… that vampires aren’t actually good boyfriends. Or all that sexy. Really.

… that black does go with brown—unless it’s like, an all-brown outfit and you’re pairing it with black boots, because then that’s crazy. Unless you’re a Bay Mare. Or you work for UPS?

… that raspberries are the best berry, but not the best smell for a bodywash.

… to stop with the tooth-bleaching.

… to not call someone and, if it’s early, ask, “Oh, were you sleeping?” Because, yes.

… to outlaw Internet Explorer.

Lots of people own dogs in our new neighborhood. Seeing them daily makes me want my own, but Chris and I are waiting for a better opportunity to own a pet. I’m having a hard enough time taking care of my plants as it is. The one I mentioned earlier, my beautiful Splitrock, has already halfway rotted—likely because of my desire to nourish it with water. Too much water.* What is WRONG with YOU, the Animal Control officer will say.

Anyway, there’s a young boy here who owns a sleek little Chihuahua. Both dog and boy are the same warm dark chocolate in color, and very slender. I’ve never seen the dog on its feet, because the boy keeps the creature slung over his back like a yoga mat. Paws on either side of the boy’s neck, feet propped on the boy’s waistband—the dog simply hangs on, a wayward stole. I’m not sure if it’s out of fright that the dog doesn’t jump down, or if it really is a comfortable position. It looks natural enough to me, like maybe the dog considers the boy his chariot. (With cats, aloof as they are, there is less to guess about what they like and dislike.) Paris Hilton totes her Chihuahuas similarly, but they’re much smaller, and the way she cuddles them under her chin is more akin to the way you’d hold an ice cream cone. While wearing an animal like an accessory is not something I’d advise (same goes for building your dog collection a mini-mansion), this neighborhood boy and his pet look so much like a hero and his sidekick that it seems okay for now.

As for me, I want a bigger dog who will run around on his own four legs and drink lots of water.

* I’ve always erred on the side of too little water with my other succulents, so this comes as a sad surprise. I’m not sure I can use what’s left to grow as a cutting.

One tick bite.

Four mosquito bites.

Nine flea(?) bites.

And one blister.

My husband told me a little story yesterday about how, when he was young, his neighbors had a teeny dog named Valentine. She was generally very amicable—though a bit yappy, as small dogs are—until you called her “V-tine.” If you called her Valentine, she’d come over and let you pet her. If you called her V-tine, a growl would emerge from deep down in her wee belly and her lips would peel back into a vicious snarl. She’d snap at your fingers until you relented and called her by her rightful name.

Sometimes, and I think this is relevant somehow, her owners would adorn her with a sweet pink bow.

My boss thinks I’m stealing toilet paper. I tell him I have allergies. “You’re FIRED,” he snarls, and turns into a werewolf. Or jaguar.

My boss barks an order, yelling for me to write it down. He throws me a pen. The pen doesn’t write, but I pretend it does. After my boss leaves, I sneak out the back door and run away. I’m still holding the pen, and inside it there’s a little plastic woman whose bathing suit floats on or off depending on the direction she’s being held.

I’m out shopping, and I turn around to look at my husband. My boss is standing there instead.

Same scenario, except I’m turning around to grab a can of soup. My boss is standing there, watching me with a frown. Suddenly, I remember telling him that I don’t like minestrone, which is what I’ve selected. He fires me for lying. I eat my soup straight from the can and it’s delicious.

For a while I used to think “OH:” on Twitter meant “other half,” as in, like, a quote from somebody’s boyfriend/girlfriend or spouse. I’ve seen this acronym used on forums before, and so I’d see people preface their Tweets with OH and think, wow, these people date some hilarious weirdos! But no, OH actually means “overheard.”

I love the funny things other people have been overhearing lately. For example, Sarah from Que Sera Sera witnessed a schoolyard argument that quickly escalated into a screaming blowout, and in San Francisco, Maggie from Mighty Girl was overjoyed to overhear a brand-new family trio having fun.

Reading these scenarios reminded me of a time I was on the beach many years ago, sitting on the sand with my mom. The sun was setting, people were drinking, and then, at last, a certain couple walked by that we couldn’t help noticing: she, with her gigantic floppy hat, and he, with his very small and white (and wet) swim briefs. He himself was very small, while his lady companion was much larger. As they passed, we heard them chattering excitedly to each other. Nearly naked though he was, the man had no qualms about his appearance, and neither did the woman about hers—or his, except for one small thing. The man suddenly stumbled over the sand, leaving the woman a few paces behind him. Upon seeing his backside, she noticed (just as my mom and I had) that the tag of his swimming briefs was sticking out. She giggled and tucked it back in, patting his butt gently after she did so.

It wasn’t exactly an “OH:” moment, but certain silly memories of other people make me so happy.

With spring comes the thunderstorms, the peeper frogs, and the habit Chris has of shaving the hair on his head down to (not even) half an inch.

You know how when you have a pen that’s stopped writing, you shake it? (Or lick it, to revive a dried-up tip. Not a felt tip! Just ballpoint.)

Well, I use a Wacom tablet almost every day, to draw and color in illustrations. While it’s not the biggest and newest, I’m really comfortable with it. And sometimes I’ll be in the flow, finishing something up, when all of a sudden my computer will pause to render the latest line or color blob or whatever. In confused frustration, I always shake the Wacom pen as if it were a regular pen with low ink.

I do it all the time; I can’t help it.

New, sharpened pencils
Warm, damp pavement
Darkroom chemicals
Newspaper print
Boursin cheese
Chopped wood
Dusky cellars
Sugared fruit
Hair salons
Rye bread
Radishes

Panties.

Many people claim to hate the word, but I don’t. I think it’s cute. It’s a tiny version of pants! I also don’t dislike the word moist, which is detested by people the world all over perhaps even more than panties. I don’t even hate them together: “moist panties.” Are they so bad? If you’re experiencing wetness along with other signs of discomfort, maybe, but if not, so what?

I can’t wait for Google to pick up on this.

I guess for some, the words conjure up a filthy old man with dirt under his nails and a pervy fantasy. But if you consider a guy like this one, even “fluffy bunnies” wouldn’t pass the grody test unscathed. What do you mean, bunnies? That some kinda euphemism?