Grownup Kitchen

What’s more, now that my neighbor from hell is no more, my home is quiet. Like, really quiet. Like, the first couple nights I kept whispering to my husband because the atmosphere was so library-like.

It’s also got this wall of windows and while we face another building, we also have a partial view of the Hudson River! Enough to see boats floating by from my bed and my dining room table. In the old apartment, our one living room window faced an alley and a pack of pigeons so menacing that we never opened it. The natural light that I now have in any room of my home brightens my day, in every sense of the word.

I thought I was miserable in the old apartment, but I didn’t realize just how bad it was until I moved on up to my fancypants new building. The same can be said for how much STUFF we had … the paring down of the crap has been monumental, and the two of us now fit nicely in a NYC one-bedroom apartment. With room to grow …

Our view (OK, maybe not quite …)

This is the plight of many a New Yorker. You’re trying to enjoy a little slice of serenity in your Manhattan-sized apartment, but all you can concentrate on is your upstairs neighbor inexplicably stomping across the floor at 10 o’clock at night on a Wednesday.

My particular neighbor, a crazy old kook with three dogs and a record player with, evidently, no volume controls, is literally driving me insane. Things first got real two years ago when John and I were stuck in the house during a massive snowstorm and the CUN (crazy upstairs neighbor) decided to stage a dance party for one with music blasting so loud that we could barely hear each other to argue.

That’s right, the CUN made us so nuts that we turned on each other. We tried asking her to turn it down, while getting a peek at her hoarding tendencies and décor from several decades ago. Shocker. Of course, the volume shot right back up moments later and we suited up for a walk in the blizzard.

And that, dear readers, is what makes me so crazy about my living situation. I’m held positively hostage by whatever this loony tune decides she feels like doing in her crazy pants day.

I’ve gone relatively nuts myself in the process, myself. When she’s at her noisiest, I literally follow the sounds across my ceiling with a broom and pound on the ceiling in frustration. It’s not going to change anything, but I’ll be damned if I don’t let her know that A) I can HEAR her, and B) I’ll do everything I can to annoy her back.

On top of her music playing, stomping and HAMMERING THINGS INTO THE FLOOR  (seriously), she also breaks a cardinal rule of dog ownership and barely takes her three miserable little pricks out of the apartment for walks.

Now, you all know how much I love dogs and I rarely talk about them this way. But I’m gonna go ahead and throw out the h-word again when it comes up to my four-legged neighbors. I hate these dogs. Not that it’s their fault. I’d go crazy too if I were a Jack Russell mix left in my apartment for days on end! I can’t imagine how they do their business up there. And I’d rather not.

I can hear every single thing these pathetic creatures do just above my ceiling. I can hear them run back and forth (and back and forth, and back and forth, AND BACK AND FORTH) on a daily basis, barking their little guts out, and even spilling their kibble. This damn ceiling is like a microphone.

Oh, but if it only ended there. With the exception of a lovely man and his family (and their enormous, sweet as pie Pitbull) and one other nice lady, most of our our neighbors are just as disrespectful and rude. The walls in our apartment are as paper thin as the ceiling, so when these idiots decide to stage debates and parties IN THE HALLWAY, I get treated to everything they say—and scream.

If I wasn’t a crazy lady before, pounding the ceiling with my broom, I’m practically certifiable when their hallway antics stretch into the night. I’ve been known to shout from my bed, “People are sleeping!” or the more desperate, “PLEASE be quiet!” If this happens before bedtime, I’ll turn up the volume on the TV so high that poor John runs screaming for the apartment. I’m trying (in vain, obvs) to teach these idiots that if they can hear ME, I can hear THEM. But clearly, they couldn’t care less and the volume war rages on.

Moving is not an option until our lease is up later this year, so in addition to my trusty broom, I’ve armed myself with $40 worth of serenity courtesy of Amazon.com. Yes, I even stooped to shooting range-style earmuffs to supplement the earplugs and muffle some noise for a little peace and f-ing quiet.

Who’s crazy now?

First came Hunny, who I’m sure was part bulldog. She loved nothing more that long, loud naps on the floor. This dog could snore!

Then I had Ethel, easily the snuggliest dog I’ve ever met. Between her love of snoozing on me and her penchant for playing fetch in my one-bedroom apartment (not an easy feat), I’m convinced that she was part Chocolate Lab.

Finally, I housed Baci. Who is clearly part cat. And I mean that in the best way – I’m not talking about the aloof quality of a feline … far from it. Case in point: this dog actually followed me into the bathroom once and sat at my feet while I did my business, with her back turned to me for privacy. Baci is nothing if not polite.

She also taught me a whole lot about what it means to foster a dog, for any amount of time. The first two, Hunny and Ethel, were exceptionally adaptable. Both made themselves at home in my apartment literally within minutes, plopping down for a nap and a cuddle.

Baci was a slightly different story.

Photo by Jennifer Bristol

Full of pep and puppy energy, she had lots to do the first night that Josh dropped her off. She rubbed her body across each piece of furniture in my living room, paced between the dining area and thekitchen, and sniffed every corner of my rug. After a housing a 12-inch braided Bully Stick in the short time before Josh left, I didn’t have much left at my disposal to calm her down.

A quick run-through of her behaviors (Baci was great at “sit” and “shake” and was working on her “down”) resulted in nothing but excitement.

Oh my gosh, we’re SITTING! Now we’re throwing ourselves DOWN on the floor. Ooh, and speak. I can SPEAK! Josh doesn’t like it when I speak but I can show you, new foster person. Listen to me SPEAK!

Maybe this wasn’t the best time to go through Baci’s tricks. I tried giving her a belly rub, always a favorite of the other two fosters, but that, too, was incredibly exciting for this one. Baci wiggled her way across my floor, rubbing her head (and probably her irritated eyes, poor girl) across my legs, rolling around like a nut.

After a somewhat relaxing chew on her antler to settle things down, I put Baci to bed in her crate. When all else fails, go to sleep, right? The next morning I had a slightly more chilled-out dog on my hands. We went on an early morning walk and Baci was polite and sweet, checking in on me often and eagerly sitting at my feet for a training treat every couple of blocks. When an unexpected shower hit, she gave me that peeved puppy look.

Um, new foster person? It’s raining. Why are we outside?

I hurried us back to my walk-up, dried Baci off which a towel (no surprise: she loved it) and fed her breakfast while I ate my own.

As the next two days wore on, I saw quite a change in Baci: I watched her settle in. There was really no process like this with the last two dogs, and it was interesting to watch Baci relax and enjoy her downtime. I figured out a couple of tricks, too: petting Baci’s head made her much calmer than the belly rubs. Rubbing Baci’s floppy ears put her into a practically trance-like state, and then we could move on to a nice massage/belly-rub, with me whispering “shhh” to make it a calm activity, not an exciting one.

Worked like a charm.

Soon, I had a snoozing dog at my feet, and one who was eager for mini training sessions without getting overly excited. I discovered that she was confused about the difference between “shake” and “down.” Ever-willing to present her paw in greeting (see? Such a polite girl!), it took several repetitions for her to get that she didn’t need to shake before moving down to the floor. Her own particular version of “down” is perfectly Baci. It’s a swift drop to the floor, followed by a wiggly Army crawl. But she got it. I showered her with praise for that, and for everything she did that I liked, such as the naps and the sitting quietly with me at home!

Whenever I went into my bedroom and closed the French door behind me, Baci would wait patiently on the other side, her face (framed by a soft cone to protect her healing eyes) smushed against the glass. She sat like a statue waiting for me, happily greeting me upon my return just a couple minutes later.

When I had to bring Baci back to Josh after just a few days, I felt the familiar pang of sadness. Giving up a foster dog feels like losing a friend, no matter how happy you are that they’re moving on to a good place and a famiy to call their own

I loaded her into a cab and she tried to do her usual trick of crawling underneath my legs (again­—such a cat) to rub her back. When the cabbie gave us a sideways glance, I made Baci sit and had to correct her several more times to keep her from rubbing her head and eyes on me.

Finally, with a contented sigh, she rested that sweet, pretty head on my knees and sat quietly for the rest of the ride. I rubbed her ears and she closed her eyes.

And in that moment, I wasn’t sad at all. Quite the opposite, actually: I felt like I’d done my job as a foster mom. After being in two other foster homes before me, I helped teach Baci that new situations and new are OK. And laying quietly on the floor and taking a snooze is, too. I don’t know how a dog’s brain works any more than the next guy, but I’m pretty sure that’s a lesson that sweet Baci would take with her.

Not that she needed it—she was lucky enough to be adopted just days later. But I’ll never forget what Baci taught me about fostering a dog. As sad as it can be to say goodbye, giving an abandoned or unwanted dog a stable, happy, supportive place to live, for any length of time, is the best thing that you can do to help them.

Knowing that Hunny, Ethel (who I still miss the most!) and Baci will have warm, happy holidays in their forever homes is truly a gift. 

And I have that sweet, goofy, thinks-she’s-a-kittie Pittie to thank for it.

Dwarf by Tiffanie DiDonato with Rennie Dyball

How one woman fought for a body—and a life—she was never supposed to have.

Born with diastrophic dysplasia, a very rare form of dwarfism, Tiffanie DiDonato dreamed of living a normal life—of being able to reach the sink unassisted or even someday driving a car so she could have the independence so many of us take for granted. This courageous young woman underwent a series of radical surgeries that involved breaking bones and drilling dozens of pins into her limbs in the hope that her body would fill in the gaps. Incredibly, after years of grueling rehabilitation, Tiffanie grew an unprecendented fourteen inches, taking her from 3’8″ to 4’10.” Then, through a military networking site, the unexpected happened; Tiffanie met her future husband.
A military daughter and now a marine’s wife, Tiffanie didn’t struggle alone, and Dwarf is a moving and at times funny testament to both her own courage and to her loving parents, who refused to let her settle.

Saturday’s game was a huge emotional victory for an awesome group of players and for the Penn State community at large, and nothing would keep J and I away from Beaver Stadium to see it in person. Not even the fact that we had barely any time to spend in Happy Valley or the fact that it was -247 degrees.

OK, I exaggerate, but it was damn chilly. Ever sit in an enormous stadium in 30-degree weather with 20 mile/hour winds? It’s brutal. Worse than trekking to class across Lot 80 back in the late 90s (fellow Penn Staters know what I’m talking about!)

Still, what a way to end the season. I’m so proud of those guys for staying, for playing, and for giving Nittany Nation something to cheer for after a year of horrific news. I’ll never forget the way we bookended the season with our favorite team. Welcoming the players and B.O’B off the bus for that first game was easily the loudest experience of my life. Sure, the “WE ARE” chant in the 100,000+ seat stadium is impressive, but a few thousand people packed into a small space cheering their hearts out for the players who stayed … I’m sure I permanently damaged my hearing being there.

Again, it was worth it.

Congrats to the 2012 Nittany Lions (you bunch of f*ckers) for one hell of a season. You make your Penn State family proud.

Photo by Sang Lee

Hear me out. On the quiet car, cell phone use and any loud talking are strictly prohibited. Those of us who frequent the quiet car are well-versed in self-policing … we’ll call out a quiet car rule-breaker in a heartbeat if there’s no conductor to be found.

Why can’t we institute quiet “cars” elsewhere in life? On planes? Subways and buses? In movie theaters? Nothing would make me happier than getting to watch a new release on the big screen without having to hear idiot strangers provide their unsolicited commentary.

I’m headed home now after a whirlwind week that first took me to Dallas for work. Dallas was not what I expected at all. I realize it’s a metropolitan city, but I still thought (hoped!) that I’d see more cowboy hats and Texan touches.

But most of all, I wanted to see some Texas Longhorns.

The elusive Texas Longhorn

As a big PBR fan, I’ve seen my share of bucking bulls on TV and even up close, but never the elusive longhorn. There’s something fascinating about these guys with baseball bats sticking out from either side of their head. How do they balance? Don’t they get tired from holding those things up? I didn’t get the chance to ask one in my travels. Not even at the Texas State Fair, where you’d think they’d hang out.

Still, I managed to have a grand old time. I recruited my friend Sang to join me and boy was he the right choice. We both set out to cram the most fun possible into a short time frame, which proved to be a challenge upon our arrival at the massive fairgrounds.

As we wandered in, taking in the exceptional people-watching, midway rides, livestock barns and fried food cornucopias, Sang and I realized we needed an agenda.

He summed it up perfectly: “It’s like we came to Disney World without a plan!” So we decided to start out at the World of Beers booth and take things from there with a drink in hand. When the woman behind the bar refused both our credit cards and cash, we learned that the currency of the state fair is actually coupons.

At $10 for 20 coupons, I figured we’d buy a few sheets and be on our way. We made a beeline for the coupon barn.

Me: What do you think we should get? 40? 60?

Sang: We’ll take 120!

And off we went. After a lively time at the pig races, Sang and I sampled delicacies you can only find at a state fair below the Mason-Dixon: Frito Pie (fritos, chili and cheese whiz), fried jambalaya, fried peanut butter, jelly and banana sandwiches, and fried butter.

Yep, you read that right: We ate Fried. Butter. Honey Boo Boo would be so proud.

Then, in a demonstration of our vast intelligence, Sang and I set out for the midway to really test our stomachs.

So much for the rides, then food agenda.

We managed to keep down our disgusting dinner on the roller coaster, the drop tower, and one of those sickening spinny ride where they blast top 40 tunes and blind you with smoke.

The verdict on the Texas State Fair? An absolute blast for two iron-stomached Ambassadors of Fun.

A dear friend is getting married this weekend, so that will be lots of fun, but otherwise there’s not a whole lot of fun on the horizon. And as the self-proclaimed Ambassador of Fun, this must be amended, and soon.

As a parting note, to save this post from being a completely worthless rant, I came home from the gym last night as blah and bummed as could be when my sweet husband whisked me off to the movie theater to see Taken 2.

And it was AWESOME! If you liked the first movie, you’ll love the second. My only complaint was that it was too short. I could ask myself “how is Liam Neeson gonna get out of THIS one?” all night.

No, not on Maui, but a happy place that’s just an Amtrak ride away. On October 6, I’ll be at the PBR Philadelphia Invitational!

Those who know me best accept the fact that I have become pretty obsessed with the Professional Bull Riders. (Read my top three reasons why here!) I’ve always had at least passing interest in the sport—I think it has something to do with all the years I’ve spent horseback riding and perhaps the fact that I’ve got a little bit of redneck in my blood. (Get the Tim McGraw reference there?) But that passing interest is creeping into the realm of obsession.

I watch the broadcasts all year long. I know nearly all of the riders on the tour by name, and many of the bulls, too. I’ve even considered constructing a handmade sign for my favorite rider, Guilherme Marchi, to wave about in the stands when he rides. When I was lucky enough to meet him earlier this year, I introduced myself as his number one fan. I mean, don’t I look the part?

He agreed with me that the bulls are very scary …

A few years back, I invited my mom to join me at the PBR Madison Square Garden Invitational, an annual event held in January (read: a belated Christmas for Rennie). She begrudgingly agreed, only to find that she had an absolute blast watching the cowboys try to hang on to those rank bulls for 8 seconds at a time. We had so much fun that PBR in NYC has become our annual tradition.

The bulls are back in town!

But once a year is no longer enough for me.

So I invited my good friend Tiners to come with me this year to the Philly event. She happily agreed, more for the prospect of a night out together than anything. This was proven by the fact that, weeks after accepting the invite, she asked me, “so what is the PBR anyway?”

Get ready to get converted, Tiners. I am already planning my outfit and perhaps that sign for Guilherme, too. Cowboy up!

PBR Pyro!

But this time is poised to be different.

After a blissful, sunny week in Dewey Beach, Delaware, I felt the post-fun funk creeping in. So I decided to throw myself into organizing and cleaning up around in the house to distract myelf. I attacked a mountain of junk mail, balanced my check book and cleaned out my purse, and I’m gearing up to fold a massive pile of laundry next. Maybe if I begin the work week totally and completely organized, I can continue crossing off items that never leave my to-do list and bypass the hangover this time around.

Sounds much better than wallowing in the fact that I’m no longer reading my Kindle a few yards from the crashing surf, right?

But before I go back to my weird whirlwind o’ organizing, I’ll share the single photo taken of me in Delaware. (Sometimes the trips where you take zero photos are the best ones because you’re too busy having fun to be bothered.)

This picture was taken aboard the Haunted Mansion, easily my favorite place in the neighboring town of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. This spooky ride is a boardwalk institution and an indelible part of my childhood memories. It was easily the scariest thing I’d ever experienced as a kid, so now, as a grown woman, I turn into a whimpering, wussy 8-year-old when I ride it.

The Mansion is the most popular attraction at Funland, a family-run, thoroughly charming amusement park. This year, there was a new scare on the ride, and I jumped with such force that I pulled a muscle in my ribcage. True story. My association with the childhood fear I felt on this ride is so strong that still I scream and carry on every time I’m on it, clutching my husband (or whoever’s riding with me). That person, in turn, laughs at me through the entire ride. Fun for all!

I was trying to get her to sit and she was confused and made a low, grumbling sound in her throat. Intellectually, I knew it wasn’t a growl, but with all the bad press that this breed gets, I couldn’t help but be a little nervous about the strange, musclebound 55-lb. dog in my living room.

After gathering my composure, I came back out, abandoned the sitting lesson for the night, and settled in for a night of The Bachelorette with the dog at my feet. We checked each other out on occasion, she slept in her crate later that night, and I wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

Today, I’ve learned what that grumble means (that she’s tired and sighing like we do while stretching) along with all her other little vocal cues and quirks.

Her little grunting piggy noise comes out when she’s enjoying her food, her snore with her eyes open means she’s about to fall asleep hard, and her throaty sighs come when she’s rolling on her back in the grass at Riverside Park. In the time she’s been with me, I’ve worked with her on not only sitting, but walking politely on leash, waiting for me at the top of the stairs before we leave for a walk, and calmly passing other dogs who she sometimes gets over-excited about meeting. I feel like a proud mama watching her perfect her good manners.

I’ve had so much fun with Hunny and truly learned what all the fuss is about with having a dog. There’s nothing like a contented pup snoring at your feet, or a wiggly excited one who greets you when you come home after a long day at work—or even a 5-minute errand across the street.

I wrote up a personal ad for Hunny on Peoplepets.com in the hopes of getting her adopted and posted far more pictures than I’m sure my Facebook friends appreciate. With my husband away for work these past couple weeks, I spent most of my free time with sweet Hunny. She’s made me laugh every day she’s been here, and now, she’s making me cry.

Just about 24 hours from this moment, Hunny is going to a new foster and hopefully, a forever home soon after that. It’s something that’s got to happen—I’ve got trips coming up and my husband isn’t too keen on sharing our NYC-sized apartment with a dog (though he has promised me I can get one when we move into a house someday). And I know that her new foster “mom” will be wonderful and love her like I do, but I can’t help but feel a bit broken-hearted over this whole thing.

Coming home just won’t be the same without this sweet wiggle-butt greeting me. And when I go running in Riverside Park, I’ll never forget the sheer joy on Hunny’s face when she discovered rolling around in the grass.

When my new friends Jenn and Josh from The Bully Project come to get her tomorrow, I’ll do my best to hold back the tears until they leave. But when they do, it’s gonna be bad—a real, long ugly cry. Jenn did say tonight that if it weren’t for me fostering Hunny, they wouldn’t have been able to take her from the shelter (Hunny needed a foster home without other dogs until she got over her kennel cough). So I do feel good that I helped Hunny toward a new forever family and a new life.

But tomorrow is going to be a really sad day.