I know, right?! I don't even know where to begin. I'm utterly verklempt over the whole thing.

Most everyone who reads here knows my passion for John Stamos. He is my lifelong crush, my one true celebrity love. Posts to this effect are all over this blog - do a search for John Stamos and you'll have hours of reading, including my initial obsession confession which was one of the very first things I blogged about. And let's not forget mrtl's Google campaign. Or how I got to faux-meet him, thanks to a blogfriend's rocking Photoshop skills.

But people? It's faux no mo'. Because I have officially met, in person, one Mr. Stud Stamos.

He's currently appearing on Broadway in Bye Bye Birdie, and upon discovering this I immediately announced to Rob that we would be taking a trip to New York. I just wanted to see him in person, to be in the same room as him - it did not occur to me that I might meet him. But I follow him on Twitter (HUGE thanks to Mainline Mom for alerting me to the fact that he is Twittering) and he happened to mention one day that folks should come say hi at the stage door after the show.

So there we were. At the stage door, after the show. I had prepared meticulously for this moment. I had chosen a proper Meeting John Stamos outfit. I had brought along a point-and-shoot camera for the occasion, since I wasn't sure our huge SLR would be permitted in the theatre. I had a Sharpie in my purse in case he forgot one. And I had a remark prepared, because after teasing Doreen about her encounter with Scott Bakula, I did not want to fall prey to any lame "You're awesome!" comments that would render me unmemorable.

Eventually, he emerged through the doorway, and I was the first to notice. "There he is!" I cried. And a feeling I can't even describe washed over me. Thrilled disbelief, maybe? I mean, John Stamos was standing right there! John Stamos!

(Rob was in charge of taking photos, which was not an easy task given the low light conditions and crappy camera. (Although I find it a bit suspicious that the photo he took of the female lead is not at all blurry...) However, I have to say that these photos perfectly convey my experience - the entire thing was so completely surreal.)

He slowly made his way down the line, signing Playbills and smiling. And then he was signing the Playbill of the person next to me. And my mouth went completely dry and I couldn't even swallow and it seemed quite likely that when my turn came I wouldn't be able to get any words out and would just thrust my Playbill at him, stupidly.

Even the way he signs autographs is sexy.

I somehow snapped myself out of it, refusing to have this moment ruined. And then there he was, standing in front of me. As he reached for my Playbill, he looked directly at me. Our eyes locked, you could say. And as he signed his autograph, I mustered the strength to speak.

"I'm loving you on Twitter, by the way."

His look of concentration changed to one of almost sheepishness, a bit of a scrunched expression that was immediately familiar to me, that reminded me that this face is one I've spent much time studying on TV.

"I never know what to say..." he confessed.

I had thought he'd just smile and say thank you, so I was unprepared when his comment left an opening for a response from me. As I opened my mouth to reply, it struck me that I AM HAVING A CONVERSATION WITH JOHN STAMOS. At which point my brain shut down and I turned into a gushing preteen, not unlike the ones who had been chasing Conrad Birdie around on stage.

"No, it's perfect!" I exclaimed. "It's awesome!!"

Fuck. I just said awesome.

He moved on to the next person, whom I hated immediately because she asked him for a photo. The way things were set up it seemed nearly impossible to get a photo with him, and since no one ahead of me had done it I didn't try to find a way. I wasn't sure of the etiquette and didn't want to annoy him. But then the lady right after me went for it, asking him to lean over the gate for a photo with her. Why the hell didn't I do that? I would have had to fling some women out of the way, but this is John Stamos we're talking about - bitches can move.

But at least I was quick enough on my feet to do the next best thing - insert myself into her photo while frantically gesturing at Rob to get a shot. It is the worst photo of me ever, a really awful angle, but I don't care because that is ME WITH JOHN STAMOS!

It will come as no surprise that I'm already planning a return trip. Although I promised Rob that next we will stalk Tina Fey.

This story begins six years ago, when we purchased our house. The couple we bought it from - well, the wife - had been feeding a small colony of feral cats. About eight of them. As part of our agreement, along with negotiating which appliances and curtains should stay, I asked that the cats be removed. I wanted to be able to let Bridget out sometimes to play without worrying about disease or fights. And I didn't want to be responsible for a bunch of wild cats.

They agreed to take care of the cats, and the husband made some comment that didn't register at the moment but later left me unsettled. I don't remember exactly what he said now, but it was something that suggested he might be capable of shooting cats.

It bothered me so much that I called him that evening. "Please don't kill the cats," I said. "I'd like them removed, but not harmed."

Looking back on it, that was perhaps too much to ask of him. Not too much to ask, but maybe too much to ask of him. He was the type of person who views cats as pests, not animals deserving respect. He was busy, with two kids and all the details of moving. I don't know what I expected him to do, but I absolutely didn't want the cats to die.

When we went to the closing, there was no sign of the cats. I asked him what he did with them, and he said he'd trapped them and taken them to his father's farm. Since that's exactly what I wanted to hear, I didn't doubt him. It wasn't until later that it occurred to me that he'd fed me the line people always tell kids when pets die: Oh, Felix? Well, sweetie, he went to live on a farm. There were a few other indications that made me suspect he had actually killed the cats - in particular, a streak of blood on the deck that I couldn't otherwise explain.

Of course, I'll never know for sure. But less than a year later, I began paying my penance.

Rob and I were on a walk one evening near our house when we came upon a meowing calico cat. She was standing at the edge of a field, and when we approached she let us pet her. She was very sweet. And very thin, except for a bulging pregnant belly. She kept crying at us, and I insisted we take her home for the night until we could figure out what to do with her.

We set her up in the garage. We gave her food, water, and a litter box. And when I placed a towel in a box on the floor, she crawled into it and promptly went into labor.

We watched her birth the kittens, and at one point Rob turned to me and said, "This is going to be for a lot longer than one night, isn't it?" Indeed.

She had a litter of seven kittens. SEVEN. All of them survived, and raising those kittens was some of the best fun I've had. In the days that followed I checked with each neighbor, but no one claimed a pregnant calico cat. I called the SPCA to report her found and the lady there said the cat had most likely been dumped by someone who didn't want to care for a litter of kittens.

Ten weeks later we'd found homes for all of them, including the mama. (Two of them, Simon and Maylee, came into the house to live with us.) I felt sure that the universe had given me these eight cats to save in order to make up for the ones I'd been indirectly responsible for killing.

But now I'm wondering if perhaps there were actually nine cats in that feral colony...

This past Tuesday, Rob and I went for a walk down the same road. Five years, almost to the week, after we found the pregnant calico. This time, we heard a meow and saw a brown tabby cat running towards us from the field. She rubbed against our legs, purring like we were long-lost friends. Her fur was thick and shiny like a housecat's, but when I petted her I could feel her spine and ribs. She followed us home, trotting behind us like a dog.

If there's one thing about stray cats, it's that they can spot a sucker from a mile away.

Call me a bleeding heart, but I cannot refuse help to an animal actively pleading for it. This is a conviction of mine. Which doesn't make me a saint or anything because it's also a no-brainer.

So I fed the cat and made a home for her in our garage. She was definitely hungry, but she seemed even more lonely. She is the most affectionate cat I've ever met. She loves to rub against our faces and curl up in our laps. I took her to the vet for an exam and spaying, and they discovered that she's already been spayed. She has clearly been someone's pet, and so I've reported her found to various outlets with hopes of finding her owner. Sadly, so far no one seems to be looking for her.

We can't keep her for a dozen reasons, all of which involve the best interests of this cat and the ones we already have. I keep repeating these reasons aloud because Rob and I are both finding ourselves smitten. In fact, Rob has advised our three cats to be on their best behavior or risk being replaced.

I'm working with a local no-kill cat adoption organization to find a permanent home for her. As they were filling out paperwork on her yesterday, they asked me for her name. "I haven't named her," I said. "I've just been calling her Kitty because I'm trying so hard not to get attached."

"Well, she needs a name," the lady urged.

I looked at the cat. She gazed back at me, and in her yellow eyes I saw innocence and dependence. I thought about the calico mama and her kittens, and the colony of cats that once considered our yard their home. We are called upon to care for these creatures when they need us, whether or not it is convenient.

The lady was waiting patiently for a name.

"Karma," I said.

Last evening during rescue squad duty we were called to the house of an elderly man who had fallen. A friend had helped the man to his bed and, concerned about possible injuries, called 911. He reported that there was blood in the patient's mouth and also some on his arm.

The patient wasn't complaining of any pain. I did a brief physical examination and didn't find any injuries. The blood on his arm seemed to be from an unrelated scrape which was bandaged but leaking out a bit. The corners of his lips appeared to be crusted in dried blood, so I asked him to open his mouth while I peered inside with a penlight. There were no cuts that I could see, but his tongue and teeth were coated in a sticky dark substance. My first thought was that it resembled coffee grounds. If he'd been vomiting "coffee grounds" it could suggest internal bleeding. But something didn't seem quite right. It almost looked like...

"Sir, have you eaten any chocolate today?"

"He eats Oreos all the time," his friend said.

"Did you happen to eat any Oreos today, sir?" I asked.

Yes he had, he said. I was still leaning close to him, and as he spoke I smelled a faint whiff of chocolate on his breath. (He'd also had a delicious fudge dessert at the retirement community dining hall, he added contently.)

Because he'd fallen, we transported him to the hospital to get checked out. At one point during the ride, I was taking his blood pressure as another EMT was trying to call ahead to the hospital. But the ambulance's cell phone wasn't charged.

"Dead," the EMT announced, holding the cell phone. "Dead as a doornail."

I glanced up at him, a bit surprised (and amused) by what he'd said, knowing he had no clue how it sounded. And before I could reassure our patient, he said from the stretcher, "I sure hope you're not talking about me."

While on the trip, we took a tour of Antelope Canyon, a stunning slot canyon in Arizona. Rob stumbled upon online photos of this place by accident a couple months ago, and I'm so glad he did because visiting this canyon was a highlight for all of us.

And that's despite the fact that the guide was a complete loon. She would tell rambling personal stories of absolutely no relevance and then hurry us all around the corner because "I've been here since 6 this morning and I'm tired and want to go home." She actually didn't rush the tour - in fact, it went longer than it was supposed to - but she set an odd pace of hurrying up just to launch into a tangent just to hurry up again.

She also insisted on telling everyone which photos to take. A slot canyon is a very difficult place to photograph, and I think she was trying to be helpful (although she knew diddly-shit about photography and seemed mostly just to enjoy bossing people around). At stop after stop along the way, she would order us to "Stand here and take that photo." And then we would wait until everyone stood there and took that photo. We couldn't not stand there and take that photo - she INSISTED that everyone with a camera stand there and take that photo.

I will admit that I have added this phrase - Stand here and take that photo - to my personal repertoire. Rob tends to carry the camera (and take photos) more than I do on trips. When I see a shot I think would be nice, sometimes I ask for the camera but more often I'm too lazy and just point in the general direction of the shot and say some variation of, "Hey Rob, get that one." But the problem is that Rob doesn't always understand what I want him to take, and by the time I explain what I'm looking at ("I like the way the light hits that rooftop over there") I could have just taken the damn photo myself. Which is why I'm liking this new phrase: Stand HERE and [pointing] take that photo. So clear! No confusion! Plus it makes us chuckle.

So as the tour guide led us through the narrow, winding canyon, alternately pointing out strange rock formations (an eagle, Bill Clinton's nose) and telling us what she bought her husband for Father's Day, Rob stuck to the back of the group so he could shoot his own photos and avoid having people in them.

This did not go over well with the tour guide. She needed us all to be together. Now, I get this. You can't have people wandering around on their own. But Rob was never out of sight; he was just trailing ten feet behind. "Sir!" she would repeatedly shout from the front of the group. "Sir! Stay with the group. I need you up here!" Rob would amble close enough for her to shut up and then immediately lag behind again, getting shots. Honestly, I think what annoyed the guide more than anything was that Rob wasn't standing here taking that photo. (These photos are the result of his rebellion, which was clearly worth it.)

I bounced between Rob and the rest of my family, hanging back with him for awhile and then catching up to walk with them. The guide soon figured out our relationships and offered to take a family photo. Rob was dragging behind, so she took one of me with my parents and brother and then as Rob caught up she said, "In-Law! Stand over there with the rest of the family."

My brother and I nearly lost it, nudging each other while biting our lips to keep from laughing. Soon we couldn't hide our snickering, though, as the guide continued to call Rob "In-Law" for the rest of the tour. "In-Law! Stay with the group!" "Come a little closer, In-Law." "In-Law! Stand here and take that photo."

And I confess that after the tour ended my brother and I took it upon ourselves to continue referring to my poor dear husband as "In-Law." For the duration of the trip. Because we are assholes. And also because it's friggin' funny, I'm just saying.

A few evenings ago we went to a major league baseball game. At one point I was walking up the bleacher stairs by myself and got whistled at. By the mascot. I was walking up, he/she/it was walking down, and as we passed there was a distinct, if muffled, whistle.

Only moments later, the mascot came back to our section of the stands to give away free personal pan pizzas. As you know, I have a passion for the PPP. But unlike most people, I was not waving wildly for a pizza because I do not like to receive the attentions of mascots or others of the puppet persuasion. Frankly, they freak me out a little. Rob was sitting next to me, arms in the air in an attempt to score some pizza, and he nudged me and said, "Put up your hands and cheer so we can get a pizza! He whistled at you, so you'll totally get one. C'mon!"

Can I just observe here how eagerly my husband was willing to pimp out whatever sex appeal I may possess for the sake of free food? God knows what he would have suggested if they'd been handing out beers. Which is not to say I wouldn't have considered flashing my boobs if the pizza purveyor had been an actual person. I mean, it's PPP, people! But I absolutely refused to participate, for fear of what might happen if the mascot and I made eye contact. (Although how the hell can you even tell where a mascot is looking? They're freaky, I tell you.)

So we didn't get a free pizza but then we were craving one (which is the whole point of that giveaway) and so we had to go buy one. For $8. It was damn good, but nothing that small is worth $8. However, it was totally worth $8 not to appear on the jumbotron being groped by a giant birdlike creature made of shag carpet.

Yesterday UPS left a package on our porch that wasn't for us. It was supposed be delivered to a house down the road. The discussion that followed regarding what we should do with it demonstrates just how anti-social we are. Rob even sorta knows the man whose name was on the box. They used to work at the same place, although they didn't work together. So he mostly knows of him. Still, we were completely uncomfortable with the thought of interpersonal interaction. Note the many avoidance tactics we think up and how we somehow manage to justify these to ourselves.

"Should we take the package over to their house?"

"I don't know."

"I'll just call UPS. Because they should be informed of their mistake, right?"

"Yeah, they should know."

"And besides. If the Joneses aren't there, then what would we do? It might start raining before they get home, and what if they don't have a protected porch? I don't want the box to get wet."

"Yeah, and if they're not home, I'd feel like I was trespassing or something, poking around their porch. Plus, is it even legal for us to move their mail?"

"I'll just call UPS and they can take care of it."

We examine the box for a UPS phone number, and in doing so discover that the box is addressed to "The Children." The return address is Martha Jones from Sarasota, FL.

"This is clearly a package for the kids from their grandmother. I mean, Martha? From Florida."

"It has to be."

"If I call UPS, it might take days for it to be picked up and delivered to the right place. I don't want the kids to have to wait forever to get a gift from their grandma!"

"Yeah, I know."

"What if I take it by his work on my way to the office in the morning? I can just leave it with the secretary and explain why we had it."

"But that's not really on your way to work."

"It's not that far."

"Well, if you don't mind... Or I could drop it by their house on my way to work. I know they won't be there at that time in the morning."

"But then we still have the rain problem."

"True."

We end the discussion, having decided that I will take the package to the guy's work in the morning and leave it in the main office. Rob calls his mom about something else, and since she also knows Mr. Jones, he confirms with her that Mr. Jones is still employed at the same place.

"Okay, Mom says he still works there. So that's good."

"Did she also say we should suck it up and take it to his house?"

"Yeah, she was like, 'OR, you could just take it to them now.'"

I sigh. "That's probably the right thing to do. I mean, think of 'The Children'!"

"I guess."

"I can call to see if they're home, so we don't have to worry about it raining on the package."

"If you call, I'll drive it down there."

"You will?"

"Yeah, I guess."

I call. Mrs. Jones answers, and I explain to her about the package. I hang up and tell Rob that they are home.

"Alright, I'm going to go."

"Good luck!" I say, admiring his bravery.

When he gets back, I pepper him with questions. What did you say? What did she say? Was she nice? Did she smile? Did she thank you? He says that everything went fine, and she was nice, and it's her daughter's birthday.

I really don't know what we thought would be so awkward. But at least we are making progress! Maybe in another couple months we'll have worked up the nerve to give our neighbors the barn photos...

I've been wanting to revamp our kitchen ever since we moved into the house 4.5 years ago, yet I've continuously put it off for one reason or another. But a couple weeks ago I decided that right now? Right now when my life is extra super busy? Right now would be the perfect time to start the kitchen project. Because that spare hour of time I have about once a week is being completely wasted. Also, I like to make myself cry.

On Sunday I started stripping the godawful motherfucking wallpaper (hooray!). My only other experience removing wallpaper was in the bathroom, and that episode is not among my fondest of memories. So I went into this knowing it was going to suck. I started on the wallpaper that covers the top half of the room, and it went surprisingly well. Like, really really well. Like so well that I was beginning to re-estimate the time it would take to complete this project.

Meanwhile Rob was in the basement installing our new water softener, but things were not going well. The thingamabobs on the new softener aren't the same size as the thingamabobs on the old one, and so they didn't fit our water pipes. So Rob went to buy a converter or something. He suffered an elaborate ordeal tracking down what he needed (plumbing store closed on Sundays, Lowe's out of stock, and on and on) but returned two hours later weary but not defeated. "So did you get something that'll work?" I asked, as I tore another piece of wallpaper down the wall.

"I think so," he replied, before launching into a detailed explanation while I pretended to listen. "...And so I got a [somethin' er other] and that'll fit into this [whirlygig] and then I got a nipple to connect that to the [thingamabob]."

"Heh. You said nipple."

We finished installing the water softener, and that phrase makes it sound much simpler than it was. There was lifting and bending and tightening and grunting and cursing. It's not a terribly difficult thing to do, but little things that go wrong add up to a lot of time and effort. But we finally finished. Really it was all Rob. I just hold things and provide moral support. And, you know, make nipple jokes.

So then I started on the wallpaper on the lower half of the kitchen. Which, as it turns out, is a completely different beast than the stuff on the top half. Worse, even, than the bathroom wallpaper. Way worse. I had started on the section of wall behind the refrigerator, and I don't know why I mention that except that to be wedged back there somehow made things all the worse when they didn't go well. After a few minutes of extreme frustration, I said, "I think I'm going to cry."

Rob came over and peered around the fridge. "What's wrong, babe?"

"It's not working. It's even worse than in the bathroom! It only comes off in teeny tiny strips."

"Hmmm," he said as he watched me peel off a piece of wallpaper the size of a caterpillar.

"I can't do the whole kitchen like this!" I wailed. "Why the hell did I start this?! I don't have time!" I tried to peel another corner that had been perforated and soaked in solution like all the rest. But to no avail. "Fuck! Okay, I have to stop now before I have a meltdown."

I walked away for a little bit and then returned to suggest that maybe a steamer would work. We could rent one next weekend and try. And if it didn't, then we'd just have to demolish the house and start over because that would seriously take less time than peeling wallpaper off the walls in strips the size of my goddamn pinkie finger.

A few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen to find Rob ironing the walls. He had plugged our clothes iron into an outlet and was spraying the walls with water and then pressing the iron against the wallpaper. "It's basically the same thing as a steamer," he explained. "Let's see if it works."

And it totally did. We were able to pull the wallpaper off the wall in wide sections. The paper backing was left behind, so I still have to scrape that off. But still. Dude is totally my hero.

This morning I woke up and every muscle in my body ached, sore from the stretching and stooping and lifting and pulling. "Unnnnhhhh," I moaned as I rolled over. "I feel like I was in a fight." Stumbling to the shower, Rob agreed, "Yeah, I feel like somebody hit me all night with a baseball bat." We are total wimps, clearly without the fortitude and physical endurance to be homeowners. But unfortunately, if this project goes like most for us, I fear the ass-whooping has just begun.