Strange Powers

I think I may be emitting abnormal levels of electromagnetic resonance.

Not a scientific finding. There were no doctors' visits or lab tests. I'm just going by the empirical data, my people. And the facts are these: my mail won't send, I crashed my backup hard drive (and lost all the "letters" I'd been saving since e-mail was born because I forgot to backup my mailchives). I can't log onto the Internet on my desktop computer.

I'm killing the electronics in our house, one small thumb drive, browser, DVD burner, and hard drive at a time.

I don't know if my new superpower benefits me or the cheerleaders, but I do know that the neoluddites can rally around my newfound abilities. And I'm available for e-retaliation should your devices be getting a little uppity.

Watch out Wii. I don't want to take you out, but apparently I can't help myself.

You know you've had enough when . . .

We had some friends over to the house a few nights ago, just for beer and banter.

(Yes, drinking. In the middle of the week. Decadence.)

We discussed her love of writers, my irrational fear of poets, his trip to Sundance, Bear's project in Syracuse. All over Boulevard, killer salsa from Los Alamos, precociously delightful drawings, and some delicious snuggles from both Finn and Eddie.

Then I put Finn to bed, opened another beer, and, in what seemed a logical and perfectly appropriate move, paraded out my yearbooks (years 1986 and 1987).

I think there's a rule about this indulgent display of your past and much like you'd expect your wingwomen to vet your conquests, I fully expect Bear to jump in and provide a little sobering check and balance when I've so clearly fallen off the wagon of reasonable disclosure and into the muddy pond of oversharing.

I've expected it for the last 20 years. Never happened.

So there I am, sharing high school stories and--yes, I'm admitting this--reading my yearbook inscriptions. Out loud. And just when I'm about to launch into one of my drill team hand routines, you know, to further demonstrate the drama of a particular photograph (and still with nary a word, ear pull, cough, or stern stare from Barry), our friends tell us they need to go.

"What?!" I tend to overexclamate after a couple of drinks. "But look at this!! Doesn't he look like Bono! I had such a crush!"

Really need to go.

"What?! It's only 9:30! It's still early!!"

"Yeah, not anymore." And there, understated and after the fact, Barry's confirmation that I'd already crossed the line.

We got a puppy.

Last week, Finn and I decided we needed to go back for another look at the dogs. After about an hour, we walked out with Edwidge, our new cairpoo puppy.

Yes, we ambushed Bear.

But it had to be done. See, Eddie--as we call her--has one of those sweet faces and a wiry, scraggly coat that needs serious loving (and brushing). I saw her the first day we visited. As I walked by her kennel, she looked at me, raised an ear and tilted her head. She implored me. She had me. So yesterday, we went back to meet her. And she convinced Bear.

Now, I can't say it's been all kongs and kibble since then. That first week was freaking cold, people. And dogs have to potty. Outside. (Or at least that was the theory.) Enough ten minute trips outside and mopping and you got enough to turn a whirlwind romance into a marriage of convenience.

Yet again, we probably should've talked this through with people in the know before we jumped in blind. But that's just the way love is.