dance floor was hopping. When it was over, a bunch of us ended up in my hotel room for 3am pizza. Good lord, no wonder I need the Yummie Tummie.

BowlHer, CheeseburgHer, I’m a BoozHer

Saturday night had several more events. A cocktail party at the hotel (natch), then BowlHer, a party at which they handed out hot pink boas at the door, so I immediately knew it was my kind of place. Unfortunatley, said boas turned out to be wicked itchy, and only beer was free, not wine, so we didn’t stay as long as we might have.

Another party, the CheeseburgHer party, was happening back at the hotel, and you know, when you first go to college and you go to that house party that’s all whoa? Yep, this was a bit of a flashback to that. It was packed, and hot, and there were cheeseburgers abounding. I made a loop through and headed down to the lobby bar.

The evening, and hence the weekend, ended quietly. Surprising, considering the insanity that had gone on every other night. We all made our good-byes at a reasonable time and there were no crazy late night snacks. I did, however, find I was a little tipsier than I thought when I tried to finish packing my suitcase. That’s a job best done stone sober.

Tomorrow morning, I’m off again to Chicago, this time for a Tropicana event (have you entered to win a fruit and juice basket from them yet?). I don’t anticipate the weekend being quite so wild, but I’m hoping to have just as much fun with it.

So I went to this conference, and all I got was this lousy bunch of friends and some knowledge

I’ve started this post about 50 times. I’ve been reading posts about BlogHer all day long, and I’m having the hardest time addressing a huge issue — the swag and freebies that marketers sometimes throw the way of bloggers, particularly at a blogging conference. So I won’t, other than to say that, if you’re not blogging to share ideas and find a community — if you started a personal blog in the hopes of earning millions and getting free cameras or strollers or trips — you’re probably going to be disappointed, whether you’re a mommyblogger or something else.

I’m going to address something that impacted me, personally, far more and in a really positive way — the community I found at BlogHer.

Okay, so I’m not a mommyblogger for obvious reasons — I’m child-free. And, despite the fact that I write for a living, I’m not a terribly experienced blogger. I don’t have a huge following here on Jeez-o-petes, and that’s okay (although of course, it would be great to have more people here and more interaction, but that’s not why I do this). I’m in no way “blog famous.” And so, I was nervous — would people accept me into their groups? Would my online friends and coworkers still think I was funny in person, when I wasn’t hiding behind a keyboard and spending several minutes on my witty responses? Would the fact that I’m not the same age as most of them be an issue?

I shouldn’t have worried. I mean, yes, I had a few moments here and there of feeling like the new kid in the cafeteria. There were thousands of people there, and I was bound to lose track of the people I knew from time to time. And I dealt — when I felt too freaked out, I went for a run and came back refreshed. Or, I looked for someone with a similar look of panic and sat with them and made some wonderful contacts.

I was blown away at how willingly I was accepted into so many groups. I met, in person, folks I’ve known for a year or two, and pretty much all of them were exactly the way I’d imagined — funny, smart, and often with a drink in their hand. By the end of the weekend, I couldn’t believe we had all just met. And I definitely can’t believe I won’t see most of them for another year, at least.

And people I didn’t know before the conference were just as friendly and open. Many of them I was familiar with from reading their blogs, but they had no knowledge of me. It didn’t matter. We sat and talked and some of them stared at my cleavage (girls, if I find that bra for sale anywhere, I’ll let you know because trust me, it was all bra). We drank crazy amounts of wine, danced and laughed and took pictures, and ordered food really late at night as if we were freshmen in college. Only, when I was a freshman in college, it was a lot harder to make so many friends.

I get how the experience can be different and less positive for somebody who knew nobody coming into this. But as for me, it was nothing short of incredible. I networked without feeling like I was networking, I listened to people with an insane amount of experience, and I was inspired to be a better blogger. And maybe a better person, too.

Screw the swag. What I brought home was worth far more than you’re going to fit in a gift bag.

And now he knows how I feel

I’m horrible with names and faces. Embarrassingly so. There are a few people in the outer reaches of our social circle who I know I should recognize, by name or face or, ideally, both, but I just never do. Jared thinks this is hilarious — he actually refers to one of these people as “the guy you know but never remember you know.” He thinks this is funny because he remembers everybody. Almost.

This weekend, he was at his friend’s new apartment — he’s a really close friend, almost like a younger brother to Jared in a lot of ways — and one of the two pictures he had up was one of the two of us (say it with me: “Awww!”). It’s a Halloween picture where we’re dressed as Fred and Daphne from Scooby-Doo, and, this friend said, “Oh yeah, Morgan* saw that and asked if it was Jared.”

This freaked Jared out completely because he had no idea who Morgan was, how she was close enough friends with our friend to be in his apartment, and how the hell she knew him by name, even in a goofy blond wig. It turned out that she’s a girl they knew from a bar they frequent, but Jared was totally thrown that somebody knew him and he didn’t remember them at first.

And now he knows how I feel when he comes home from a friend’s house or a bar and tells me that so and so asked about me** (or asked specific questions about my job or the dogs — HOW DO THEY KNOW THESE THINGS???). Am I nuts? Does this happen to anyone else? Am I prematurely senile?

*Name changed because I have no idea who she is, but she totally might know me, and obviously all of that makes it a little difficult to ask her if she minds being written about. Plus, it’s a little rude to infer that she’s someone I might know but didn’t care enough about to remember. Whatever — try making an impression next time!

**Often it turns out that I met these people while at a party, or at multiple parties, and apparently, we’ve had deeply intellectual conversations. Of course, I’m hammered at the time, and while I might experience a bit of drunken recall at the next soiree, while I’m sober, forget about it. Obviously, I did.

… and a teal tie belt

Today, I got my hair done — it was about damn time, trust me — and I got into a lengthy discussion with my hairdresser about fashion and trends and where it’s all going, and she made a good observation. Right now, it seems that almost everything is acceptably “in” — if people are starting to sport the neon hues of the late ’80s/early ’90s, it seems like the fashion forward can get away with just about anything.

It got me thinking about who I was back then, in 5th or 6th grade, and while there are a lot of things I wish I could have changed about myself, I really respect my fearless fashion sense. Yes, I succumbed to a few trends I probably could have lived without, but the thing is, I rocked them. I didn’t just have teal leggings — I had teal leggings with a huge purple menswear shirt and a teal tie for a belt, and I wore it with a funky hat and big bangs and giant mismatched earrings. I wrapped my mother’s scarves in a triangle around my waist to change up the look of my skirts.

If I liked it, that was what mattered — nothing else. Camo boots from my dad’s hunting/fishing store? Sure. A ’50s-style scarf for my ponytail? Absolutely. And then, there were the hot pink suspenders with an otherwise grey-tones outfit. Loved it.

I was young enough that I wasn’t getting these outfits from magazines or models — I found pieces I liked (that Mom would buy for me), and I mixed them up and came up with my own look. I didn’t have a lot of confidence in a lot of ways — I was embarrassed to be so tall, so brainy, so athletic — but I made no apologies for my offbeat fashion sense. Until part-way through 6th grade. But that’s a whole other post.

I can’t tell you how much I wish I could get that fearlessness back, perhaps without the recklessness. I think I’ve outgrown wearing some of the really crazy things just for the sake of crazy — I have plenty of crazy in other ways — but the loving an outfit simply because I think it rocks? That’s something I need to find again and grip with all my might.

How long until someone replaces our dead neighbor?

When we first moved into our house (our first home!), we had this weirdo neighbor who covered his windows with tinfoil and would sit in his car for hours reading the paper, but wouldn’t talk to us if we happened to go outside while he was doing so. And, our cars were parked next to each other at the time. Once, we were having a party, and I went over with a friend to see if he might like a drink, and there was a note saying, “If you want an appointment, leave a message with your name, the reason, and also the time you’d like to die.” So, we knew he wasn’t normal.

Also, the first time we met him, he accused us of calling the police and saying he was dead. We hadn’t, but it plays into the story. That was the only time I ever really talked to him.

So, about a year and a half ago, we noticed that his car hadn’t moved in a while, which wasn’t too unusual, but it really seemed like it had been a while. So, Jared looked a little more closely, and saw that (are you ready for this, because it’s kinda gross) it was COVERED with FLIES! Oh, and also, there had been an awful stench for about a week in our house (and we shared a wall with the guy).

Not wanting to do a false “Hey, we think this guy is dead” call because obviously that pissed him off before, we called our realtor, who called the police for us. They came and found that he’d been dead for possibly a month or so!!! Just so you know, it was his nasty garbage that smelled, not him. Anyway, the HazMat team came in full suits and everything and suggested we leave for the night because, when they went to move him, they thought he might burst (he didn’t, though).

He was a renter, and the folks who own the place have been (sort of) working on it, but it’s been a year and a half. Oh, and they live a couple of hours ago away, so do you think the the lawn has been mowed lately? Nooo. And is Dead Guy’s car still sitting in the driveway? Yeessss. And, actually, other than the fact that sometimes I think I see him in his car, I’m okay with it being there — it at least makes the house look occupied. But the lawn is another thing.

And, since it doesn’t look terribly occupied, I think vandals have gotten to the fence. Nothing huge, but there’s a board that’s broken and some others that have been obviously cut. And, since his fence connects to our fence, this concerns me. Oh, and I think people were throwing bricks at our roof a few weeks ago, because we had one topple down our roof (it sounded like a person was dropped on it), and our other neighbors found a brick lodged in their fence.

You’d think we lived in the ghetto to hear some of this, and we don’t. It’s not fancy, but it’s a relatively nice, quiet starter neighborhood with an occasional keg party (occasionally ours), but apparently we have hooligans. Who knew? At any rate, I’m hoping some new, fabulous couple moves in soon so we can have someone to gossip about the hooligans with. And maybe drink with, because sometimes it’s hard to wait for J to get home from work before having a little glass of Chard.