The other night the beau and I were fast asleep when  we heard a loud SHHHUNK.

We both simultaneously raised our heads off our pillows; I struggled up onto an elbow. What was that?

And then: THUMP THUNK.

It was 2:29 a.m. on the dot. The beau got up and staggered around the living room for a minute before going back to bed. He was asleep again within moments, breathing audibly. Me, not so much. I moved slowly from room to room, looking around, peering out of each window. Eventually I gave up and went back to bed, too. There are only so many preventative measures one can take in one’s daily life. If someone really wants to murder us, there’s no point in staying awake for it.

The next morning, we pieced together what had happened. In our makeshift kitchen closet a box containing a handful of seasonal Yankee candles had slid slowly off of a shelf, releasing the candles from their plastic prison whereupon they loudly went their respective ways across the closet floor. I laughed, put the box in the recycling bin, and lined the candles back up on the shelf. Now that the candles are free of their scent-trapping container, the beau keeps complaining that it smells like autumn threw up in our kitchen. I don’t necessarily have a problem with that.

And we’re not dead yet.


We’ve officially received our first happy anniversary card, and it’s from Beau’s aunt.1 The front has a picture of two puppy butts with tails coming together to form a heart, and it says “It takes two to make puppy love go right….” And on the inside she wrote, with blue marker:

Boopsie was sick from flea medication — had a seizure + quit breathing i gave her mouth to mouth a heart thump + she came back she is 11 1/2 stays in more + doing fine Thank you God — I’m OK: Will recharge batteries again. Bit by Black Widow in my hair. Still here —
Enjoy nature + keep on hiking — Have fun! 18 Sept 2011

Nothing. I have no words.


Last night I came home from a bar to rediscover the following:

  • A Grand Funk Railroad record lying alone in the middle of our dining room table.
  • A disassembled Santa suit strewn across the spare room.
  • Underwear stashed in my handbag.
  • A tiny picture of the Canadian flag tucked inside my bra.2

All I’m going to say is that this is what happens when the beau’s rugby team puts on a scavenger hunt.


I have this well-worn habit of feigning collapse at well-timed moments, just to try to get a laugh. Yesterday, I was perched on the arm of a comfortable old leather chair when I had one of those such moments. I let myself fall backwards dramatically and, conveniently forgetting there was another arm on the chair, promptly cracked the base of my skull on it.

Now my brain hurts.



1 We also often get letters from Beau’s uncle, who shares stories from his childhood days back in Pittsburgh (“Of course, in those days the steel mills were still going.”). I never fail to think of Robin when I read these tales. Unfortunately, he is also an evangelist who sends us books by Rev. Billy Graham, so. You win some, you lose some.

2 It’s so easy to forget things inside of bras. A few years ago, after a red eye flight back from Maui, I arrived home bleary-eyed at 7:30 a.m. and began peeling off my clothes to go to bed when a $20 bill and two quarters fell out of my bra. That’s probably the most lucrative personal bra recovery to date. Even counting the little plastic army man I once found in there.

7 Responses to “odds”

  1. I want to go on scavenger hunts like THAT.

    And ohhh man, I know that head pain well.

  2. Oh, to have boobs an be able to hide treasures in my bra…what a distant, wonderful dream! If I had quarters tucked into my A cups someone would surely ask me when the meter was running out and if I better go check on it.

    I bet that aunt gave you the BEST holiday presents growing up. (and she should really probably see a physician about that bite…)

  3. There is so much to love in this post. First, the anniversary card (Happy Anniversary!) is just such a treasure. I get cards like these from my dad’s cousin Gertie. She suffers from any number of ailments, as do her pets and random third cousins twice removed, who I may have met when I was 2. I also get Christmas cards from an uncle, which (thankfully) have finally stopped being addressed to Mr. and Mrs. [My Ex’s Full Name], but now simply Pray for my Forgiveness.

    The treasures-in-your-boobs thing. You are so lucky to find actual funds stashed there. I can’t remember every having actual money tumble out of my bra. Mostly just popcorn.

    • “I can’t remember every having actual money tumble out of my bra. Mostly just popcorn.”


      (by which i mean, emphatically, me too.)

    • Oh my gracious. Praying for your forgiveness? OH MY GRACIOUS.

      Admittedly, many of these things don’t exactly get in there by accident. I stash them in there, or someone ELSE stashes them in there, leaving me to completely forget and be completely surprised by it much, much later.

  4. i have no reference for the visual reality of the beau’s aunt or for even what kind of wee (or not so wee) beastie boopsie is, but let me just say the resulting mental image of the resuscitation of boopsie is AWESOME.
    i was totally going to send you an anniversary card (although it will most likely be late: apparently that portion of my mother’s genes is getting stronger the older i get), but now i feel like, “why bother? how can i top THAT??” oh what the hell, i’ll send one anyway. and in advance: happy anniversary!

  5. you are a fantastic human, lyn.

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