Thanksgiving is coming, folks. Like, fast. In fact, since I work for a holiday blog, I’m pretty much already onto Christmas!

This week hasn’t been a bad week, but it has been challenging. It’s been my first full week of scheduled training for a race in February (which is now going to be a 15k and not a half marathon — more explanation on that later), so not only is it adding about an hour of things I have to do onto my days, but it’s requiring a lot more physical effort (and making me really, really hungry). Fortunately, I think it’s starting to become habit, which, as any runner will tell you, makes all the difference in the world.

Yesterday, I was talking to my friend Metalia and feeling a bit whiny. She admitted that she had been having a shiteous week, but, that she’d decided to do something about it. (She also shared this with me, and I scored 5/12 — my 6-year-old self would be so disappointed, and also confused.)

Anyway, I list things I’m thankful for each night before I go to bed. Maybe it sounds cheesy, but it helps me calm my mind and remember why I’m excited to wake up the next morning. So, now, I’m going to share a few of those items with you, and I’d love to hear yours in the comments!

The Internet – Without the internet, my profession wouldn’t exist. Not only do I hold jobs that I love, but I also love the people I work with. There’s stress and pressure at times, like in any job, but I laugh enough to more than make up for it. Also, in addition to the internet being the reason I’m friends with quite a few amazing people, it’s also helped me keep in touch with old friends. Internet, I love you.

Kind Strangers – For a couple of weeks, we fostered a beautiful lab mix named Blackie. He was adopted after the first week, but returned, and I started to wonder if I’d be able to give him up. But, the following weekend, a wonderful couple came in and fell in love with him the way I knew somebody would. And when I cried while handing him over, they didn’t scoff — instead, they hugged me.

Options – Our Publix grocery store is about 1/2 a mile away from our house, and I love it. However, when I went in to order my turkey (15-18 pounds, fresh, and free-range), the woman looked at me like, I don’t know, a free-range turkey had just popped out the top of my head. She asked me to explain what I wanted again, so I told her, “Free-range, you know? Cage free? They’re usually organic?” After that, she asked me to just write the terms down. And so, I think I’ll be going to our hippie supermarket for my turkey — sorry, but if the person in your meat department is unfamiliar with those aforementioned terms, I’m thinking another location might be a better choice.

Funny shirts – I’m currently wearing a “Check Meowt” tee supporting Feral for Life, which helps rescuers help cats. Every time I look down at it, I giggle. Some outfits make me feel good because I think they’re pretty, or flattering, or have a good memory associated with them. This is just pure fun.

Rest days – While I actually feel great, my knees are really, really happy to have a day off from running. Five miles on Saturday — anybody want to come with me?

I just watched Letterman’s top 10 things you think about while running the NYC marathon. Now, I’ve never run in New York nor have I ever run a full marathon, but it made me think about, uhh, what I think about while running. And so, my Top 10, ordered from the beginning of a run to the end (and I expect you to share yours in the comments!):

10. Do I have something in my shoe? Oh, god, I hope not. Stopping now is a bad idea.

9. I want to be doing this. I really do. This is my choice, and my time all to myself. I should enjoy it.

8. Oh, man, I’m glad I slathered on the Body Glide.

7. Have I burned the number of calories in a piece of pizza yet? What about a whole pizza? I’m getting hungry.

6. If I ran faster, I would be done sooner, and that would be nice. I should pick up the pace.

5. Holy shitballs, why did I pick up the pace?

4. So, the race I’m training for is ___ times farther than this. Christ on a cracker.

3. Is anybody looking? Can I walk?

2. That’s the end! Sprint! Kick! Get the most out of it! Woo!

1. Screw it. Breathing is more important than finishing in under ______.

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By the way, the image above is one I’ve submitted for the Working Closet Flickr pool, a really cool group that lets you see what other women wear on a daily basis and, theoretically, show off your cool sense of style. Today, I would say I failed, but I’ll be submitting these (close to) daily for the rest of the month. You should, too!

(It’s been brought to my attention that Jeez-o-petes has been a bit somber as of late. And maybe it’s been for good reason, but that’s still not fun to come and read. I’m hoping this makes up for it!)

You might recall me mentioning that I have a goddaughter, and this time last year, we were struggling to find a name for me.

Well, it was decided that I would be Bibbity Boo. You know, like the song the Fairy Godmother sings in Cinderella (which, by the way, sounds remarkably similar to the Polish version). It’s quite fitting, as we all know I’m not the godparent who’s going to, like, set rules or give her moral guidance. Nope, I’m going to teach her that she should never leave the house without at least two coats of mascara, and that walking in heels takes practice. (What? These are Important Lessons. You know it’s true.)

Anyway, Jorie (my goddaughter) loves the song, and when I went to visit her a couple of weeks ago (thanks to Mom and Dad who funded my flight), she seemed to like me, too. See for yourself — I’m not always awful with children! (No, really, click the link!)

(PS – I tried and tried to upload the video to this post and, god help me, IT WOULD NOT WORK. If anyone has had luck uploading Vimeo videos to a WordPress blog, I’d love to hear from you!)

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.

I quit my job. Not all of them, but one of the major ones — my editing gig at StyleList. It’s a great site, but it’s gone in one direction, and I’m just not that flexible. Fortunately, at the same time that I quit StyleList, I was able to pick up an editing job with Holidash once again, where I’m working with one of my very favorite people in the whole world (Susan, stop blushing).

For many reasons, the last couple of months have been full of uncertainty and upheaval. Normally, my work life is very, very organized, and it’s felt a little out of control as of late (my own doing), but I’m getting it all back in order. I’m making my (voluntary) spreadsheets again, and putting things on my calendar (with proper reminders). I’m making To-Do lists and crossing items off (albeint, sometimes slowly). I’m waking up less in the middle of the night in a panic because, oh my god, did I do That Thing I was supposed to do this morning? Yes? No? Shit, maybe …

Yes, things are stressful, and life is sometimes haaard, but the problems I have are mainly problems that stem from good. I’m stressed about work because I care, and I like my job, and I want to do it well (and also because I spent a couple of days at the beach working and was bummed to be on my computer instead of on a towel in the sand). And, bottom line, I have a job. So, not gonna complain.

My house is messy, but I live in a house I love, and it’s messy because I live in it with a dog and a cat and a husband, and sometimes, we’d all rather snuggle than clean up. I can live with that.

My heart still hurts and my throat still closes up every time I think about Yuki (dammit, there we go again), but it’s only because I had a chance to know an amazing soul, and because I experienced the kind of bond some people dream about. And, as a really good friend recently told me, it’s because I have a big heart that it takes so long to heal. That’s not such a bad problem to have.

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On Saturday, I will have three months until turning 30. I’m ready to turn 30 in a lot of ways (and that’s a whole other post, which you’ll see soon), but there are things to do before then. I’m ready to get a move on it. I’m ready to actively work toward my goals. But right now, I’m ready to take a shower and go grocery shopping, because my fridge? Well, there’s not much in there that doesn’t have mold growing on it. Cleaning that out and filling it with food that’s edible seems like a good first step.

It’s an ugly, rainy day today, but I just finished a two-mile run with Rudi. I love running in the rain — always have — and the reasons are two-fold. One, it keeps you cool; that’s a no brainer. The second reason is the one I fear might make me … kind of an ass.

Have you ever run in the rain and looked at the people watching you run by? It’s a whole different experience than when you run by on a beautiful day. When it’s sunny and gorgeous, people think, “Well, isn’t that nice. She’s out running and enjoying this beautiful day. Good for her.”

When you run in the rain, the people watching you are thinking more along the lines of, “Wow, she must really be dedicated to be running in this weather. She’s probably in great shape. I wish I had that kind of motivation.” And, you all, I really like when people think I’m a motivated runner who’s in great shape.

You see, they have no way of knowing that I’ve run a total of, like, SIX MILES since announcing I would be running 13.1 of them in a few months. (Well, eight miles, now, but shhh — this will be our secret!)

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To those of you who have asked, I’m alright. I know it’s been a month since I’ve posted, and I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been a really difficult month. It’s been awful. I miss Yuki everyday, but the outpouring of kind thoughts (and lovely cards and even donations made to Puppy Hill Farm in Yuki’s memory — thanks Deana!) has given me a new appreciation for the kindness of family, friends, and strangers. You know I’m not a hugger, but if I could, I would give each of you a massive bear hug (and probably make you cry, because I seem to be doing that to people lately).

Rudi is doing well, too — we’re trying to plan lots of puppy playdates with neighbors and friends, and she’s going for more walks than ever before. Plus, she’s getting spoiled as hell. Oh, you want to come up on the couch? Sure, just this once. You want another treat? I don’t see why not …

And yes, we will get another dog, one of these days. Not now, but when the time is right, we’ll know. And when that happens, I know there will be difficulties, but I have no doubt we’ll find the good in that, too.

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.

Well, hello there, 3:30 a.m. I wish I could say it’s nice to see you again, but I can’t. I wish I could banish you to my unconscious while I have dreams about flying above the trees and kissing Heath Ledger, but, you know, I can’t.

I remember not-so-many years ago, early morning hours, such as yourself, generally meant pizza and beer runs and the occasional sneaking into some other apartment complex’s pool. I greeted you over-enthusiastically and glassy-eyed, the way one might greet an old co-worker they run into at a bar just before last call. Under normal circumstances, such a meeting would involve a hello and maybe a few other pleasantries, not bear hugs and details about my life.

But now … oh, things have changed. When last we met just a few days ago, it was in the Emergency Room for my father. You see, he’d already been released from the hospital for a minor surgery, but you couldn’t let us just have him back that easily. Around 11 p.m., we called 911 and sent him on back, and around this time on Thursday, I was standing next to his hospital bed watching Nancy Grace and talking to his doctor about scalloping but silently being scared out of my mind praying over and over again that he would just be ok. Fun times, 3:30 a.m.

Now that he’s home and recovering, what’s the deal? Are you feeling lonely? Because you’ve brought me back, this time with a sick dog. Yuki isn’t well, and you’d better believe me when I tell you to leave her the hell alone.

We’d put her on new meds for her anxiety (her fear of thunderstorms worsened into something else entirely when construction and, therefore, giant, rumbling trucks were occurring right outside our door — and there’s still an empty lot next to us, so it’s not over), and after three weeks, they kicked in. They kicked in, and kicked her ass — she was unsteady on her feet, running into walls (and spending hours just staring at walls), panting … just a huge mess.

After a visit to the vet, we decided to wean her off the meds, which we’ve done. And now, seriously, what the hell? She’s having the exact same problem, and I can’t fix it. It’s like a child with night terrors — she seems to have almost no understanding of where she is or the fact that I’m trying to help.

Jared stayed up half the night with her, and I took the early morning shift. What’s that you say? She’s just a dog? Come here and say that to my face. She’s my friend who’s been by my side for seven years, never asking for anything more than to be fed and cared for. She’s my family, and 3:30? BACK. OFF.

And now, as I threaten you, 3:30, I realize an hour has passed. I’m not finding 4:30 any more enjoyable, to be sure, it seems a little less … obscene. People actually get up at 4:30 a.m. I’ve gotten up before at 4:30 for various things — it’s almost like actual morning. You, on the other hand, 3:30, you are a bitch, and I don’t plan to see you again for a long time.

1. 

   Without zippers, it would be cute. With them, I HATE IT WITH THE FURY OF A THOUSAND SUNS. (Unfortunate) Photo: Nordstrom

   Lace. Hated it when Madonna wore it. Hate it equally now. Maybe more.

2. Zippers that aren’t a necessity. On pants and jackets, fine. Shirts? NO THANK YOU.
3. Patterns that don’t follow through. If you’re striped on the front, you’d damn well better be striped on the back, too. Otherwise, you’re just a lie.
4. Modesty-enhancing sheer crap. If you want to show it, show it. Unless you’re doing a back handspring to double back tuck to dismount the bar, or have a triple salchow planned for your upcoming short program, I don’t want to hear about it.
5. Snaps. Especially in shirts. Especially ESPECIALLY if they’re decorative. Oh, the horror. THE HORROR. They actually make me cringe. (Side note — when used for an actual purpose on, say, a coat or a purse, I think they’re perfectly lovely. Go figure.)

I just can’t seem to commit. No, not to my marriage (Mom and Mom-in-Law — put the phone down). The thing I’m wishy-washy about is sure to bring me far more pain than Jared ever will. Or at least I sure hope so.

I went to the gym with my neighbor the other day, and she mentioned that she and her husband were planning to do a half-marathon at the end of February. February, 2010. That seems like a nice, long way off. And so, of course, doing the race sounds like a great idea.

The problem is, I’ve done one of these before.

That smile has nothing to do with the fact that I'd run 13.1 miles. It was only there because I knew I'D NEVER HAVE TO DO THAT AGAIN. My friend, Jami, though -- she was ACTUALLY smiling.

It was hard. Like, really, really hard. The training was tough, but not all that bad because, well, I didn’t really do it. I think I ran 10 miles at one point, but until race day, I’d never done 13.1. Thirteen point one freaking miles, people.

(And hey, you — the one who runs marathons with the kind of speed I reserve for running after a child who stole my ice cream? You can kindly keep your pie hole shut, thanks. For regular, human people, 13.1 miles is a long goddamn distance to run.)

Anyway, for many months after the race (which was in December 2006, I believe), I swore I’d never do anything like that again. And then, a funny thing happened. I started to want to run one again. I guess I just wanted to prove I could do it again, or something equally insane. I’m pretty sure it’s the lame ass runner’s equivalent to women forgetting how awful labor was when they decide to have another baby.

So, when my neighbor, who just had a baby, as a matter of fact, mentioned training for this, I said something like, “Holy hell that’s a terrible idea! Don’t you know how hard that is?” Only it came out more like, “You know, that sounds like fun. I’d love to train with you.”

(It should be noted that I initially called her to see if she’d like to come over for happy hour and instead asked if she wanted to go to the gym. Days like that, I should just keep my pie hole shut.)

So. End of February. Running 13.1 miles. But at least there should be pirates and beer. Lots and lots of beer.