Tag Archives: Aprill Brandon

Adventures in puppysitting

Posted on May 13, 2011 | 2 comments

It is 2:30 on Thursday afternoon. I am sitting at the computer, attempting to type this around my almost 40-pound dog, who is struggling to sit on my not-nearly-big-enough lap. I am still in the sweatpants I slept in, hair in the same messy bun I went to bed in and my face still has the remnants of yesterday’s eyeliner. To my left is an 11-pound puppy who is desperately and energetically trying to also jump on my lap. And to my immediate right is the giant screwdriver I just made with a generous dose of really cheap vodka.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Last week, a friend asked my husband and me if we would watch her dog for a couple of days while she went out of town. Considering my schedule consisted mostly of plans to write this column (but really use the time to Facebook bomb as many people as I could … you’re welcome, Grandma), I said “Eh, why not?”

Now Leelou (full name: Leelou Dallas Multipass Mulligan) is an absolutely adorable puppy of that breed of small dogs that look concerned all the time. She is also besties with my dog Buffy (full name: Buffy Anne Summers Brandon Huddle the First), or at least as close to besties as two creatures – who think sniffing each other’s rears for three hours is an appropriate greeting – can be.

So, naturally, I figured this little adventure in puppysitting would be a breeze.

HA! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!! (Snort) Hahahahahahahahahaha!!! (Semi-sob)

Alas, I forgot one crucial thing. Taking care of one dog? Easy-peasy. Taking care of two dogs? A good start if you want to kick-off that descent into madness with a bang.

See, while both Leelou and Buffy are essentially good dogs at heart, it was their combination that was the problem. For instance, if Leelou woke up at 2 a.m., Buffy would wake up at 2:03 a.m. and then both of them would have to spend the next 20 minutes repositioning themselves on the bed (such as whichever one was sleeping directly on my face would move to my feet and vice versa).

If Leelou wanted to play with a toy, Buffy also wanted to play with a toy. In fact, he wanted to play with the exact same one that … SURPRISE! … Leelou had. If Leelou heard someone three houses down sneezing and decided it was a threat to all our well-beings, she would start barking as though the house was on fire. This barking would alert Buffy that he, too, needed to bark, only much louder and at an urgency that is usually reserved for when Vikings are invading your apartment.

If Leelou wanted to play the canine version of Fight Club, Buffy would make sure it got elevated to Thunderdome status. If Leelou had an accident in the house, Buffy felt compelled to … ahem … “clean it up” before I got there with paper towels in hand.

It finally got so bad that I decided to put both of them in their cages so I could have just a few moments of peace. Sadly, even that backfired. Now, I’ve never given birth. But I’m pretty sure the opposite of it is an apt comparison of trying to shove an unwilling dog into its cage. And I’m pretty sure the opposite of giving birth to a full-sized gorilla is an apt comparison of trying to do that twice.

So, by 2:30 on Thursday, I hadn’t had time to shower. I had spent most of the morning trying to prevent Leelou from eating something inedible and the rest of my day trying to prevent Buffy from eating whatever Leelou left behind. There was a never-ending game of “jump on Aprill’s lap and delete whatever she just spent the last 30 minutes typing” (although they did stop occasionally to bark at yet something else that wasn’t actually there) and my house was littered with dog toys of every type imaginable.

It was enough to make even this die-hard dog lover question whether having pets was worth it.

But then, just when I couldn’t take it anymore, both of them finally got tired and laid down. And eventually fell asleep. Cuddled together. Looking so sweet I’m pretty sure I got a cavity just by glancing at them.

And I realized, it was those moments that made all the craziness worth it.

Then again, it could have just been the really cheap vodka kicking in.

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I’d like to apologize to my mom for the following…

Posted on May 8, 2011 | 1 comment

So, it was Mother’s Day this past weekend. Which means that all of us (minus the majority of reality TV stars, whom I’m praying were the result of some government cloning experiment gone terribly wrong and thus don’t have mothers) spent the day sucking up to our moms and giving her useless gifts like cards covered in three tons of glitter and stuffed bears that sing annoying songs.

But considering everything my mom had to put up with (and all the toxic fumes from the constant hairspray cloud hanging around my teenage head she had to breath in), I’d like to take this holiday a step farther and give my own mother something she really wants:

Validation that she was pretty much always right and overdue apologies for a wide variety of infractions.

And so, Mom, first and foremost I’d like to apologize for my birth. Because I am a mom now. And I now know you weren’t exaggerating when you compared the pain to pulling your lower lip over your entire head.

Then there was the Great Tomato Standoff of 1986. That’s three hours of waiting for me to eat a vegetable you’ll never get back.

Oh, remember when you signed me up for that second year of ballet and it was only after you had paid for the entire year and bought me three new tutus that I announced I no longer wanted to do ballet? That was fun, huh? Oof. Again. So sorry.

Let us also not forget The Great Brownie Lie of 1990, when I blamed the missing brownie piece (of the pan of brownies you SPECIFICALLY told me NOT to eat) on the dog. Oh, and that time when I was 14 and called you a very bad word under my breath (which didn’t stop you from hearing it) on the phone because you wouldn’t let me pierce my eyeball and tattoo my tongue.

Actually, now that I think about it, I apologize in general for 1996.

For every time I made you listen to the New Kids on the Block “Hangin’ Tough” album over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, I am deeply, deeply sorry. For every track meet you had to sit through in the volatile Ohio spring weather, but specifically that time it hailed and you toughed it out only to watch me get seventh place in the 300 hurdles, I apologize even more.

All those times I told my brother he was actually an alien baby from Uranus (heh) that was dropped off on our doorstep and they would be coming back for him any day now, I…well, I’m not exactly sorry for that because I still find it HILARIOUS, but I do own my part for his current crippling phobia of UFO’s.

That time I got busted for drinking a Zima when I was 17? So dumb. And again, so sorry. And yes, you were right. If I was going to get busted for underage drinking, it should have been for a less embarrassing drink.

And lastly, for all those birthdays I got you a “coupon book” (Good for one free hug!) because I was too cheap to buy you an actual gift. Which is why you are getting a semi-fancy retirement home that is only occasionally accused of elderly abuse.

There’s so many more I could add (but let’s leave the majority of my juvenile record out of this now that most of it has been expunged).

I love you, Mom. Thanks for letting me be me (even when being me included talking on the phone with my BFF for, like, three full hours about how amazing Brad Pitt’s hair was “Legends of the Fall”).

 

 

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What a difference a decade makes

Posted on May 2, 2011 | Leave a comment

Ten years ago, I was woken up by my college roommate just in time to see the second plane hit the Twin Towers.

Today, I was woken up by my husband with the phrase “Good morning, babe…oh, and by the way, Osama is dead.”

Both of those moments in my life were completely surreal, one, because they were simply too big to process and two, more importantly, I was trying to process them without coffee in my system.

And, just like I did 10 years ago, I watched as it all unfolded on TV (the only difference being I was also obsessively checking Facebook and Twitter on my phone at the same time…whereas 10 years ago, my cell phone looked like the one Zack Morris had on “Saved by the Bell” and Mark Zuckerberg was too busy picking his nose and giving girls cooties to become a social networking guru).

And just like 10 years ago, my emotions are all over the place…only this time, that horrible ball of dread and terror in the pit of my stomach is only a memory now.

And it will probably end the same way, by drinking on the porch with loved ones as we try to come to terms with what just happened…only this time, there will be less tears, and more smiles.

And that is all I will say about today. Memorializing this historic day is for writers far more talented than I.

And so I will simply post this link to my latest column, a humorous little rant on the mundane topic of losing your wedding ring, which, yes, I realize seems superfluous in light of today’s events. But that was my original intent before I heard the news this morning. And just like how Americans didn’t let that bastard stop us from living our lives 10 years ago, I’m not about to let him do it today.

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Cheering on the Boston Marathon, one beer at a time

Posted on April 19, 2011 | 3 comments

The Boston Marathon. A living testament to dedication, endurance, skill and no short amount of pain (and possibly permanent damage).

Naturally, of course, I’m talking about the livers of the spectators who begin drinking while the runners are still stretching.

Yes, while 20,000 people run 26 miles, pushing the limits of human athleticism and subsequently inspiring the world, the hundreds of thousands of people on the sidelines were busy pushing the limits of public drunkenness. And this first-time spectator was no different. 

Having only lived in Boston for a little over two months now, I felt it was my duty as a new resident to check out what goes on during Marathon Monday that they don’t televise. Thanks to a tip from the Tweeter (I owe you one @BostonTweet), I decided to start my day at the American Craft bar, which was on the marathon route and, more importantly, was opening up its beer garden at 10 a.m.

Feeling a bit sheepish (and dangerously close to a lush…well, more lush-ish than usual), I had reservations as I stepped off the train. I mean, what would people think of me as I ordered booze that was not the universal before-noon acceptable drink of Bloody Mary?

But that feeling quickly melted away as I realized I had absolutely nothing to worry about. As soon as I sat down at a prime spot (the early bird catches the worm in the bottom of the tequila bottle it seems) and ordered a screwdriver (hey, at least it has orange juice in it, I figured), groups of others quickly arrived and sat all around me, ordering everything from beer to shots of whiskey.

They say New Yorkers will come to opening of an envelope. If I’ve learned anything during my relatively short time here in Boston, it’s that Bostonians will make a drinking game out of it.

And so, there we sat, when suddenly a cheer erupted from somewhere, gradually making its way down the street to us. The first of the wheelchair division was making its way toward us.

Now, I’m not usually one for being sentimental. But watching everyone stop what they were doing, whether they were in the beer garden or just walking down the sidewalk, to cheer them on, made me feel, well, downright sentimental(granted, that feeling could have also been related to the second screwdriver).

By my third screwdriver, the first of the elite men’s division was passing us by and by this time, throngs of people were making their way to the sidelines. The cheering never stopped.

Realizing that if I continued drinking the way I was, I’d be lucky to be awake past noon, I paid my bill and made my way closer to the action. By this time, the sidelines were packed with people, everyone from families to the group of 20-somethings who were not-so-discreetly carrying around red Dixie cups filled with “juice.”

The sense of excitement, regardless of your soberness level, was palpable. Being the country bumpkin that I am, I had never experienced anything like this before (unless you count the time my husband and I accidentally stumbled into a re-enactment of the Alamo in San Antonio…like literally were walking down the street with the period dressed actors until we realized what was going on).

Hearing the encouraging cheers (even the drunken, slurred ones) and seeing the city come together like that was truly inspiring.

In fact, as I rode the train home (which was an adventure in and of itself…by my count, three drunks almost got run over), I started to think how much I really wanted to be a part of this great event, more than just getting my buzz on and using it as an excuse to daydrink. To think that there’s so many people out there that aspire to complete this Herculean task, sacrificing and training for months, made me want to be among their ranks next year. Seeing the entire crowded subway car cheer when a runner who completed the marathon got on only fueled my new resolve.

But then, luckily, I went home, took a nap, sobered up and decided eh, maybe in 2013…or 2014. 2015 even. Or maybe to celebrate my 50th birthday or something…

Besides, those screwdrivers aren’t going to drink themselves next year.

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Waiting for the other shoe to drop

Posted on March 21, 2011 | 3 comments

My husband generally gets home from work every day at around 7 p.m. (note the “generally” and “around”). However, by 7:03 p.m. every day, I am convinced he was mugged. Or had an aneurysm. Or got hit by a car and is lying in a ditch somewhere. Or was a victim of a sadistic serial killer named Meat Claw.

Or actually finally did meet Keira Knightley, who agreed to run off with him to Aruba (which, per our informal pre-nup, is permissible… by the same token, Ryan Reynolds, if you happen to be reading this, my husband is completely OK with us running off to Puerto Rico together… just throwing that out there, buddy).

I haven’t always been this way (the crazed, worried wife, not the crazed, Ryan Reynolds stalker… the latter has been going on for years).

In fact, this constant worrying has only been going on for about a month, which not-so-coincidentally, is how long we’ve been in Boston.

But it’s not for the reason you think.

I love it here. Every day is, in the words of the common vernacular, a wicked awesome adventure. I find myself constantly getting inspired in terms of my writing and photography, and I’ve finally achieved my dream of becoming a syndicated columnist (granted, writing for one newspaper is a pretty broad definition of the term “syndicated,” but I’ll take what I can get). I also now have my own website, something else I’ve always wanted to do.

My husband loves it here possibly even more and his new job working at the Boston Globe. He’s working fewer hours, too, which means we have more time as a couple to explore the city (and stalk Boston-bred celebrities like Mark Wahlberg).

And we are now finally financially secure enough that we don’t have to live paycheck to paycheck anymore, a lifestyle we’ve been accustom to since our days as pimply-faced teenagers working the fryer.

We just found a perfect apartment, located in a great neighborhood, right by a park with a river running through it (complete with three bedrooms, huge kitchen, two porches and a driveway, all of which is usually downright impossible to find in our price range in a big city).

And to top it all off, I’ve been losing weight without even trying, mostly thanks to the fact I walk everywhere since I’m terrified of attempting to drive here.

We’ve never been happier. Even our freaking dog seems happier.

Hate me yet? I know! I totally would, too!

It’s just all too much. All too good to be true.

Which is why I am constantly worried something bad is going to happen. I mean, the other shoe has to drop soon, right? No one gets everything they’ve ever wanted, do they? Maybe even a better question is, do we truly deserve all this good fortune that has befallen us?

Oh sure, we’re good people. We adopt rescued animals, are above-average tippers and recycle if given the chance (and by “if given the chance” I mean if a recycling bin is in my direct walking path at the very moment I finish my soda).

But we’re by no means saints. When asked at the gas station if I’d like to donate a dollar to help one-legged orphans with lupus in Kurdistan, I usually decline. I judge people who wear fanny packs. And the two times I actually remembered to bring our cloth grocery bags doesn’t mean much when you think of the 7,843 times I forgot and just went with plastic.

And so, I sit here waiting for some disaster to happen, like getting burglarized by a shoe thief.

But hopefully, after awhile, when my husband never does get mauled by a rabid pit bull, or I never end up spontaneously going blind, I’ll learn to just enjoy our new life and realize it’s a waste of time worrying about things I can’t control.

Until then, however, I’m going to try to be a better person (like, for instance, one that doesn’t take a penny with no intention of ever leaving a penny). You know, just to try and balance the karmic scales.

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My Wicked Awesome Celebrity Sighting

Posted on March 12, 2011 | 1 comment

I’ll never forget my first brush with fame. I was just a mere girl of 16 or so, hanging out with my bestie at the hottest restaurant in town, Bob Evans (their biscuits and gravy were considered a culinary masterpiece by hungover patrons throughout the Mid-west). Our small town had just finished putting on the annual Country Concert, where actual famous musicians would schlep on out to the boonies to play a three-day outdoor festival for us sunburned and beer-chuggin’ small-town folk.

When low and behold, we looked over to our left and saw no other than Lynyrd Skynyrd sitting mere feet from us (at least one of who was an actual original member).

Naturally, we did what any two 16-year-old girls would do in our situation. We giggled incessantly and kept randomly yelling out “Free Bird!”

My next big celebrity sighting was actually as a reporter in Texas. Three Days Grace had come to town to play a show and I was the lucky one picked to interview the band. Naturally, I did what any 26-year-old professional would do. I giggled incessantly and kept randomly blurting out “Oh my God, you’re hot.”

But none of that compares to today, when I had my first Boston celebrity sighting. There I was, just walking down the street with my husband, deep in discussion over what season of Buffy was the best (it was season three, jackass, and you know it), when Mel, the Mel, that Mel, the one and only fanbase from “Flight of the Conchords” passed us.

Naturally, I did what any almost 30-year-old cool, urban chick would do. I turned to my husband and incessantly stammered things like “Babe! Was that? It was, wasn’t it!?! Holy crap! That’s what’s-her-face from that show with the bird title! Oh man, what was her name? Valerie? Susan? Oh my god, this is so awesome! Julia? Penelope? Can you believe this? Man, I love that show! MEL! That was her name!”

Sadly, by the time I got my wits about me, Kristen Schaal (thank you, Google) was gone. I briefly contemplated running down the street yelling out “Mel!” in the hopes she’d stop and I could catch up and snap a photo with her (hello, most awesome Facebook profile pix ever). But my husband wrestled me to the ground and I was wearing my high-heeled boots that numb three-fourths of my toes anyway, so I reluctantly let her be.

But still, it was pretty awesome. And just another reason why I love Boston.

Of course, even with this newest sighting, I still can’t compete with my above-mentioned best friend, who at age 18 smoked a bong with Tracy Morgan.

But there’s still hope. I mean, this is Boston. Who knows who I’ll run into next?

(Prepare yourself, Affleck…and bring your bong).

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Road trippin’

Posted on February 24, 2011 | 4 comments

They say a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Ours started with an overstuffed Hyundai Accent, two huge tubs o’ coffee, an overly stimulated and highly neurotic dog, and a giant snowstorm that stretched from Texas to New England (which coincidentally was exactly where we were headed).

Schnookum Bear and I were headed to our new life in Boston with a bang.

Now, I’ve always loved road trips. From Ohio to North Carolina to see my aunt as a kid. From Ohio to Florida on spring break. From Texas to Kansas to visit in-laws.

But South Texas to Boston? That was the motherload.

(Illustration by Julie Zavala)

Three days. 2,000 miles. 14 states. 57 potty breaks (thanks to my husband’s freakishly small bladder, which I estimate to be about the size of a baby grasshopper). 325,000 calories worth of fast food. 16 “my life just flashed before my eyes” moments. And one souvenir “Welcome to Fabulous Alabama” t-shirt (only $4.99 with purchase of 16 oz. Slurpee).

And BOOM. There was the Boston skyline.

For all the gory details about our road trip to Boston, check out my latest column here.

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