Why I Will Never Own a Dog

I have always liked dogs, and most definitely prefer them to cats. I have very fond memories of my old doggie, Jessie, who let me hold her when I was suffering through junior high. I think dogs are loyal, and fun, and great. But I will never own one. I don’t want to and it is Ryan’s fault.

Ryan is a germophobe. I can’t blame him. He basically spent the first several years of his life in the hospital.

If Ryan’s toothbrush has been “contaminated”—dropped on the floor, Doug played with it, its bristles touched the bristles of my toothbrush—Ryan will need to purchase a new toothbrush.

He has a Costco-sized hand-sanitizer dispenser of which he uses frequently and gargles with when necessary.

Ryan told me he was allergic to dogs so that I’d never pester him about owning one. It wasn’t until recently that he informed me that he is not actually allergic to dogs… it was just wishful thinking.

At restaurants, Ryan asks the server to “hold the ice” in his drink because I told him about the e coli content in fast food ice cubes (learned it on Oprah).

Consequently, I won’t tell him about the vast quantities of bacteria stewing in his loofah because that would really ruin his life.

I used to laugh at Ryan’s hand-washing germ-hating ways. But now, sadly, I have begun to subscribe to them.

In San Antonio, Ryan and I both brought our own bedding so we wouldn’t have to use the hotel’s comforters and pillows.

I probably take more squirts of the hand sanitizer each day than Ryan does.

And now whenever I see a dog, all I really see is a poop-making, hair-shedding, flea-enabling, garbage-licking creature of all that is unbathed and unsanitary (Oh wait... that sounds a lot like the hygiene of my toddler...hmmm).

So I will never own dog. Even though I love them. And it is all Ryan’s fault.

Happy Easter!

Bethanyisms (Cheerleader Tryouts)

“Oh come on, Bethany. You’ve got to tryout with us! You’d be great!”

“Hmmm… I don’t know.”

“You’re peppy. You’re little. You’d be perfect.”

I envisioned myself in a short skirt bravely cheering USU on, boys begging for my phone number, girls seething in jealousy.

Somewhere between the “short skirt” and “boys begging” did I forget that I was about as stretchy as a lug nut. It also slipped my mind that I was afraid of flips and heights and boys. I was uncoordinated, didn’t give a hoot about sports, and couldn’t balance worth a poop. But, yes, I was peppy and little.

“Okay! Let’s do it!” I clapped.

I walked into the auditorium and saw the other girls stretching. They were very bendy. They’d been preparing for this tryout for decades—they’d gone to cheer camp as toddlers, tumbling classes in utero, four years of high school cheerleading, sparkly makeup application seminars…

The closest I had ever gotten to cheerleading experience is kissing one of the starters on my high school’s basketball team.

I started warming up. I stretched and I pulled. Only when I attempted the splits and accomplished a mere 90 degree angle did I understand the gravity of the situation.

“Turn around! Go home! You are not a cheerleader; you are a scrap booker!” my better judgment implored.

But the judges had already pinned a number to my back. I felt stuck.

The cheerleaders first taught us a basic cheer dance. I stumbled and tripped as I tried to perform. The judges stifled their laughter.

Then the judges asked to see our best tumbling tricks. I offered a somersault.

Meanwhile, the girls around me were doing “back handover vaulted pull-around flip springs.” They rallied. They sparkled. They made me look like an idiot.

Correction: I made myself look like an idiot.

At least I was peppy… and little.

After tryouts were over, I cried a little. Then I called my mother to brag that I had tried out for college cheerleading and made it up to the final cut.

There was only one cut.

P.S. I’d like to add that my friend Steph almost (and should have) made the team. Go Steph!

Some Like it Hot

I know it’s not proper to talk about your marital difficulties with anyone besides your spouse, but there’s a chasm in me and Ryan’s relationship that I simply must discuss.

I like peppers and he does not.

It’s not that I like peppers… it’s that I LOVE peppers. Bell, habanero, poblano, pepperoncini… I love them all. I even enjoy the “pow” in Kung Pao chicken (even when the pow makes me cry). I like the texture of peppers, I like the taste, I like em’ raw, I like em’ cooked. How could a person that I love so dearly not share this passion? It is ludicrous.

Last night I made these fabulous Italian Sausage Sandwiches. I tried not to wince as Ryan sifted through the sautéed red and green bell peppers to get to the onions. It was like wearing socks with sandals—downright cheeky.

Still, I love the man. I’m actually crazy ‘bout him. Perhaps, if I can forgive him of this sin, he can forgive me when I put the dishes in the dishwasher without rinsing them first.

Do you like peppers? Hate them? What’s your favorite food?

OUR BODY: The Universe Within

I felt a little squeamish in the Nervous System and Circulatory System rooms. The brain stems, the spinal cords, the arteries… I twitched as I viewed the once functioning organs. I wasn’t surprised by my reaction, though. The mere mention of the word “jugular” makes my head feel fuzzy and my toes curl up.

Even so, I’d been looking forward to the exhibit ever since I heard of it. Real human bodies, drained of their fluids, skinned, peeled like bananas, sliced in half… honestly, what could be better!

But I speak irreverently. The exhibit was actually amazing. The cadavers are preserved through “polymer impregnation” a process that replaces the body’s water and fat with reactive plastics. So the body remains intact, even down to the microscopic level.

The bodies, and body parts, were displayed for us to view and learn from. It was a spiritual experience seeing the miracle of how our bodies are put together. Nothing, save it be a higher being, could create something so perfect and so masterfully complicated.

I learned so much about the human body. I now know how the muscle is connected to the bone, the actual size of a fetus at three months gestation, and what a “man part” looks like from the inside out (not that I looked).

Ryan and I brought Douglas and Kiana to the exhibit with us. Other children might be traumatized by such a display. Not Doug. He was only slightly interested in the dead bodies. He was more concerned with how loudly he could yell “HAIRBRUSH!” over and over and over. Kiana just drooled the whole time.

San Antonio

For those of you who love us enough to endure our travel log...

We bypassed the Alamo due to last year's "squirrel incident" ( http://bethany-lee.blogspot.com/2007/05/do-not-feed-squirrels.html) and went straight toward the River Walk... my favorite thing to do in San Antonio.

Doug meet Giant Dinosaur. Giant Dinosaur, meet Doug. (Ripley's Believe it or Not)

Sea World!

"Oh me gosh!"


The Shamu show. Doug loved Shamu. Ryan was holding him through the whole show and whenever Shamu appeared, Doug's heart rate doubled.

Things not pictured:
-the extremely cool Body World's exhibit (more on that later).
-Kiana sleeping through the night (twice).
-lots and lots of Mexican Food.
-A very brave boy who rode the scary log ride and wanted to go again.

Car Troubles (Part Three)

Ryan walked back into the apartment with “the look” on his face.

It was the same “look” he gave when the grey Corolla mysteriously disappeared from our apartment’s parking lot in Tucson.

It was the same “look” he gave when our cadillac converter gave up the ghost.

It was the look that that said that something was horribly wrong with our car and it was going to cost us lots and lots of money.

You know the look.

I followed Ryan to the parking lot to inspect the damage.

A rain-gutter block had been smashed through the back window of our car. A trail of thick tacky blood led through that window, all over our backseat, up over to the front seat, and all over the driver’ door. However, nothing was missing from the car.

Who would do such a horrible thing?

The police kept asking Ryan if there were any women scorned in his life. Well, no. That wasn’t it.

So, Ryan and I added up all the people who might have a bone to pick with either of us. The grand sum amounted to zero. We were fairly likable people.

So why? It was a mystery; one that must be solved.

The police left and Ryan set about sweeping the chards of glass from our car. It was then that he discovered a cell phone. The architect behind this fiasco had dropped his cell phone in our car.

Thus we located the perpetrator (we’ll call him Einstein) and coerced him out of three hundred dollars to replace the window and get our car professionally cleaned. More valuable then the money, however, was the explanation he gave us.

Apparently, Einstein and his buddies had gotten sloshed (and heaven knows what else) the previous evening. He went out to his car to drive home and the key wouldn’t fit in the door. It was then that he decided to smash in the window and crawl through, cutting himself badly on the way in.

The problem was that it wasn’t his car. His car was a Honda Civic (two door) and ours was a four door black Corolla. It didn’t register that it wasn’t his car as he bled over my son’s car seat. It didn’t register that it wasn’t his car as he crawled up to the front seat (his car didn’t even have a backseat). It finally registered that it wasn’t his car when the key would not fit in the ignition. So he opened the front door and got out.

Don’t do drugs.

When Einstein stopped by our apartment to deliver the cash he also invited us to go to his church with him the following week. While tempted...