I'll only be a second.

Ladies and gentleman, I have seen a breakthrough.

It is perfect for those times when you see the forbidden prime parking real estate directly outside the door of a business and then note the next closest parking is a whole twenty spaces away. Who has time to walk twenty parking spaces? We are busy. We are important. We are only going to be inside for a second.

Introducing the 30 second parking sign.

This a real sign in a small town in the northern U.S.. It is strictly enforced by the 30 second parking meters along this stretch of sidewalk. How much does 30 seconds cost you? A nickel.

How much is the ticket for going over your alloted 30 seconds? Thirty-five dollars.

So enjoy your prime parking place. Revel in your superiority over the guys who have to walk twenty feet. Just don't revel too long. You've only got a second.

New phone

My new phone (whose parent company is not named Pear or Grape) is fantastic. I have the new phone because I managed to destroy four other phones since January, and I convinced DH that I would take extra good care of this one.

Sucker.

Truthfully, I am being extra careful with it. I even bought a super-heavy-duty-only-cockroaches-and-this-case-will-survive-a-nuclear-attack protective case for it. There are three layers of plastic. Two screen covers. A rubber cover encases the plastic covers. It's sand proof, dog proof, and oven and freezer resistant. Oh yeah.

Here's hoping it lasts more than a month.

Paul Bunyan

I met real live lumberjacks awhile back. Muscle flexing, ax wielding, flannel wearing lumberjacks.

Okay, so they were wearing safety pants, sleeveless shirts, and protective eyewear, but the muscles and axes were there. It was the Lumberjack Days championships. (Yes, it's a real event... a side effect of living this far north.) Wood chips were flying, saws were buzzing, poles were scaled, and axes were hurtling through the air. Lumberjacks are hot.

It was also the Dock Dogs championship. Crazy dogs take flying leaps off the dock, grab a bar seven feet in the air, and land with a huge splash in the pool below. My pup is a little crazy and loves water. I decided that she should watch the dogs compete. After all, kids learn by watching. Why can't dogs?

So there I am, holding my dog up to watch other dogs jump into the water. Stupid? Absolutely. Did I care? Absolutely not - until the nice cameraman decided to get an up-close-and-personal shot of the crazy lady holding up her dog. I tried charm, pleading, and threatening, but he would not be budged. It was going to be on TV.

At least it's not a popular channel.

And it continues...

What shall we choose for my misadventure two of J.'s wedding day? I think we'll go with my beloved spouse.

The bridal party's day started bright and early at eight a.m. - at least for the females. I secretly think males wake up on the day of their wedding, shower, shave, watch football/basketball/golf, take a nap, watch more sports, then wander down to the ceremony site thirty minutes before the wedding begins. The little devils still manage to look devastatingly handsome, which is completely unfair.

Since I was in the wedding and DH was coming as "designated reception mingler", he was under strict instructions to arrive no later than 4:00 p.m for the 4:30 ceremony. Unfortunately for him, there was some sort of catastrophe that closed the road to the gardens. He called me in a panic.

"Tell J. I'm sorry, but this cop is being a total *bad word* and won't let me through." He moved the phone away from his mouth.

"What if I just drive through? What are you gonna do?" He moved the phone back.

"Apparently, he's going to arrest me if I drive through. "

We gave him (and the many other guests who were being held up) alternate directions and had the coordinator postpone the wedding. Forty-five minutes passed. There was a wedding scheduled after Mrs. Darcy's, so we couldn't wait any longer. Out traipsed the wedding party down the hill, the girls clutching the arms of the men to keep from toppling over in their heels.

From behind us we heard "thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump." As one, we turned.

There was DH and the usher sprinting toward us from the parking lot.

DH slapped my tush as he ran by. "Look great babe. See you in a few J. - you look great too!"

At least the man knows how to make an entrance.

Don't pull my hair

My best friend got married this past weekend. She was beautiful, as was to be expected, and the wedding was wonderful. It did not, however, go off without some hiccups in my world. (Luckily, my world was way down on the list of important things that day. J.'s world was top priority, as it should have been.)

Hiccup one was my hair. The stylist, a darling gay man who practices his updo skills on drag queens, took one look at my hair when I walked in and started shaking his head.

"Curls." He grabbed a handful of hair. "Thick curls."

Then, ladies and gentleman, he took a blow-dryer AND a brush to my hair. I haven't brushed my hair whilst it was curly since I was in my early teens. He now looked aghast at the halo of frizz that he had created. Diana Ross had nothing on me.

He threw me in hot rollers for awhile, then started twisting and tugging. I no longer had curls. I had knots - twisted ropes of hair tied into knots. It was cool, I'll give him that. It also took me forty-five minutes to get undone when I came home that night. DH helped me pull out all the bobby-pins (68), and my hair didn't move. The knots had to be untied, unrolled, and washed out with conditioner. Just a word of advice for you stylists reading: if the hair is curly, just leave it curly. There is no need to attempt to make it follow the straight hair rules. It doesn't want to follow those rules. It is a hair government anarchist.

Either way, hair went up, make-up went on, and dress was wiggled into. We'll call that adventure one of the day.

We walk around the leaf.

Stupid ducks

There are days when I feel that I am on top of everything. My cute yellow ducks are lined up in a nice neat circle, paddling like mad under the surface, all headed the appropriate direction. That was yesterday. Then there are days when my ducks have lost the ability to stay in line - some are flying away, some are paddling off, and a couple are drowning. That was more today.

I requested an official copy of my transcript for my application. For the privilege of looking at the grades I earned in classes I had to pay for, I was charged ten American dollars. The registrar office sent out the official grades on fancy blue paper. Unbeknownst to me, I needed it on plain white paper. Now I have to pay another ten American dollars so an undergraduate in a work study program can hit the print key in the registrar's office and give me a copy on white paper - the color of paper one normally would print upon.

A few minutes after I received this notice, I headed out for class. My professor told us yesterday that we had the option of taking the class on 'campus 2' via live video stream. I thought this was awesome news since campus 2 is much closer to my house. It's about a twenty minute walk to the building on campus 2, but it was a beautiful day. I walked. The classroom was suspiciously empty when I arrived, but I was a few minutes early. I emailed my professor to thank him for the option. He wrote back three minutes before class was supposed to start.

"Oh, I have bad news. I canceled that classroom this morning. Sorry. Can you make it to campus 1?"

No, I cannot bloody well make it to campus 1! I have a twenty minute walk to my house to get my car, a ten minute drive to campus, and at least ten minutes to find parking, pay for parking, and get to the classroom. The class is only an hour long! Are you serious, Mr. Professor? Could you not have sent out an email when you decided this?

I dislike you Mr. Professor.

I remembered the inter-campus bus and started running. Breathless, glistening (because girls should avoid sweating, or at least calling it sweating), and late, I flagged him down. I snuck into the classroom on campus 1 twenty minutes later. Slid into a seat, flipped open my laptop, and looked up at the prof and screens ... only to see three students on live video feed in the campus 2 classroom.

I really dislike you Mr. Professor.

Ouch.

I love my pup. I think she is absolutely wonderful. I also think she may be the death of me.

Since pup and I have become best friends, I have twisted my ankle, gotten multiple rope burns, and busted my lip on her head twice. She has tripped me, drug me down the stairs, and caused me to spill numerous glasses of tea on my lap. She has helped me fall down hills, fall down stairs, and just fall.

Last week, she broke my arm. It's a tiny itty bitty little break - no cast required - but a break nonetheless. She knows the command 'whoa' pretty well. Her release command is 'all right'; I had already given her release. She was hanging at my ankles, leash dangling from my left hand, when that albino squirrel came tearing by us. She particularly hates that squirrel because it throws acorns at her when she is on the deck. She shot after the vermin.

My arm went after her. Unfortunately for me, the Jeep door was directly in the path my wrist had decided to take.

Four to six weeks - surely I can survive accident free for four to six weeks.

Revertigo

I love the show 'How I Met Your Mother'. As far as I know, they coined the term 'revertigo' and so I must give them credit. If it is patented by another organization, they may have credit instead. Either way, I did not invent it. I wish I had; it's an awesome word.

Revertigo: upon encountering a person from one's past, one begins to act in the manner he or she did when he or she used to spend time with that person. You all know what this is. You all suffer from it at least a teeny, eentsy, little bit. Think hard ~ do you always play the same role at family gatherings even though 'peacemaker' isn't your style anymore? Do you let your big brother boss you around and take his advice even though you outweigh him, are taller than him, and have six more college degrees than him? Are you still a little intimidated by the cheerleading captain and the quarterback? You're guilty, my friend.

As am I.

I experienced a bad case a while back. I like to believe I am a confident, pulled-together, intelligent person. I am a physician. I love fashion. I can juggle multiple tasks at once with ease.

Yet I found myself arguing and giving in to another person's choices for my clothes. My choices were more flattering, more current, and a heck of a lot cuter in my opinion. This person always dictated what I wore though. I snuck my clothes in my purse and changed at a gas station like a guilty teenager trying to sneak a short skirt past her parents.

My opinion was asked on a medical matter and promptly discredited by another person who has no medical training. "I know better than her. " I desperately wanted to pull out the fancy diploma to disagree, but found myself biting my tongue. What harm was it really doing?

I was teased about losing things (which I do), about my driving (which is acceptable), and about how I needed constant reminders to keep up with two tasks (which I don't). I took all the teasing in stride and bit my tongue. There is a sizable dent in my tongue. I did it because I care deeply about the people who were causing my revertigo. It doesn't make me terribly happy, but it's their way of showing they care for me too. That easily makes up for any temporary angst I might have.

One of those people called me later to let me know their doctor had the same advice I did about the medical problem. The person thought that was funny. I didn't mind this time. After all, they're the one who had poison ivy.