Bah Humbug!

Christmas Miracles

I start every post with some variation of "I know it's been awhile...," so I'm going to skip the intro and just dive into it. 'Tis the season of yule (whatever that means) so I thought I'd share a magical memory from Christmases past - Julie Guptill style.

I'm not sure how old I was exactly, my guess is around 11 or 12, when my great-aunt invited me to go with her church's youth group to visit a local nursing home to sing Christmas carols, decorate cookies and other such merriment. I dressed in my finest Christmas sweater and waited for her to pick me up. We pulled up to the nursing home and let ourselves in the front entrance. As soon as I stepped in the door, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Not only was it 115 degrees in the cramped common room, where the residents were gathered, but the smell was too pungent for words. Now, I'm not just talking about the "nursing home" smell. (You know what smell I'm talking about.) That, I think, I could have handled. After all, my mother and grandfather have both worked in a nursing home for years, so I've experienced the run-of-the-mill old people odor and knew what to expect. But, apparently this particular nursing home was a "smoking friendly" establishment - which seems counter-intuitive to me. The heavy, heavy smell of stale cigarettes, coupled with nursing home stench of old people, urine and outdated meds was stomach churning. Suddenly, my face felt flush and I had to get out of my heavy sweater. I pulled it over my head, while humming along with the other children to "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." My aunt sang along as well, but narrowed her eyes at me, watching the rosy red drain from my cheeks before her very eyes. I looked around the room and saw an out - the common room linked to the kitchen, where I could see a back door to the outside. I started to inch my way towards the exit, but just as I reached the perimeter of the room, knew I wasn't going to make it.

I whipped around, lunged for a nearby rubbish barrel and threw up. The carolers stopped singing and all turned to see what all the commotion was about. Out of the corner of my eye, as I lurched over the barrel, I could see the crowd cringe. The minute I straightened up, my aunt led me back to the car and drove me back to my house. We hadn't even reached the refrain; Rudolph didn't even get the chance to save the day.

When my aunt pulled up to the curb, I got out, mumbled an apology and headed up the porch steps. My mother opened the door and my aunt gave a quick honk before she pulled away, heading back to the church group. "Why are you home so --- oh, my God! Why do you smell so bad? You smell like smoke...and throw up." I don't think I had ever been so happy to be home, and to be headed toward the shower.

Of all my holiday memories involving vomit (there are MANY more), this one might be my favorite. So, with that - a Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a goodnight.

Tupperware Party

Yes, I know - it's been awhile. Let's not lament.

Those of you who know me (uh, all of you) probably know that Syd the Pug has been having some lady-parts "issues" lately. For the past few months, she's been dealing with reoccurring UTIs and kidney infections. Our vet Dr. C (who loves Syd to the point of uncomfortable awkwardness; picture me sitting in the waiting room with sick puppy on my lap, frozen in place as this woman gets on all fours to be eye level with the dog - putting her super close to my lady-parts - giving wet kisses & telling Syd how much she loves her...weird.) has tried different antibiotics, pain killers and diets. There's been labs, tests and threats of surgery.

Needless to say, there have been a lot of trips to the vet's office. Each time, they want me to bring a urine sample. The first time they put in this request, I asked them if they had any thoughts on the best way to make the "collection." The veterinary assistant raised her eyebrows, riddled her face with judgment because apparently any good dog mama knows this answer innately, and said, "Just do your best." Hmmmm.

Attempt one: I dug through my complete collection of Tupperware to find a suitable pee-collecting container. Remember, the fire wiped out my entire kitchen, so it's not like I've amassed a huge selection. I basically have my "nice" sealable plastic containers (You know what I mean. Everyone has "nice" Tupperware.) and a stray, washed out sour cream container or two. Not wanting to sacrifice my prized Tupperware, I grabbed a sour cream container and leashed Syd up.

Now, as if my neighbors don't think I'm strange as it is, I'm literally walking on Syd's heels in an attempt to collect her pee. Great. As soon as I recognize the stance, I scoot down with the container for our first attempt. It quickly becomes clear that I've chosen the wrong vessel. Syd squats one millimeter from the grass; no way I squeeze a sour cream container under there. I manage to catch a splash in the cup, but mostly got dog pee all over myself.

Attempt two, a few weeks later: Ok, having learned my lesson, I grab a nice piece of Tupperware. It was definitely easier than the sour cream, but it killed me to give up the high-end container. At least her pee was sealed-in fresh. When I arrive at the vet with the container, even Dr. C stifles a laugh.

Attempt three: We're averaging a vet trip every few weeks, and it's just not sustainable to keep collecting with my personal Tupperware collection. So, on the way home from work - pre-pee - I stop at Walmart and head straight to the Tupperware aisle. It hits me, as I'm carefully eyeing each option, that when normal people go plastic-container shopping, they're thinking about their brown bag lunch habits or leftover storage needs. The normal uses for said containers. I'm scanning the shelves for the most shallow container available so I can most effectively collect dog pee. This is my life.

I settle on a Ziploc four-pack of snack size containers and head home. I lower the container - SUCCESS! The best $3 I ever spent! (What's $3, when our June vet bills were $500+)

Update: Syd ended a two-week round of antibiotics & started a new prescription diet for a high PH balance & crystals in the pee. She seems to be doing well so far...fingers crossed. If you're thinking of cleaning out the cupboards and looking to unload shallow plastic containers, you know who to call.

Big Boobs/Heavy Hair

I'm convinced that every family - everywhere & without fail - falls on the "crazy" spectrum in one way or another. Probably no surprise to my loyal Bloggity Blog readers (all "handful" of you), my family's needle points pretty high on the crazy meter (I'm a product of my environment, after all.) Before all you aunties & uncles out there get angry, wait for it...I wouldn't want it any other way. Don't get me wrong; there are moments when I want to throttle someone in my direct blood line, but for the most part I love the loud, chaotic, stubborn, funny, creative crew that is my family.

Let's rewind the tape to yesterday's Easter dinner at my Aunt Elaine's house. Sitting between my two sisters at the kids' table (yes, that's right), I was in perfect earshot of the big table (not an easy fete with my bad ear). At the grown-up table sat my parents, Paula & Walter, my Aunt Elaine & Uncle Brian, his parents, Joe & Lil, and his brother, Mark, who brought his own salt shaker. Don't ask. At one point during the meal (which could be its own Blog post, by the way - SOOOO good, words can't describe. Aunt Elaine is a culinary goddess. And props to Paula's potatoes.), Lil looked over at the three Guptill girls, and commented on my sister Lindsey's long hair. Hope you can follow this; I think its best to really tell is as it happened:

Lil (to no one in particular): Oh, my. Look at how long her hair is! Does she get headaches?

[Julie exchanges a look of bewilderment with sister Jen.]

Paula: Um, Linds sometimes gets headaches, I guess.

Lil: Yes, well they say long hair is so heavy. Isn't it heavy, dear?

[Linds mumbles "No," avoids eye contact]

Lil: Well, when I was in school there was a girl who had such long hair that one day she whipped it around when she was standing at the top of the staircase, and it was heavy, she toppled right over and fell down the stairs.

[Julie can't stifle her laughter at this ridiculous claim.]

Paula: It's kinda like when they say people with big boobs have lower back problems.

Jen & Julie together, in sync: WHAT?

Julie: How is that a proper analogy?

[Room bursts out in laughter; No one really understands the conversation that just happened.]

We rounded out the meal like this:

Paula: What's [Tim's girlfriend] Tara doing today?

Brian: She's celebrating Greek Easter...

Lil: PIZZA?? For Easter???

Brian: No, Ma. G-R-E-E-K E-A-S-T-E-R.

Lil: Oh. Pass the cantaloupe, please.

Doggie Dealings

It's been awhile (again), but I'm here now. And, good news - T bought me a new camera for my birthday, so hopefully Bloggity Blog will get plenty more photo postings.

So, one of many things I've been dealing with during my blogging absence has been the one and only Ms. Syd. Now, I love her dearly, but what a high maintenance pup. We've had trips to the vet (first an upset stomach, then a bladder infection), prescriptions (did you know you can fill pet prescriptions at CVS?) and special diets (boiled hamburger is so unappetizing). She's on the mend, but the last few weeks reminded me of an "incident" she had back in 2008.

It was around Halloween and I picked up a bag of candy corn for a (human) treat. I made sure to put it up nice & high, and then didn't give it another thought. After a long day at work, I climbed the three flights of stairs to my tiny (and, as we would later fine out, illegal) apartment, ready to pour myself a glass of wine and relax. I swung open the door, and two things struck me. First, Syd, who usually greets me at the door with jumping, wagging excitement, didn't budge from her perch on the couch. Second, there was an "off" smell permeating the apartment. As I surveyed the room, my eyes fell to the empty candy corn bag on the floor. Crap. Then I looked at Syd's bed and saw orange throw-up...everywhere. And it was on the floor. And the couch. And on the pillows, cushions and blankets. And Syd just sat in the middle of it all, looking up at me with those big, brown eyes.

I attached the leash on her harness and headed outside with her. At first, she seemed fine - running around, sniffing anything and everything, pretty much standard fare for a dog. Then, as we rounded the corner of our block, Syd made a beeline for our neighbor's front lawn and, without warning, started projectile vomiting. A LOT. It was like she was demonically possessed. It kept coming for at least five or six minutes, and when she was finished, she walked sideways toward me - a little woozy. I thought it was best to bring her upstairs to the apartment, but she was too tired and plopped down on the sidewalk and didn't want to budge. Nervously, I glanced back at the pile of sugary throw-up on the front lawn next door and knew I needed to do something. So, I called the animal hospital.

"Hi, I have a very naughty pug who managed to eat an entire bag of candy corn. She just threw up more than I would have guessed possible for a dog her size, and she's now laying on the sidewalk and refuses to move. What do I do?"

"Is she breathing o.k.?"

"Um, seems it. Her tongues is hanging out of her mouth with an orange tint to it, but I think it's the candy. She seems really out of it though."

"Well, ma'am, if you ate an entire bag of candy corn, you'd probably throw it all up, too. And then I bet you wouldn't feel so hot either."

"True."

"Just keep an eye on her. Sounds like she got it all up though, so she should be fine."

"Hummmph. Makes sense. Thanks?"

"No problem. Happy Halloween."

Doh!

While my car is in the shop this week, literally having more than $1,000 of work done, I've had my Dad's (crappy-ish) car all week. This morning, when I was walking Syd, I started the car (since I forgot my garage opener in my own car and have had to park outside all week. The horror!) to warm up. I came back down to go to work (I was early because I needed to get gas) only to find that I locked the keys in the car, while it was running. I ran upstairs, crying to Tom because it's already been an awful week and this is just the icing on the cake, and then called AAA. Just before we left, Tom was getting Syd's food ready, and said: "Jules, why is there mint chocolate chip ice cream in the fridge? How come it's not in the freezer?" Well, because I'm a space cadet, apparently. Wonderful. Juuuuust wonderful.

Gray Tooth

Sorry for the lapse in posting; I've been on deadline at work, so all my creative juices have been sucked up into writing that matters. But, no fear - here I am, equipped with grammatical skill and literary talent. Ok, not so much. Here goes, anyway...

Miss Sydney and I were having some Mommy & Me time tonight, and while we were wrestling on the carpet, I tricked her with one of my best Steve Austin moves (He's a wrestler, right?). Admittedly, Syd's a dog, and not always the smartest of dogs at that, but still I was impressed with myself. When I was laying on my back, I tucked my knees to my chest and pulled her on to the bottom of my feet, and then shot her straight up into the air. She freaked and her spaghetti legs went in four different directions. Fair to say I won that round. But the real gem behind the one-on-one was that it brought back a funny memory of me & my sister Lindsey.

When she was a toddler, I pulled the same move with her (only under the guise of playing, not wrestling). We were on the couch with my mother, and I pulled her up on my feet, holding her hands, to play "airplane." She was laughing and having fun until...

My mom, jokingly (I think) smacked my leg because it was dipping into her line of vision as she sat beside us reading a book. It startled me more than anything, but it was enough to knock Lindsey off course and she came flying down. Her front teeth gnashed right into my knee cap; it was a bloody mess. She started wailing, and my mom brought her into the kitchen where she put a towel under cold water and soothed her mouth. It took awhile for it to stop bleeding, but eventually it did, and after an ice pop bribe, she calmed down. (My knee was pretty sore, but no one really cared about that. Hummph.)

The next day though, when Linds woke up, her front tooth was a dark gray, almost black. Turns out, the blood had actually dripped into the tooth cavity, and dried. It wasn't harmful to the tooth at all, and the dentist said that she was too young for them to pull it. Eventually it would fall out like any other baby tooth and her brand new adult tooth would be whiter than my Caucasian behind. But, that would be years away - and so, even though the gray lightened up over time - by the time she got to Preschool, she looked like a Hillbilly baby, with one gray front tooth. Of course I felt badly about the whole thing, but it was an accident, after all, so I might as well enjoy the humor in it, right? The tooth did indeed fall out as it was supposed to, the Toothfairy came and she got the same dollar under her pillow that she would have gotten from a white tooth. No harm, no foul, I say.

Get on the Bus

On this lovely Valentine's Day, I should be posting some romantic mishap or V-Day blunder. But, alas, I actually don't have many. I've had a lifetime of uneventful Valentine's Days, for better or worse. The best was a dinner (Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's), and a movie (The Wedding Singer). I'm not being facetious - it really was the best one. The worst was a babysitting event gone awry, with the most foul-smelling throw-up. Ever. But I don't think I have the stomach for it.

So, sorry Cupid. I'm posting in a different direction today. When I was in the sixth grade, my friend Katie and I convinced our mothers that we were old enough & responsible enough to take the shuttle from the North Shore Mall (where we had been dropped off) to the Liberty Tree Mall (where we were to be picked up). For those of you unlucky enough not to be born-and-bred North Shorers, the two malls are five minutes apart. And back in the day, the shuttle was a bright-purple colored, small bus that said "Mall Shuttle" right on it. We had never actually seen it, but, hey, how difficult could it be?

So, after we were done at Mall #1 (Don't ask WHY we needed two malls in one day), we went outside and waited near the bus stop, right outside Johnny Rockets. It pulled up, we dropped change in the change-spot and found two seats. We were thrilled. Oh, the independence! Our enthusiasm soon faded, as we started heading in the opposite direction from where we were supposed to go. Panicked, we watched as the bus drove through Peabody, Salem...and into Lynn. Now, as a proud Lynnite, I have nothing against the city. But we were headed into the part of Lynn everyone knows about, but we had never seen.

The bus pulled up downtown, and everyone got off, so we followed suit. We stood there, terrified. And every shady character around could smell it on us. "What do we do?" said Katie. "I have no idea, but we've got to get out of here. We'll have to take the next bus," I said. "But how do we know which one to take?" Hmmm. Good question. I looked around and saw dirty, toothless men all around us. Most of them smelled like cheap Whiskey and piss, to be honest. Across the street stood two women. Now, EVEN THEN, I recognized them to be working women. But, tough times call for...hookers, I guess.

I told Katie to wait there, and I crossed the street, my heart beating out of my chest. "Excuse me? I need to take a bus back to the North Shore Mall. Do you know when it will be here?" She laughed. She literally laughed in my face. But then, bosoms busting out, leaned down and pulled a bus schedule out of her purse. Who would have guessed? But, then again - anyone who chooses the world's oldest profession must need to be practical on some level. I thanked her and headed back to wait for Bus 501. It came a few minutes later, we got on, and didn't breathe until we pulled into the mall parking lot. Just as we got off the bus, the real shuttle pulled up, so we hopped on. I don't think we talked to each other the whole rest of the day - we were so shook up.

Winner, Winner Chicken Dinner

So, most of you know by now, I did NOT win the Super Bowl Package trip to Miami. Guess I'll have to work on my tan another time. Nonetheless, I've been on an impressive winning streak lately and it's not the first time.

The first significant thing I can remember winning was a car care package at my junior prom. I don't think I had a car yet, but I hugged that bottle of wax like it was a gold trophy. Yes, I know what you're thinking - not very significant. But the thrill of having my name called out in the raffle was enough of a prize for me. Since then, I've won a sack of stuff over the years: an Amanda Bynes DVD (I don't even remember the name the movie); $700 in a 50/50 Raffle; $100 worth of organic dog food; a ski package from Nashoba Valley; four passes to the Harry Potter exhibit; a bottle of raspberry-flavored vodka; court-side Celtics tickets; behind-the-plate Red Sox tickets; third-base Red Sox tickets; a vodka gift basket; a hair-care gift basket; a North Shore golf gift certificate; a Dunkin Donuts gift certificate; a $25 gift card to Target; a $30 gift card to Best Buy; and, most recently, $1500 at Foxwoods!

I'm sure there are prizes that I'm forgetting. But, overall, I have pretty good luck! Admittedly, I also have some of the worst luck, as well. (Two days after winning $700 my apartment burned down. Go figure.) But, as the saying goes, guess you can't win 'em all!

*2/8/2010 Editor's Note: I just found out that I won a case of Popchips from the Blog Weight...That's it! Check it out.

Running Late

So, I know the Bloggity Blog masses are eagerly awaiting my mini-streak post, but I won't find out if the winning streak continues until tomorrow afternoon. Until then, another blast from the past: a look back at two ridiculous instances of running late. Both of these stories happened in college, during finals. You'd think I would have learned my lesson after the first time. Nope.

Freshman year, I took Spanish and, even though I had taken four years of it in high school, still sounded like the whitest Spanish-speaking person alive. The night before the final exam I stayed up studying with a group from class and, let me tell you, it wasn't sounding good. Anyway, I woke up, hit up a Communications exam in the morning and then mosied on back to the dorm for lunch before I went to Spanish. In the cafeteria, I saw one of my study-mates, and asked if she felt ready. She stared at me like I was the crazy ex-con with a hair net serving the fries that day. "Um, the exam was at 11 a.m. this morning. Where were you?"

Crap. I ran upstairs, grabbed a friend's car keys, peeled out of the dorm parking lot and screeched into a spot right outside the classroom building. I booked it inside, and burst into the classroom, where I found Senior Perez sitting at a desk, noshing on doughnut holes, grading papers. "Ah, there you are!" Hmm. He doesn't seem at all bothered. Panting, I start talking a mile a minute, "I'm so sorry! I got the times mixed up and I ran over here as fast I as I could but..." He paused, chocolate doughnut hole in hand, and told me he understood, and that I could take it right now, but I only had a few minutes because he was leaving to catch a plane to Florida for the winter. I grabbed the test, put my name on it, managed to answer three questions before my few minutes were up. I didn't know he literally meant a few minutes. I was screwed.

Crestfallen, I told him that I had only answered three questions (out of, say thirty, fifty? I don't even know). His response, "No problemo, amiga. I'll just grade you on those questions. Let me see. Right. Right. And right. 100%. Well done." For real? I'll take it.

A year later, it happened again. I had back to back exams and, although I didn't do it often during my college career, had pulled an all-nighter the night before to write a paper. It was a rainy day, and I headed to my first exam. Done and done. I got back and started to study, but decided it would serve me better if I had a nap. so I put on a t-shirt and my favorite pair of gym shorts (which were four sizes too big) and slipped under the covers, just for a few minutes. I woke up to my phone ringing, and I answered it to hear a friend from home, asking me how my exams went. "Well, I finished one, and my next one..."

Crap. Again. I looked at the clock and I was 15 minutes late. I threw the collared shirt I had on earlier (over my bright orange t-shirt), decided I didn't have enough time to change my shorts, slipped into brown loafers, and ran out the door, through the rain, into the building, and whipped open the door to the classroom. The entire class was silently working on their exams, and the teacher, who was originally from Saugus and had that North-Shore grit, looked me up and down, before saying,"Guptill. What the hell? Get into the hallway." So, like I was in second grade, I slinked into the hallway, and flinched as the door close behind him. "Guptill, you look like sh*t. What are you wearing?"

"Um. My pajamas. And a nice collared shirt and proper shoes?" He shook his head, but I detected a slight shadow of a smile. We walked back in, with thirty pair of eyes on us. I sat down, realized I hadn't grabbed anything as I left the dorm, and had to ask a neighbor for a pen. Now this was getting comical. Twenty minutes later, I was finished. But NO ONE else was done. So, I read it over. Twice. Finally, "Guptill. Bring me your paper." Yikes. As I got up with my exam, and felt thirty pair of eyes bear down again, the orange shirt began to burn a whole rght through my heart. I handed him the paper, and stood in front of him, as he held a red pen to it. After a few minutes, he looked up and started laughing. "This is actually correct. And the essay is good! Get out of here. And put some pants on."

I was never late to another exam again. But don't count me out. I have a lot of life to be late for left in me.

B - I - N - G - O

My guess is that when most 20-somethings decide to throw caution to the wind and road-trip it to the casino, it's a whirlwind of high bets, hard drinks and late nights. Not this girl.

I set my alarm this morning, rolled out of bed and put on my most comfortable shoes (who am I kidding? I don't own uncomfortable shoes) and hit the road with my sister to head down to Foxwoods, in all its smoky, paycheck-blowing glory, to meet my Mom, Nana and her friend, Carol. While most my age park at the blackjack tables, I parked myself in the world's largest Bingo hall for a marathon event. And wouldn't you know - I WON! Usually, the free soda and unbeatable people-watching is enough for me to call any Bingo day at Foxwoods a good one; so, today was a great day!

And, just one of many wins in a mini-streak I've got going on...but more about that later. For now, BINGO!

Since nothing exciting has happened in the past few days (I've been home sick!) I've decided to start this Blog by revisiting some my most favorite mishaps. In honor of my sister's most recent car trouble (something goes wrong with her convertible, "Kiki G", every other week) I've decided to kick off with a car story, of sorts.

During the first months of my freshman year of college, my sister's car went kaput. Since she was in her senior year and completing an off-campus internship, I - being the delightfully wonderful sister I am - gave her my car to use for the year. Since this was before the era of GPS, I had written myself directions and hoped for the best.

As I navigated the dark twists and turns of the suburban neighborhood, a car - which had been sitting off to the side of the road - pulled behind me, riding too close for comfort, with no lights on. I couldn't help but keep looking in the rear view mirror, and was getting more and more anxious as the car continued to follow me, light-less down a dark & winding street. I must have been too distracted to notice the stop sign, and the next thing I know, the creepy car erupted in a deafening siren noise. It was a cop car - or, in my mind, someone pretending to be a cop. I mean, what kind of police car doesn't have headlights?

I pulled over, but as the cop approached my car, I gripped the wheel, refusing to roll down my window...and then burst into tears. I was convinced, despite his very authentic-looking badge and uniform, that he was an impostor. So, I yelled through the rolled-up window for him to call 911 if he was real, or I was going to drive away. It was before the era of cell phones, too. Bewildered, he went back to his car and radioed in. I can only image what he said since he was clearly taken aback by my heaving shoulders and streaming tears. Within minutes, the dark street lit up with at least three more cop cars. (I'm glad to know suburbia takes potential police impersonators seriously).

Now, a new cop came up to my window, tentative, because I was still crying. I rolled down the window and blurted out that I thought the first cop was a fake. He paused, took a deep breath and asked why I would think that. With a handful of anxious men in uniform listening, I started telling them how the car pulled out from the side of the road and followed closely with no head lights on, making me too nervous to pay attention to the road. Looking back on it, very lame. I know. They all turned, and for the first time since arriving on the scene, realized that, yes, in fact, there were no lights shining from the first cop's car. Nervous smiles abounded, and they started apologizing. I'm pretty sure I owed them all an apology as well, but I just sniffled.

In the end, I not only did I receive an apology, but kudos for being vigilant and an escort to my sister's campus. So, I know it's been ten years - but I'm sorry, Unnamed Suburban Police. Thanks for understanding.

And So It Begins...

If you're reading this first post, it means I went through with it and finally started a Blog. Friends & family have been telling me for years that I should write about all the crazy things that happen to me. I suspect it has something to do with the comedy of errors in which I live. I seem to draw chaos - in all forms - at the most random and unforgiving times. But I've found, as long as I recount the details with a smile in my voice, everyone seems to get a real kick out my misfortune. So, just call me the opiate of the masses, I guess. Enjoy!