Marriage and shit.

Poochie and his beautiful bride got married yesterday. The day was lovely, sunny and warm. The bride was stunning and the groom was handsome. I had a few people comment that I did a nice job officiating and they didn't realize I was the groom's sister until after the fact. So, all in all, a good day.

I'll share more later, but ask that you forgive me for just hitting the high points today. My Guy and I drove back today. When we got back, we had an hour to kill before meeting our realtor, so we went to the bank to open a joint account. WHICH TOOK AN HOUR.

Seriously. We're both existing customers. Why, oh why would it take an hour to set up a new account? Bank of America? You suck serious ass.

So, we were late getting to my house to meet my friend our realtor and our new realtor. My friend just had her third (gorgeous!) baby, so she's handing over our listings to The New Realtor Guy. This new guy, whose first impression of me is that my house smells like shit.

Because Puppy Love Lisa, the beloved dog sitter? Has issues with portion control. She went through a week's worth of dog food in three days. And Foxie Doxie, he of the delicate digestive tract? Had crazy diarrhea in his kennel.

Yay!

So, while My Guy and The New Realtor Guy talked real estate strategy, I drug a shit-filled kennel outside, then gave Foxie a bath. My friend tried to soothe her cranky 3-week-old. And Lil' Frankfurter got jealous of the attention Foxie was getting with the kitchen-sink bath. So, he pooped and peed directly behind me in the kitchen.

My house smelled awesome.

We decided to drop our prices again, and I had an almost freak out of the "I had $25.35 to my name and then worked my ass off to buy this house and I don't want to lose money on it" variety. And then My Guy pointed out that the goal here is to live together, and he was all reasonable and shit.

So, we did the real estate stuff, and then My Guy hosed out the kennel and threw away the bedding. I think he saw that I was on the precipice of a meltdown. We agreed that throwing away the bedding was the best decision ever.

And then we ate dinner, and I had an adult beverage. And now I'm getting ready to go to bed. Because 8:30 is totally my bed time after this sort of day.

But Poochie got married and it was lovely and we'll talk about it tomorrow. M'kay?

Turn on your heartlight.

I was going to write about a maybe big-ish argument / confrontation / disagreement that my brother and my parents are having right now, the week of his wedding, and how it makes me want to hide in my closet.

But when I tried to log in to Blogger? I got a "503 - Service Unavailable" screen. I guess that's a sign.

So, instead? I'll tell you the magical story of Poochie and Our Jewish Dad.

Yes.

My very first non-Sesame Street LP was Neil Diamond's Greatest Hits. I looooooved this album, even though it features a barefoot Neil on the cover and I have always been iffy about men's feet. The album was all mine - I got it for my fifth birthday from family friends who knew how much I loved their Neil eight track.

Neil's always been a part of our family. And when I was in college, Poochie and I convinced our mom to buy us Hot August Night on cassette, promising that we would share it.

Keep in mind that at the time, we lived four hours apart and neither one of us had a car. But we did share that tape - it was so, so good! I'd bring it home on school breaks, or Poochie would offer it up over summer vacation.

But that fabulous recording of Neil in concert? It proved to be just a gateway drug.

It's not politically correct, but Poochie and I refer to Neil as Our Jewish Dad. I've seen him in concert four times; Poochie's seen him five. Over the years, there have been many Neil recordings that we've given each other, and we've seen him together twice - two shows that felt like a combination of church and family reunion. Good times.

Now, longtime readers may remember Poochie's track record for remembering birthdays. As in, he doesn't. One of my favorite voicemails ever was last year on my birthday, when Poochie serenaded my machine with an impromptu song about my birthday - a song during which he began to doubt that it truly was my birthday. So, about two-thirds of the way through the song, "happy birthday" morphed into "I'm pretty sure your birthday is sometime this month - hope it is / was / will be good." That was also the year he gave me a Snuggie for my birthday, but didn't actually give it to me - he used it in lieu of a sleeping bag on a bike trip.

This background is important so that you understand the gravity, the weight of what I'm about to tell you.

This summer? Poochie gave me a belated birthday gift. Two, actually.

He gave me the used Snuggie. But the blanket with arms was wrapping! Wrapping for The Single Most Amazing Gift Ever In The History of Gifts.

Poochie gave me a framed, autographed photo of Neil Diamond. Neil in all of his hairy, spangly, late-70s best.

I'm not often speechless, but I truly was when I uncovered this prize.

Again: autographed photo of Our Jewish Dad. I know!

Now, My Guy and I have agreed that whatever our future home looks like, it will need a lighted niche - complete with security lasers - to properly display and protect Neil. We have my brother to thank.

I am on a horse. Cow.

The countdown is on! My baby brother is getting married a week from today. So, I thought this week could be A Celebration of Poochie.

Fun Fact You Didn't Know About Poochie: He had / has a thing for Grover. Yes, everybody's favorite furry little monster.

Poochie received a Grover stuffed animal as a gift when he was a youngun', and Grover became his one and only. Poochie and Grover went everywhere together, and Grover is featured prominently in many family photos.

One year for Christmas, Grover asked Santa for a purple t-shirt. This caused my mom a lot of heartache. How could Santa possibly deliver a purple t-shirt for a monster whose presence was absolutely, without question necessary for my brother to fall asleep?

Let's just talk about how awesome my mom is for a moment, shall we? She'd wait til Poochie fell asleep at nap time (he's the favorite kid - he actually took naps). Then, she'd sneak in, steal Grover, and figure out a pattern from his furry blue body. When she was done, she'd throw him on the floor in Poochie's room, so when Poochie woke up, she'd just be all, "Oh, Grover fell out of bed."

Then, Christmas Eve? She and my dad had to steal Grover in the middle of the night. My mom sewed the t-shirt on. Then, they tucked Grover back in bed with Poochie. And my brother awoke Christmas Day to find that Santa had, indeed, given Grover a purple t-shirt.

So, Grover sports a purple t-shirt to this day. And I think he's on retina transplant number 19, as the pupils on his plastic eyes keep wearing off and being touched up with Sharpie. And he has a bald spot on his rear, as Poochie would rub Grover's silky tag against his upper lip for comfort. In the grand tradition of The Velveteen Rabbit, Grover is as real as they get. Super Real. Super Grover.

It's all just one of those things that makes Poochie who he is, and makes me love him.

But Grover's a man who evolves. You might remember his Olivia Newton-John era aerobics bit, or his disco dancing. Now, he's spoofing those hilarious Old Spice commercials.



And ... you're welcome.

In which I am mucusy and sweaty and long-winded.

I have had a cold this week. Perhaps you've heard of it? It goes by the monikers Cold of Death, The Sinus Crusher, and, occasionally, Snot Doggy Dogg.

I feel like I've been hit by a truck.

Yesterday, though, I finally remembered my friend Sherrie's comments about how when she's sick, hot and sour soup is the only ticket to health. So, My Guy and I went to the home of the world's greatest hot and sour soup: Fire Wok.

Or, as we usually call it, "You Know, That Place That's Always Closed." Which seems to have caught on as the official moniker, despite the fact that I really tried to get "Fire Crotch" to catch on, just because it made me laugh.

You Know, That Place That's Always Closed has the best hot and sour soup. And really? It has an awesome buffet, too. They are open from 11-2 and 5-8, weekdays only. Never on the weekends. And really? You have to be a really good restaurant to survive being open for only, like, half an hour every week.

Anyway.

So, last night, the hot and sour soup from You Know, That Place That's Always Closed made my nose run and my lip sweat. And then I felt better! And so, today, after work? I stopped by and got not one but two servings of soup to go. Yes, I gorged myself on two bowls of hot and sour soup for dinner. It was the best dinner ever! And my nose ran and I got sweaty ... and I'm thinking I will triumph over this cold.

And yeah, that's the excitement here.

Did I mention? I can't wait for your show?

I'm watching vh1's 100 Top Songs of the 90s. This means several things.

1. I cannot turn away from vh1 countdown shows, no matter how many times I have seen them. Case in point: my recent viewing - not once, but twice - of vh1's Top 100 Artists of All Time. I believe you will join me in my utter disgust that Buddy Holly was omitted from this list. And Journey? Only number 96? Seriously?

2. I am ... a bit of a has-been. I graduated from high school and college in the 90s, and I'm just now coming to realize that holy crap, so much of our music sucked serious ass. And on what planet is a bodysuit and a flannel shirt considered proper "going out" wear? Oh, right - Planet 1995. I knew you well.

Actually, it's sort of like someone I used to know lived in the 90s. Certainly not me. This is also how I felt about that person I used to be who had an escape plan to lock herself in the bathroom and jump down the laundry shoot to escape an unpredictable boyfriend. It's so ridiculous - I don't know that person any more. Like I also don't know the person who, at 110 pounds, wore XXL sweatshirts with leggings and ankle boots.

*shiver*

3. Because vh1 is vh1, every single commercial break has alerted me to big, big news. Bret Michaels: Life as I Know It premieres Monday, Oct. 18! Set your DVRs now. But, actually, it's easy to remember, because Bret's show premieres the day after my big premiere as an ordained woman of the cloth at Poochie's wedding.

Yep. You're welcome for that handy mental crutch. It's like a traditional mnemonic, but better. It's all "every rose has its mnemonic" mnemonic.

So, Bret.
You're awesome.

And I can't wait for your show.

And I will totally be wearing my t-shirt.

And even though I'm super excited to be marrying My Guy? He understands about you. About us.

So much so that when I saw these engagement photos that were crashed by none other than The Boss, and I demanded that My Guy and I have the same Springsteentastic engagement photos?

My Guy sighed and said, "Well, I had Bret Michaels lined up for our engagement shoot, but I guess I'll cancel ..."

So, can't wait for your show, Bret.

God has me where I'm supposed to be. Right?

So, My Guy and I put our houses on the market the first full week of July.

Have you seen all the news stories about how we're currently in the very worst real estate market ever in the history of houses?

Dude. It is totally true.

My Guy has had four showings in those two and a half months. I have had two showings.

The jokes about how someday we might live together are starting to get a little old. And I feel guilty about the twinge of desperation that I feel. I want to put positive energy into the universe: Yes, our houses will find the buyers who want them! Yes, we will be paid fairly for these homes! Yes, we will be exactly where we are supposed to be!

But I can't help but be a bit discouraged.

We've dropped the prices. We've even been making our beds every single day, for the love of Ray J!

I even turned to The Lord's Realtor. I ordered St. Joseph statues. Evidently, he is the patron saint of carpenters and real estate. You're supposed to say a prayer and bury him head down, facing the street. According to the brochure that came with our St. Joseph statues, he's "The Underground Real Estate Agent(tm)."

My Guy buried his as soon as it came in. Mine? Well, I was busy and didn't get to it immediately. However, this showed how truly sacred my mom's Catholic upbringing is.

When I told her I hadn't yet buried my Underground Real Estate Agent(tm), she had words. Harsh words.

"Dammit, girl! Get out there and bury the damned thing!"

Ahem. So I did. And ... nothing. Perhaps in addition to selling my home, St. Joseph is also trying to teach me patience.

I'm at a bit of a loss. Any words of wisdom? Anybody want a really cute little house with a main-floor laundry and granite in the kitchen?

You say TMI, I say funny.

I'm a bit of a delicate flower. Which is a nice way of saying that if I think about poison ivy or look at it from 347 yards away, I break out.

With two dogs and a fence line that is occasionally overgrown with questionable vegetation, this means I've had more than one brush with everybody's least favorite rash. The dogs brush up against the plant. The dogs brush up against me. I get the oils on my skin. I get the rash of death.

Good times.

So, this week I've had a patch of poison ivy on my arm that's about the size of a large grape. And boy howdy, has it ever itched. Like, I'd wake up thinking about the throbbing, itching heat on my arm. Holy crap. The itching. Itching!

Also? It looks awesome. Oh, you know Cha Cha? That girl who works on the 16th floor? You know, the one with the arm leprosy?

Combine that itchy, visually appealing awesomeness with a nice visit from Aunt Flo, and, well, you've got yourself a party. I am a mess. It's been a great week.

I haven't seen much of My Guy this week. He's had a nasty cold and has sequestered himself away. "I can't get you sick," he said. "I would just feel so guilty."

I thought he was just being overly sensitive and unable to think straight due to an overabundance of mucus. Then, he put it all in perspective.

"You already have poison ivy and your period. If you get a cold, too? Well, that combination is what killed the dinosaurs."