60. That you always push the cart in the grocery store. I hate doing that.

61. That you are a sucker for sunsets and waterfalls.

62. That you walked several blocks back to the parking deck to fetch my wallet from the car because the restaurant we were in wouldn't serve me alcohol without my ID and you know how much I love my wine.

63. That you ask my advice on things, and we consult each other on nearly every decision, big or small.

64. That you juice limes with a wrench.

65. The Steamroller.

66. Last week when you were still asleep when I left for work, and I came in to tell you I was leaving and you responded sweetly, and sleepily, "Love you."

67. That in the mornings you sometimes put your arms around me and gently rock me awake so I don't have to wake abruptly. (A technique so effective that I never even consciously remembered you doing this until you happened to mention it once recently.)

68. That you like looking out the window of an airplane.

69. That once, when you weren't able to think clearly for a few days, you were worried you'd had a stroke or something, because not having a completely sharp mind at all times is totally foreign to you. Hello and WELCOME TO MY WORLD. (See #71.)

70. That you always call me by the nickname you've given me. Love that. (It's rare for you to call me by my actual name, but perhaps because of that it's sorta a special thing and I'm always flooded with a warmth when you do.)

71. That you remember dates and numbers for everything. We'll both read an article, or hear a presentation, and later you'll be telling someone else about it and you'll say, "And then in 1902 the dam was built..." And I'll exclaim, "How on earth do you remember it was 1902?!" And you'll look at me like, "How do you NOT remember it was 1902?"

72. Your 'down from the ledge' talks. You calm and center me. And even the times when I tell you what I need to hear, it's hearing it from you - in your voice - that soothes me.

73. Your hugs, and how when I really need one you know and just fold me in, without a word.

74. Your interpretive dancing that makes me howl with laughter.

Tomorrow is our five-year wedding anniversary.

The past few months, we've noticed that we are frequently having the very same thoughts. One of us will say aloud what we're thinking and the other will say, "I was just thinking that SAME EXACT thing." The thoughts are always eerily specific, and I marvel that anyone else but me would be thinking that at all, much less at the same time.

We are such an old married couple, and I totally love that.

been reading: Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs

This book was suggested to me by Greenie. I'd been considering reading it anyway, and so when he emailed about it, I moved it to the top of my list. I brought it along on our trip, thinking it would last the entire time. But I found it to be a quick read, or maybe just a compelling enough book that I read it quickly, opening it during every nook and cranny of downtime. At any rate, I finished it at the very beginning of our flight home and found myself with nothing to do but watch the in-flight movie, Catch and Release. Which, despite my crush on Jennifer Garner, I so don't recommend.

This memoir is unlike anything I have read. In some ways it reminded me of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, but it's even more bizarre and brutally honest. It's also hilarious in places. This is a story of survival in what are the oddest of circumstances. What's interesting is that when, as a reader, I was first introduced to Augusten's family, I was astonished and appalled. How could anyone ever grow accustomed to such an environment? I wondered. And yet, just a wee bit further into the book, I found myself reading each ridiculous event with a ho-hum attitude. I had already become acclimated as a reader. Looking back on it, I'm once again incredulous at the childhood Burroughs endured. But in the moment, without taking a step back, monsters start to seem like men and what is grossly abnormal begins to seem almost normal. And this applies to Burroughs more than anyone, of course. His ability to adapt to his situation becomes an essential survival tactic.

I've always been grateful for the childhood I had. My parents loved me, and each other. My brother and I had a treehouse and a swing set. We went to Disney World. One time I got to buy two Easter dresses because I couldn't choose between them. My parents couldn't give us a lot of extras, but they made every moment count. And I know that I'm lucky; I knew that even then. But it took reading this book to realize, HOLY SHIT. I had no idea.

On Friday I was given a prescription for Xanax. For my cat.

The whole ordeal began a couple weeks ago. I took Bridget to the vet because she was having trouble urinating and that can be a sign of a urinary tract infection which can lead to an obstruction which can be fatal if not caught, especially in male cats. (Remember that, despite her name and the pronoun we choose to use, Bridget is in fact a boy.)

They diagnosed her with cystitis (bladder inflammation) but said it wasn't a bacterial infection. They said it was most likely due to "territorial stress" - apparently this is thought to be a common cause of cystitis in cats. Now, if you have ever met Bridget, you will not for one moment think that she might be stressed, territorially or otherwise. She is the most laidback purringest cat ever, lounging in the lap of feline luxury. (And, every chance she gets, lounging in my lap as well.) But the vet gave me all sorts of suggestions for how I could ease what he believed to be her extreme stress.

I cried all the way home, convinced I was a terrible mother. And then I went to Petco and spent $200 in guilt money on items recommended by the vet. Like a $90 cat water fountain. And a $45 calming pheromone diffuser. No, really - a calming pheromone diffuser.

This was a few days before we left for our vacation, and I was completely angst-ridden about leaving home. I was, you could say, territorially stressed. I nearly canceled the trip several times, explaining to Rob, through sobs, why I didn't think I should go. We had people looking after the cats, of course, but they wouldn't be able to watch for danger signs like I could. They didn't know Bridget's litter habits. They wouldn't know if she wasn't acting like herself. What if she was in severe pain? What if she DIED? I was already a terrible mother, and now I was going to leave her?!

But everyone I poured my heart out to insisted that I go. Including the vet. And Bridget was doing better. So I went. I left ridiculously detailed instructions (what Rob referred to as The Manual) and I called home every day to check on how she was doing. And I even managed to enjoy myself and limit my worrying about Bridget to only two or three times an hour.

And when we returned home, Bridget was just fine. When I spoke with the vet to follow-up, I mentioned that we'd had our metal roof scraped and repainted (a very noisy job) about a week before Bridget started exhibiting symptoms, and that for the three days the contractors were there, Bridget hid under the bed and wouldn't come out. The vet concluded that this "stressful event" is surely what caused the cystitis.

Things were looking up! Bridget was all better, and I wasn't a terrible mother after all!

But then on Friday Bridget stopped peeing again. I took her to see the vet, again. As the tech took her back to give her some fluids, he commented on what a pretty kitty she is and my eyes welled up with tears. Pathetic, but true.

The vet said he thought this time the stressful event that caused it was our trip. Being away from us for 10 days, and having her routine interrupted, was enough to set her off again. He gave me a prescription for anti-anxiety pills, which I'm supposed to administer to her the next time we initiate a home improvement project or leave on a long trip.

"It's basically Xanax," he said as he handed me the script and then turned to leave. He was halfway through the door when he paused, turned back, and said, "There's one thing I should add."

He walked back over to me, stood rather close, and looked me directly in the eyes. "Cat livers process things very differently from human livers," he began. "And so a cat dosage is different from a human dosage."

I nodded.

"So, um, you just need to understand that, well..." He was fumbling, as if searching for a polite way to say this.

"I shouldn't take my cat's Xanax?"

"Right."

Now, what would have given him that idea?

been reading: All the Little Live Things by Wallace Stegner

I seldom read a book twice, but every now and then I'll crave the comfort of familiar pages. There are various reasons. The last time, I re-read Mrs. Dalloway while in London to get a better sense of the place. This time, I woke up one day to the birds singing and my aunt in the hospital with leukemia, and this book just immediately came to mind. All the Little Live Things. It just felt like the right match for the moment. I suppose it's a bit like turning to an old friend at a time when only that friend will do.

I first read this novel in college, and it has stayed with me since. I'd long forgotten the specific details, but the essence of the story, the aura, had lingered in my mind. And I found myself needing to be surrounded by it, by the pain and by the peace. So I went down into the basement and dug through my boxes of college books and notebooks until I found my copy. (I'm ashamed to admit that most of the shelf-worthy books I own are unfortunately stuck in boxes. For now. Someday they'll receive the glorious display they deserve. Or, at the very least, some sunlight.)

The novel is an English major's delight, with symbolism and allusions and philosophy aplenty. In the margins were the many marks I'd made as I'd read it for class, with an eye for critical analysis. But this time, I was seeking something simpler. Specifically, the setting and the strength of one particular character. No novel I've read has described the beauty and gradual transition of seasons better than this one, and as spring started happening all around me, I felt compelled to walk again through the lush landscape of this novel. But more importantly, I needed to once more meet Marian.

Marian believes in the rightness of the natural order. She believes in letting weeds grow, believes that what we call evil is only what conflicts with our interests. In almost every way, she is the complete opposite of Joe Allston, her retired and curmudgeonly neighbor who favors fences and loathes varmints. And yet, their families forge a friendship, and almost immediately Joe loves her like a daughter.

He has never known anyone who loves and respects life more than Marian. And so, when Marian learns that her remissioned cancer has metastasized, Joe cannot understand how she can so easily accept death. How she can, in fact, refuse treatment in order to protect a pregnancy that has just begun. She seems to accept the cancer cells that are invading her body just as she condones the weeds that have overtaken her yard. And while Joe is never able to agree with her, he also never stops admiring her. Near death, she is still more alive than most.

And although she never does convince him, while living, that there is goodness in everything, with her death he begins to appreciate that just perhaps we are at least better off for all that we let in.

I love to run errands. Although, more than the actual running of the errands (which, let's face it, can quickly become tedious), I like the planning of the errands-running. I like determining the route to all of the places I need to go, carefully ordering the stops based on location and closing time. I especially like it when I can run several errands all at one location, like at a shopping center. Because not only will that save me time, but also I get to cluster together all of those errands on my List of Errands and then draw a bracket off to the side to signify their clumped-together status. I really like doing that.

And when there are coupons? Even better! I will, in fact, plan my errand-running around the coupons in my possession, waiting until the small window of time when all of the coupons are valid. And then I whiz about town, cashing in coupons and checking errands off my list. Look at me go, with my efficiently organized productive money-saving self!

I even like the phrase, run errands. Like errands are not something that can be walked. One must run them, so important and time-consuming are errands. I like that the phrase suggests physical exertion, as if I can totally skip my workout today because I've been (pant) running errands (pant, pant). I also like that errand rhymes with gerund, but that's just me being weird.

As I stand on the sidewalk at an intersection, waiting to cross, a guy whooshes by on a bike, then pedals harder up the hill - his right hand gripping the handlebar and his left hand clutching a dozen red roses.

I thought Rob was attending a geek-genius conference here in Portland, but today I walked by the convention center and saw this.

(Seriously, what is this about?!)