Friday, July 29, 2011


When I lived in Mansfield, Ohio, many years ago, there was a gorgeous weeping willow in our next-door neighbor's backyard.  I remember walking home from school and dipping under its branches, feeling so protected by its long, draping leaves, some so lengthy that they touched the ground next to my feet. I'd look up and see a canopy of green, bowed around me like an umbrella, shielding me from all that could fall on me and hurt me.

This weekend, I will be hiding under a different kind of weeping willow. I need protection this weekend. Tomorrow is the anniversary of a day I thought would always be a happy part of my life, and now that it's not, I need to grieve it. Alone, in private, under protection reserved for me. And I am sure there will be some weeping of my own, without branches, without a canopy of green.

I wish I could run my fingers against the dipping branches of that weeping willow in Ohio, the tickle of my childhood running its touch across my hands. How I long to be back there, where danger and hurt only seemed to come in the form of scraped knees from riding a bicycle too quickly or falling off the swing set, instead of from people. 

How I long for that...

{gorgeous image from here}

holy awesome, batman.

Pittsburgh really does kick ass. If you haven't been here, pack your bags now, fill up your tank with gas, and GET HERE.

We really are the Hollywood of the East.

I'm so proud.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

why you should always pee BEFORE you get on an elevator in my office building.

I have fear of elevators. No, really. I do. Remember this post? Thank you, Big Brother Geoff, for giving me PTSD at the age of nine. High five.

Fast forward to me, age thirty-three, and when I'm in an elevator I worry that there will be a similar repeat experience of The Great Elevator Incident of 1987 when my brother got us stuck in an elevator and we had to crawl out onto the floor of a nun's convent. "Holy" shit doesn't even begin to describe what I was thinking.

Yes, go read the post. I'll wait.

Done? Good. So, you can see why I'm not particularly fond of elevators.

Here in 2011, you'd think that elevator technology {and the behavior of those accompanying you in said elevator} would have vastly improved. But when you work in the Liberal Arts College of a major university, you remember that nobody cares about the Liberal Arts, let alone their elevators. And for the six years I've worked at my current job, the elevators have been nothing more than Transportational Boxes of Death, or TBDs. 

There are four of them in my building, each numbered with what appears to be a red label from a very large Dymo Label Maker machine. ELEVATOR 1 the label reads, its red ink angry and menacing. We all know that ELEVATOR 1 actually stands for You are going to die when you step foot into this transportational box of death, so you might want to reconsider and take the stairs. Plus, have you seen your thighs lately?

Today, I stepped onto ELEVATOR 4 {Now boarding for Dante's Fourth Circle of Hell, please watch your step.}, having just returned from picking up a salad and Pepsi for lunch from our bookstore's cafe. If you're lucky enough to even get an elevator within 8 minutes of pressing the call button, you then need to rush into the elevator car before the doors smash you flat, which has been known to happen on a regular basis. I mean, those doors slam shut after being open for only 3 seconds. And it really hurts your boobs if you're standing sideways at the time.


I stepped into ELEVATOR 4 and pressed the button for the sixth floor.

The doors closed.

And then the car just stayed there.  Nothing happened. This is not unusual, you see. These TBDs are highly unreliable and very fussy. But I've learned from experience that if you jump up and down and wiggle a little bit, the car will sometimes start to move. And so that is what I did. Only nothing happened.

Next, I pressed the button for the sixth floor again. Still no movement. I pressed the button another time. Still no movement. I flipped the little emergency start/stop lever, which has been known to "kick" the elevator out of a stuck moment. Only when I flipped the lever this time, the doors opened, and do you know what I saw?


If you wanna see me go totally bat-shit crazy and freak out, put me in an elevator and have the doors open to reveal the elevator shaft.  It's about as pretty a sight as a hairless cat getting a honey wax on a hot summer day.

I started to freak. Of course, because we are the Liberal Arts College and have no money, our elevators don't have "Door Close" buttons. So I couldn't even close the doors! I was forced to lay my eyes on that horrible elevator shaft, the image burning into my brain, the PTSD of the Great Elevator Incident of 1987 washing over me. 

I immediately pushed the emergency call button {each elevator had one installed due to the many, many times people were getting stuck in them in our building}. Campus police answered, calm and cool.

"Campus Police," the officer said.

"It's Laura," I said. {As if I call them on a daily basis.} "I'm stuck in ELEVATOR 4 in College Hall."

"What floor are you on?" the officer asked.

"I don't even know, because all I can see is the elevator shaft OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO DIE IN HERE, AREN'T I?"


"I pressed floor six, but I didn't move, so I flipped the little emergency stop lever and the doors opened but all I can see is the elevator shaft...oh, wait the doors just closed. I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING."

"Are you moving?"

"No, but...wait...I don't know...the lights above the door are saying I am but I can't feel it."

And then suddenly the doors opened to the fifth floor. Like magic. Not the floor I wanted, obviously, but I didn't care. I WAS FREE!

"Oh, the doors just opened!" I yelled with glee. "I'm free! I can get out! OH THAT WAS SO SCARY!"

And I didn't even say goodbye to the officer on the other end. I just high-tailed my ass outta that crazy TBD and took the stairs up one flight to my office.

Can you imagine if I'd been stuck in there for, like, hours? And if I had to pee really bad?

That would have been Very Bad Times, Indeed.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

when my own words can't come out.

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Tuesday, July 26, 2011

dinnertime thinking.

I sat on the steps of my deck last night, a bowl of leftover penne pasta and olive oil in my hands, and looked out over the busy city below. People coming and going. Cars moving, parking, and moving again. People on bicycles gliding down the street, helmets protecting their heads. What protects their hearts? I wondered.

I ate slowly from my bowl. Chewed with measured rhythm. When the bowl was empty, I still held it. It was warm. I do that, you know. Hold things, even when they're empty.  Synonymous for my own heart right now? Maybe. Or maybe I just liked the feeling of that warm pottery against my palms. These days, I will take all the comfort I can get. But for whatever reason, it felt right. To hold on.

I do that, too. Hold on. Sometimes too long. I've never been good at letting go. Things feel so permanent with me once they begin, once they exist, once the come into being. And when they finish, or die, or disappear, I can't let myself be okay with that. I wish I could. I'm working on it. But I'm very, very slow.

Right now, I'm trying to hold on to a few things. Some are good to hold, some I should let go. But I can't just yet.

I'm doing the best I can. And for right now, that has to be good enough.

Friday, July 22, 2011

au canada!

This is my favourite Canadian. Well, next to Ryan Reynolds, that is. Hey, Brandy? I added the "u" in "favourite" just for you.

I'm a big fat liar. In my previous post today, I said there wasn't much to report. Lies, dirty lies! Actually, let's chalk it up to what I've been referring to lately a Mono Brain. Seriously, people. This here Mono has made me a space cadet. Dumb? I haz it.


What I want to tell you is that I love Canada. And by "Canada", I mean "Brandy." Do you know Brandy? If not, you should. Seriously. She will change your life. I mean, just look at her up there. SHE'S WEARING A HEAD LAMP, PEOPLE.  Need I say more?

Brandy writes this amazing blog, which I read ALL OF THE TIMES and find myself either laughing hysterically, feeling my eyes well up with some sort of liquidy substance, or just wanting to rip through the Interwebz as fast as possible to get to her so that I can hug the living daylights out of her.

{Hmmm. Better re-think that. 'Cause, you know, then she'd be dead. And that's no good.}

Oh, and she also teaches third grade. One of my most favorite-est posts EVER regarding said topic? Right here, people. Grab some Depends. You're not gonna be able to hold your bladder from laughing so hard.

You get my point.

Recently, the darling girl had a giveaway contest on her blog. The topic? Books. {HELLO THAT IS MY MIDDLE NAME} I entered. I won.

I know! I know!

And what did I win?

This book, which arrived in the mail yesterday, courtesy of the Canadian Postal Service {which, it appears, has finally gotten its act together after, ahem, that one time they didn't}:

Thank you, my sweet Miss Brandy. Oh, and the card you included? The weeping. Everywhere. I love you, too. Please get your cuteness here to Pittsburgh stat. Or, you know, invite me to Canada.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'll just invite myself.

There. I just did.  See how I did that?

oh, the truth. the truth!

Not much to report today. Saw this image on Shareable and thought HOLY BANANAS THAT'S SO TRUE. Even for people with graduate degrees. It breaks my heart that our society doesn't value the Humanities like it used to. Big business and money money money are all that seems to be valued these days. Terribly sad.

Le sigh.

Happy Friday anyway, my loves.

Thursday, July 21, 2011


You guys. I am tired. Like, super exhausted why do my limbs feel like they weigh 200lbs each tired.

Mono. What a little bitch.

I just want to sleep...stop my body from moving, recline horizontally on a soft surface, and shut my eyes. I've been doing just that, as a matter of fact, as soon as I get home from work. And my poor little body literally feels like it's sinking through the mattress. 

Yesterday, I arrived at the parking garage at work at 8:20 a.m. But here's the thing: I was literally too fatigued to actually get out of the car. I couldn't lift my legs. I mean, I really couldn't. So I just slept in my car until 9 a.m., my body a tiny bit stronger after that little bit of rest. And then I was able to walk to my office across the street.

So, who wants to come over and take care of me?

Bring tea, please and thank you. Oh, and also puppies. This kind.  Mmkay, thanks.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

why i shouldn't have children.

Let's take a break from Shit Storm 2011 and focus our attention on something else: my control and anxiety issues. I know what you're thinking: How are those two separate from Shit Storm 2011, Laura? Well, they just are. Because I say they are.

Can we just talk about why I shouldn't have children? It's not because I'd, like, engage in immature or dangerous behavior, or that, you know, I'd eat them or anything. It's because I have major anxiety issues. Which make me need to control everything. Including the uncontrollables.

Let's examine.

I'm currently helping out a friend who asked that I drive her 16-year-old daughter to an intensive dance class each morning, at which she needs to arrive by 8 a.m. and be picked up at 10 p.m. {A long day, I know!} Now, I am logically aware that a 16-year-old isn't exactly a 3-year-old, but somewhere in my mind's Crazy Department, I think that a 16-year-old is helpless and can't be left to go to the bathroom/make a sandwich/open a drawer on her own.

Because, you know, she just might fall in/cut off a finger/get crushed.  And then we'd be in a heap of trouble. And we all know that Laura does not like trouble.

So, as I function this week as temporary guardian and chauffeur, I am, I will confess, freaking out. 

I am such a worry-wort. The night before, I lay in bed, thinking out the next day's activities. Are her clothes laid out? Did she pack her lunch? What if her alarm doesn't go off? What if my alarm doesn't go off? Is traffic going to be awful? What if she's late? Will her dance teacher make her do a hundred extra pliƩs? All because I'm a horrible guardian/chauffeur? And that's before I even turn out the lamp on the nightstand.

Yesterday I dropped her off for the first time. I was looking over at her, like, forty times to make sure her seat belt was on. She must have thought I had a tick or something. Then, when we were pulling up to the building where her dance class is, everything was blocked off because--oh, that's right--they're filming the Dark Knight movie. {Yes, Pittsburgh is the Hollywood of the East.} My first thoughts were What if she gets kidnapped by a grip? What if she stops to eat a bagel at the craft services table and gets food poisoning? What if the make-up artist mistakes her for an extra and swoops her away to the make-up trailer, never to be seen again? What if she trips on one of the bazillion lighting and sound cables that are strewn all over the place, breaks her leg, AND CAN NEVER DANCE AGAIN? OH MY GOD THIS IS A DISASTER.

When she was finally ready to get out of the car--we'd found a safe place to pull over, not too far from the building she needed to go to--I was like Okay, why don't you text me when you get in to let me know you're at the right place? And, maybe, you know, you could also send up a smoke signal. How about a carrier pigeon? Do you think Western Union still sends telegrams?  

Arrived at correct building STOP Am putting on leg warmers STOP 

Bless her heart, she agreed and somehow managed not to make her eye-rolling too dramatic. And then, because I am completely neurotic, I circled around the area until I got that text message. Which didn't come quickly enough for me. And so I started to worry. 

OH MY GOD SHE'S BEEN TAKEN ALIVE. OH MY GOD THE MAKE-UP ARTIST SNATCHED HER.  She's probably in one of these movie trailers parked around here, tied up in a barber-style chair, having animal-tested make-up caked on her skin, Diet Coke {oh, the aspartame! The aspartame!} being given to her through a straw, which is putting unnecessary air in her tummy, causing excruciating gas cramps, AND SHE'LL NEVER DANCE AGAIN.

And so I sent her a text message. And didn't get a reply. And so I kept circling, like a vulture, one that preys on people who may have taken the poor girl {I'm looking at you, Make-up Artist.} And then I called. No answer.

Commence Operation Freak Out.

FINALLY, she text messaged and said she was at the right place and was filling out paperwork.

I un-hunched my shoulders. Phew! I thought. I was so not interested in taking down that make-up artist! She probably would have stabbed me in the eye with a mascara wand!

And that, my friends, is why I shouldn't have children.

Monday, July 18, 2011


Mmmmkay. First things first: several of you took the time and effort to email to me {and leave comments} some words of love, encouragement, commiseration, and care as a result of my previous post, and for that, I thank you most sincerely and deeply. There is nothing like opening up your email and seeing messages from complete strangers {well, we're not THAT complete of strangers, right?} telling you that they just want you to be happy, okay, and to feel loved and strong.

I mean, who does that?

You do.

So, I thank you. I have read your emails multiple times, have digested the words, let them sink into my skin and bones and tenderest of places. I am hoping that I can start to live them out soon. But in the meantime, know that your words are not just sitting in cyberspace. They are, in fact, within me, germinating, getting themselves ready to burst out into a whole new me. Or, at least, a little bit better me.

And, you know, if you want to write to me again, I wouldn't be against it. {hint, hint}

I don't have to much to report this morning. I am tired--this mono is kicking my butt. I do have some extra responsibilities this week as a result of a request made by a dear friend who needed some help, which I am happy to do, but I am so very tired and hoping that I can keep my promises and make her proud. Any positive energy {and energy in general} that you might be able to send my way is greatly appreciated. Sugar on top. Promise.

I definitely need a shift towards better luck these days. I am just so tired. So very tired.

Happy Monday, my darlings. Send me some extra hugs if you would, pleaseandthanks.

Friday, July 15, 2011

well, at least it's not ebola.

I have mono. I know what you're thinking: Gee, Laura! I'm so jealous of your life! Your car got broken into, people have been letting you down left and right, and now you have an illness that's going to make you debilitatingly exhausted and maybe even give you a wicked sore throat! You have the best! life! ever! 

While I will spare you the details of how I think I contracted mono {let's just say it involves the person who I was sort of thinking might be someone I could trust and build something new with, only said person recently betrayed me--"recently" meaning "while I was in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago," and "betrayed" meaning "slept with an engaged woman he barely knew in a hotel room in the city"}, I will tell you that it appears this is par for the course lately.

Let's review.

1. Ross. {Need I say more?}
2. Watched a dog jump off a three-story apartment building while in San Francisco.
3. Returned home from San Francisco to a car that wouldn't start. {Battery? Dead as a doorknob.}
4. Car got broken into and laptop stolen.
5. Got diagnosed with mono.
6. Learned that someone I thought was a man of dignity and integrity was actually a man who met women, went to hotels with them, slept with them, all while knowing that these women were engaged.

I'm having the Best! Life! Ever!

Oh, and I had to scrounge up quarters from various purse pockets and couch cushions in order to put gas in my car this week.

Yeah. I'm lovin' life.

Sympathy emails and words of pity may be sent to:
{image from here}

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

final hours in san francisco.

You know, it's funny. I went on this trip to San Francisco, had an amazing time, went to two different Catholic churches, and returned to Pittsburgh to Shit Storm 2011 {which includes but is not limited to: ex-boyfriends' painful business in your face, my car getting broken into, and finding out today--yes, just today!--that someone ELSE I was getting close to and beginning to trust TOTALLY BETRAYED ME}. 

Quite frankly, I have no interest in church or God right now. In fact, I'm beginning to think He's a total fabrication.  Or just a jerk who likes to see--and lets--good people suffer.

But. I digress.  

FINAL DAY. Sunday, July 3.

It was a beautiful church, don't get me wrong. I'm definitely old-school when it comes to churches. Don't give me any of that modern spaceship bullshit. I want beautiful architecture, columns, spires, marble, gold, candles galore, stained glass, the works.

We got to the church really early {typical of my darling papa}, so we were able to walk around the area a bit, relax, take some pictures. One of my favorite sights?  A man practicing his sword-fighting. Alone.

You know, in full sword-fighting dress.


And then there was the lovely Tai Chi morning crowd:

And all the hungry San Franciscans {is that what they're called?} lining up at Mama's for some yummy breakfast at the corner of Stockton and Filbert:

When we finally got into the church for Mass, my favorite moment of the day occurred. A man walked in with his pet bird. And the two were oh-so-very-sweet with one another.

After Mass, we went back to the hotel, and during the cab ride, my dad was totally speaking Russian with the cab driver. Because, you know, that's how my dad operates.

Then we packed up the rest of our stuff, and headed toward the airport. IN A MERCEDES. WITH TINTED WINDOWS. And my dad? Yeah. He was totally speaking POLISH with THAT driver.


When we finally got to the airport, of COURSE there were issues. Like, United didn't feel it necessary to be able to have me check in with my parents, EVEN THOUGH WE WERE ALL ON THE SAME CONFIRMATION.

Here's my Glare of Death for United:

But luckily, there was a helpful service assistant who took matters into her own hands {while my father, in all 6'4" of himself, was stern yet polite}. And so, I made it through check-in and security.

And then we spotted this at one of the shops on our way to our gate:

Me pointing at the Secret Agent L magnet that Quotable Cards made and now sells all over the world. Amazing!
All in all, it was an amazing trip. I didn't get to my apartment in the city until almost 2 a.m. on Monday, July 4, but that's okay. I fell into bed, slept for the rest of the day AND the following day, and will always have the happy memories of my amazing trip to San Francisco.

Thanks, Dad and Mom.

My next post will return us to the Regularly Scheduled Life of Laura and the Shit Storm of 2011 That Has Ensued. I know! I bet you can't wait!

Monday, July 11, 2011

san francisco, day eight.

{I'm still feeling some rage over Friday's Shit Storm, but I figured I'd better post the remainder of my San Francisco trip.}

Having your best friend in San Francisco with you while you're on vacation with your parents is THE BEST THING EVER.

Also, isn't she just adorable?

Yup, that's my Amanda.

DAY EIGHT. Saturday, July 2.

This day was devote completely to shopping. I know, I know. You're thinking But Laura, haven't you done enough shopping already? Oh, silly goose. NO. I HAVE NOT.

But here's the thing: I wasn't the only one shopping. This guy?

Well, he was on a mission. The target? A new sports coat. One that would remind him of San Francisco. So we stopped in Union Square at this super fancy couture men's shop (which, to be honest, is soooo not my dad's style), but I thought it'd be fun. YES IT WAS MY IDEA.  ::high-fives self::

Mama Miller decided to help scour the racks, and I have to admit that even I--the girl who rarely gets shocked by even the most expensive clothing--was startled by the four-figure starting prices.  But, because my dad is AWESOME and because I am GOOD LUCK, he was able to get a gorgeous blue sports coat at an absolute steal of a price.

Plus, he made a new best friend. {Which, if you know my father, he does EVERYWHERE HE GOES.}

My dad with the owner of the shop. This guy was SO nice, and he said that we were some of the most fun people who have come into his shop in a long time. OF COURSE WE WERE. DUH. HAVE YOU NEVER MET THE MILLERS? WE ARE A FUN PEOPLE.
After my dad's exciting purchase {isn't he so handsome?}, we continued on our way through Union Square. We mostly did window shopping, as Amanda and I were--you guessed it--headed to Sausalito {trip #4 for me!} to burn the last of our money.

I seriously almost bought this hat. I mean, c'mon. I would've worn it AND let my mom borrow it, because isn't she just ADORBS?

My dad and mom treated me and Amanda to an amazing lunch at the Westin St. Francis Hotel's The Oak Room. And then they turned us loose to head on back to the Embacadero to catch the ferry to Sausalito.

Before hopping on the boat, I spotted this incredible kid playing the trumpet in front of the Ferry Building. Seriously fell in love with this little guy. And what amazing talent!

He couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 years old. Take a listen:

When we finally got to Sausalito, we shopped and snacked and had a grand time, Amanda and I. And remember this amazing yellow handbag?

Oh, yes, my darlings. I bought it.  And this lovely man sold it to me. Meet Henry.

I wanted to take him home to Pittsburgh with me. He remembered me from when I stopped in a few days prior with my mom, and he even asked about her! HOW SWEET IS THAT?! We exchanged email addresses after this photo was taken, and I'll be writing to him soon. He is just. the. most. darling. ever.

It was a wonderful final full day in San Francisco, surrounded by people I love and nice people I met. Day Nine, which was only a partial day, since it's the day we left, was short but sweet. Stay tuned for photos and details!

Friday, July 08, 2011

fuck you, universe.

What I wanted to write about today was my final day in San Francisco.

Except, when I woke up this morning and went to my car to go to work, I found that it had been broken into. So, you know, I'm not really feeling like writing about my trip.

A friend of mine stayed at my place last night, and like an idiot, I didn't have him bring his stuff in from my car. So, a fucking asshole decided to take advantage of that and break into my car and steal my friend's shit.

His "shit" being his laptop.

You know what, Universe? I've really had it.  Fuck. You. And fuck all the shitty people out there who are assholes.

Because I really don't like filing police reports at 8:30 a.m. And I especially don't like you. 

So just Stop. Fucking. With. Me. 

And just let me have a normal quite life that isn't filled with disappointments, betrayal, broken hearts, ex-boyfriends who still make me cry every single day, dogs who fling themselves off roofs, and other bullshit.  You know, like THEFT. And especially when it's all wrapped up in a week.

Just leave me the fuck alone.

Oh, and by the way: that guy who ran the red light by the Mellon Arena this morning and almost crashed into me? Yeah. FUCK THAT TOO.

Thursday, July 07, 2011

san francisco, day seven. {part two.}

{You can read part one here.}

Where last we left off, Miss Roxy {the darling pooch shown above} had been invited to join me, Amanda, her boyfriend Jonathan, and his friend Camille on the roof of Camille's apartment building for a night of San Francisco star-gazing and city-skyline-viewing. We were all very excited, despite Roxy being the only one who wagged her behind to show proof.

Camille put Roxy's leash on her, which only increased her level of tail-wagging, butt-wiggling, and happy-jumping, because as any dog will tell you, the leash means a trip of some sort is about to ensue (i.e. trip to park, trip to beach, trip to nearest potty location, etc.). Combine with the leash a couple of new faces (i.e. me and Amanda, as Jonathan was staying with Camille and Roxy already), and the tail-wagging, butt-wiggling, and happy-jumping increases exponentially.

Needless to say, Roxy was keyed up fo' realz, yo.

We exited Camille's apartment and made our way up the three flights of stairs towards the roof. Jonathan was in the lead, followed by me, the darling Roxy, Amanda, and finally Camille. Somewhere around the second flight of stairs, Amanda had the presence of mind to ask Should someone hold onto Roxy's leash for when we get to the roof? Camille assured us that wasn't necessary, as Roxy had been up to the roof numerous times, was always well-behaved (we'd seen the truth of this with our very own eyes, so there was no reason to doubt), and that she often spent time outside with him while her leash was attached, even though he wasn't holding onto it.

Perfect! we all thought.

Until Jonathan opened the door to the roof.

You see, there is nothing perfect about watching a beautiful young dog run straight through the doorway and leap off the roof of a three-story apartment building.

Which is exactly what I witnessed a mere nanosecond after Jonathan opened the door to the roof.

I will spare you all of the details--the complete silence that followed after she jumped, which only indicated that she was falling; the sound of the thud her body made when it hit the concrete below and the yelp that escaped that poor little darling's mouth--and, instead, will sum up the experience in list form, because it makes the whole experience seem less traumatic than it really was. Because, honestly, it's too traumatic to recount in narrative form here.

Thus, the list of subsequent events:

1. When I realized what Roxy had done, I shrieked. "She's jumped!" I yelled. "Oh, my God! She's jumped!" I looked over the edge of the building and saw Roxy below on the concrete, alive (THANK YOU JESUS) and struggling to move. A slight whimper escaped her mouth.

2. Everyone simultaneous responded: "What?! What do you mean? She JUMPED?"

3. Camille raced downstairs to go to Roxy, while instantly pulling out his cell phone and calling the emergency animal hospital.

4. I started to sob.

5. And pray to my beloved St. Francis.

6. And God.

7. Jonathan ran to be with his friend Camille, to aid in any way he could.

8. Amanda attempted to help me down the three flights of stairs as I sobbed and shook.

9. Camille intercepted us on the first flight of stairs and asked us to stay with Roxy in the foyer of the apartment building for a moment while he grabbed his keys and pulled his car around front.

10. We reached the foyer and saw Roxy on the ground, alert, but not moving.

11. I sobbed, went to her, laid down next to her on the ground, and stroked her fur gently.

12. Roxy, in turn, started to whimper. (I can assume as a result of her seeing me cry. Dogs are sensitive like that.)

13. Jonathan propped open the apartment building's front door as Camille raced in, scooped up his beloved pet, and carried her to his car, all the while speaking tenderly to her. Both boys hopped in the car and left for the hospital.

14. Amanda and I, sobbing and exhausted and scared as shit, grabbed a cab back to my hotel to await word from the boys on Roxy's condition.

15. I went immediately to my parents' hotel room when we got back, sobbing and trying to explain what happened. Amanda waited in my hotel room.

16. A half hour later, I went back to my hotel room. And Amanda greeted me with the news.

Roxy. Was. Fine.

Not a single broken bone.
No internal injuries.

Roxy. Was. Fine.

The initial X-rays and exams showed that our girl was a little bruised and had a few scrapes, but nothing serious.

More extensive tests throughout the rest of the night and into the early morning showed the same thing.

Roxy. Was. Fine.

We'll never know why Roxy jumped. Maybe she was just So! Excited! Or maybe she thought she saw a place to jump onto (there were some weird shadows, I noticed, which tricked even me into thinking there was a little pitch of roof nearby to sit/lean on).  But none of that matters.  All that matters is that Roxy is alive.

And that, my friends, was the miracle I experienced in San Francisco.  An honest-to-goodness miracle.

St. Francis, you are TOTALLY my homeboy.

{Thank you!!}

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

san francisco, day seven. {part one.}

Dogs aren't supposed to fly. Let's just be clear. But this one? Well, she's a Dutch Shepherd, and I think she thought she was a Flying Dutchman. But I'll get to that in a moment.

DAY SEVEN. Friday, July 1.

My best friend, Amanda, who I've talked about on this blog before, drove up with her boyfriend all the way from San Diego to see me while I was in California. I KNOW, RIGHT?!

We spent a good part of the day together on Friday, just hanging out, {sleeping in!!}, talking, etc. We did manage to go to Chinatown, because, well, we needed to shop, Presh. 

And we also went to The Ferry Building. Because, well, we needed to shop, Presh. There are So! Many! Things! at the Ferry Building. It's divine!

But in the evening, her boyfriend Jonathan and his friend Camille and we all went out to dinner Sausalito. {YES IT WAS MY THIRD TIME THERE DON'T JUDGE ME}

First we stopped at Chrissy Field, which has the most spectacular little beach and gorgeous views of the Golden Gate Bridge.

After that, we hopped back in Camille's car and raced across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito.

We took more photos, of course.

I cannot even handle the level of adorableness.
After photos, we went to dinner at Horizon's, which apparently has quite a reputation. The food was delicious! 

Once we finished eating, Camille suggested that we go back to his apartment in San Francisco to meet his dog, Roxy. I LOVE dogs, so I was all HELL YES PLEASE AND THANK YOU. He suggested that we hang out there for a bit, have a drink, chat, etc.  He also suggested that we go up on the roof of his building because the view of the city was a good one from there. 

AND THEN he suggested that we take Roxy.

Oh, this post is already long enough. I think I'll tell you the rest of the story tomorrow.

Just know this: Roxy does not, in fact, have wings.

Stay tuned!