Archive for the ‘my child! i mean pet. yes, pet.’ Category

I Heart a Good Meal



Soooo, I was in DC over the long weekend, and I JUST HAVE to tell you about this great place we ate at in the Capitol Hill neighborhood.

But, first.

Remember this guy?


If you were/are a Top Chef fan, then you are well-acquainted with Spike.

Hi, Spike.

Spike is the creator/owner of Good Stuff Eatery, a burger joint with a bit of a gourmet twist.


Let’s be real here: Spike drove me nuts during the show. But, you see, the thing is that I LOVE famous people so I was on-board with the suggestion of Good Stuff Eatery for lunch.

I was expecting Spike’s nummy little creations, but didn’t think HE’D actually be there.

He was.

I made SURE that I was in his line of vision at least once.

He’s, like, a mini-celeb, but I still swooned in adoration. Famous People in Real Life are number 4 on my list of Top Five Favorite Things in the Universe.

1. Ice Cream

2. Boyfriend

3. Dog

4. Famous People in Real Life

5. Sleep

Anyway, SOMEBODY (Cough, #2, Cough) wouldn’t let me snap an inconspicuous picture because said someone didn’t want to be EMBARRASSED.

So selfish.

Famous Person aside, the food was just as tasty as one would imagine it to be whilst watching Top Chef. I lunched on a Farmhouse Bacon Cheeseburger, had a french fry party with the Village fries dipped in mango, chipotle, old bay, and Sriracha mayos one-at-a-time and…

devoured a TOASTED MARSHMALLOW milkshake.

It was so good that it makes me want to talk in that LOL Catspeak business that is rampant on all the blogs today.


There. Done.

Anyway, it was a gratifying meal and a charming little weekend.


The End.

PS: They also serve an Obama burger.



Aesop’s Newest Fable: The Battery That Was Quite Expensive


I was just about to go to bed when…

I hear the remote fall off the couch, knocked off by my aforementioned puppy friend.

Remote falling = batteries falling out of remote which has no back = puppy friend eating batteries

So, puppy friend trots up to me with half of a AAA Energizer sticking out of her mouth (ironic, since it seems puppy friend is also run by a AAA Energizer).

Haha. So humorous at 12:30 in the AM, puppy friend.

She performs her latest trick by dropping the battery on command. I give myself an actual pat on the back for being such a responsible dog owner.

But…where is the other battery? It takes two to make a dream come true, baby. Or to make the remote turn on the DVD player. Whatever.

I look under the couch cushions, on the floor, perhaps it rolled under the bathroom door?

It is nowhere.

I turn my attention to Iris and, with desperation, say aloud, “Did you EAT the battery, Iris?”

I call TBWSRN in the Eastern Time Zone because that’s what I do when I don’t know what else to do. You see, he has this idea that the dog is some sort of actual human being and -let’s be honest- was already secretly concerned that the girl who once ran out of Science Diet and instead supplied the dog with an “All the Gravy Bones You Can Eat” buffet for just a couple of days, really, was being left alone with his “child” for an extended period of time. He promptly got on the internet to Google an answer to this problem. The battery problem, that is. I don’t think there’s a Google entry for “inadequate animal caregiver.”

He comes up with the following: give her milk to neutralize in case she did a chomp-n-swallow and get her an x-ray. Stat.

“Whatever you think is best,” I say – only it comes out, “Do you KNOW how much that will cost?”

The puppy friend and I drive to the Emergency Vet in the Wild West of road conditions. (All lanes were covered with ice, which was covered with snow. Seriously, you couldn’t have waited until daylight to swallow this battery, Iris?) We get put into a waiting room. As we wait, I get on my phone to discover just how much of the internet the Envy2 is capable of letting me see. (Not much.) Iris does the following:

"I must sniff every square inch of this new place."

"I must sniff every square inch of this new place."

"Okay, done. Let's ditch this popsicle stand."

"Okay, done. Let's ditch this popsicle stand."

The vet does an x-ray.

“Good news,” she says.

Folks, there was no battery.

Thank God. I mean, really, thank God.

But, come on!

Moral of the Story:

(This is a fable)

If you are looking for something really expensive that you can love, perhaps you should consider a child instead. And watch that child like a hawk.

Do you see a theme?


This year, I hate Year-End-Reviews. Because if I did one for myself, it might look like this:

2008: The Year of the Almosts

January: The Boyfriend Who Shall Remain Nameless (TBWSRN – long and annoying, no?) begins Elusive Job Hunt- all interviews are out of town.

(And before you get all- it’s just your boyfriend, don’t you have a life, blahblahblahhhhh… YES. I have a very good life, actually. Thank you for asking. BUT when you’ve been together so long you’re practically married and literally EVERY job interview was out of town, YES. My year did kind of sort of revolve around his job search. You spend your year going… are we? aren’t we? And this is meant to be a bitter list. So, bitter it tiz.)

February: TBWSRN has a heavy moot court month – competitions out of town

March: TBWSRN and I plan a trip to London. Which he has to miss because of unanticipated job interview.

April: Um, think he’s in town.

Beginning of May: TBWSRN interviews for more jobs. And gets one! Oh yay!

End of May: Another, better job offer! Takes it!

June: The “better” job (with the G-O-V-T) is moved to a new department. Has to re-interview. Gets it!

Beginning of July: The entire department is cut. No job. Seriously.

Mid-July: People feel bad for him (as they – ahem – should) and help him find a new job. We’re moving and it’s settled. Yaaay.

End of July: New job -fun surprise!- wants him to stay in Minneapolis for first six months. Not moving anymore. At least not for awhile.

August: Month spent in godforsaken hotbox that is apartment that was meant to be temporary because …we’re moving, right?

September: TBWSRN gets an AWESOME opportunity to work with an AWESOME “someone’s” campaign. Does it. Obvs.

October: TBWSRN is still campaigning. Doesn’t make it home.

November: TBWSRN takes a job offer from said AWESOME “someone.” Angels come down from heaven and shake my hand. I Hyperventilate. Break out in metaphorical hives. Annnnnd- he gets to come home for Thanksgiving! Wee! Head spins like the chick in the Exorcism.

December: Able to calm down. The Boy is still working between Chicago and DC. So, no holiday visits. Temporary Sadness.

SO – good year, no? Well, if you want to get all technical on me, there were some incredible parts. My wish for 2009, though, is for a little freakin’ stability.

So let’s get to the many good, incredible things that happened in 2008 that had nothing whatsoever to do with a male, like:

  • my principal having mercy on me and giving me my job back
  • friend’s wedding
  • a trip to fabulous Las Vegas with Bean to visit Amanda (the PCD, remember)
  • getting incredibly acquainted with the girls from SATC during my alone time (that sounds dirty, but isn’t) (but would almost be sort of cool if it was?)
  • experiencing London with Kirsten
  • Rachel’s health getting better and better every single stinkin’ day! Take that, TBI! Take that desensitized and overworked doctors! Lesson learned: you NEVER give up on people.
  • adopting a little doggy friend, Iris
  • going to DC for .5 seconds, walking around all independent-like
  • meeting up with TBWSRN romantic-comedy style in New York City. It’s about the city, not the male.
  • training for and running my very first half marathon
  • OBAAAAMAAAA (okay, this one has to do with a male)
  • encountering Netflix and making it my new boyfriend (not technically a male)

Though it’s been a rough-and-tumble kinda year, it could absolutely be worse. I can still say I’m genuinely happy. AND healthy. I even overcame my fear of the dentist this year. We’ll save that story for another time.

For these, I can be grateful.

Sidenote: I figure that, for those of you who don’t know me personally  and who don’t *get* to hear the day-to-day details of the litany above, I should clarify that the bitterness is directed towards Lady Luck – who I will not adjectify because it wouldn’t be ladylike – and not toward TBWSRN, who has been thoughtfully maintaining our relationship through all of the crap.

Cute Pictures of My Dog

Iris even likes watching Weeds.

Even Iris likes watching Weeds.

She must be dreaming about whatever makes dogs happy. Bones, Digging, Walks?

She must be dreaming about whatever makes dogs happy. Bones, Digging, Walks?

It’s 2 am and I’m awake.


Fun Facts

1. I just watched The Namesake. It was alright. “Aight”

2. You know what is good, though? Weeds. Totally flew through two seasons on Netflix.

3. I have absolutely been sleeping on the couch ever since break started. I’m depressed that TBWSRN is still out of town working. The bed feels a little too yes-he’s-really-gone-over-the-holidays. Don’t feel bad. It’ll be alright. “Aight” We’re rollin’ with it.

4. As a result of the aforementioned, my dog got confused and marched her little self right into the bedroom and piddled on the bed the other day.

5. Which is another reason I’m still sleeping on the couch.

6. And it still doesn’t make total sense because it’s not like she piddles on the couch. Get your head straight, dog.

7. I have to start getting my bad self together for the spelling bee. Ugh.

8. You know, there is a Drunken Spelling Bee at a bar in Minneapolis each January. Takers?

9. The candidate for RNC chair sent around a racist e-mail about my hero (Barack Obama) and called it “political satire.” Whaaa? No, I don’t think so. Nobody puts Barack in a corner.

10. I am going to go to Macy’s tomorrow and use a gift certificate to purchase a new pair of black shoes.

Okay, I finally feel the sleep coming on. Thanks, folks.

How’s YOUR day going?


Imagine you wake up with that “Geez, it feels so late” feeling. You look at your cell phone alarm, which you will NEVER USE AGAIN. It has mysteriously frozen at midnight. You click until it comes back to life.

It reads 7:30.

But, but…you have to report to work at 7:40 and, on days with good weather, it takes you about 40 minutes to get to said work. Adding salt to your  barely awakened wound, you knew today was not one of those days. It had rained all day on Sunday, the temperature had dropped – creating a virtual ice rink – and then it had snowed. The windchill was 27 below zero so when you leave in your heels – instead of wearing your warm boots – the little cracks of your exposed upper toe area become crinkly and painful. You wonder aloud, “Why the F*** am I living in this godforsaken hell hole?”

Just kidding. You loooove it here.

Anyway, needless to say, the highways aren’t exactly “free-flowing” and as you give your secretary a panicky phone call, you realize it may take well over your typical 40 minutes to arrive at school. You say a quick prayer that your 8th graders will behave themselves in the dangerously unstructured time before Homeroom begins at 8:30.

You walk in the front doors at – miraculously – 8:30. On the dot. Your 8th graders have morphed into little angels and all are seated, being quiet enough. You stroll in nonchalantly. Everything is cool. “I was just at a meeting,” you say. Nevermind that you actually did miss your ILA Department meeting earlier in the morning.

Now, let’s say you arrive home to a stomach-churning smell. Why? Because you have a little doggy whom you carelessly tossed into her kennel this morning while you were running around half-dressed, trying to prioritize (AKA: Do I have time to make coffee?). The poor dear left a vengeful mess and continues to bark punitively the remainder of the evening. “Is glaring an effective training method?” you wonder – again, out loud.

You pour another glass of wine and remind yourself to pull out the faux-wood-paneled alarm clock you hate to look at, but love to hear in the morning. Okay, maybe “love” is a strong word.

Day over.

You may or may not have noticed.


I changed the name of this blog yet again.

“iris* in dc” didn’t work because the move to DC was temporarily put on hold. “iris in minnie” didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

“iris punkinbabycheeks” was SO annoying. Sorry if you liked it. It was supposed to be temporary until I could think of something better. But- baby talk, come on.

“iris independent” retains my favorite part of the title, but makes a bit more sense with the header and I would like to think it is more in sync with my personality.  And it sort of sounds like a newspaper. Fun!

Sorry for the inconvenience! I hope this one will stick.

: \ (Errrrrr-faced man)

*Iris is the name of my dog, in case you felt left out. Pathetic, I know. But I love her!

Yes! You should feel bad for me, as a matter of fact.


Why Sarah Has Posted One Million and One Times This Weekend


Short Stories and Other Miscellany Turned in Last Week

(As seen compared to the size of my morning coffee. I don’t have a chance.)

Don't Look at Me

“Don’t look at me,” says Iris while lying on a floor of strewn-about dog “toys.”

Yes, I’m even taking pictures of my dog and pretending that she knows what the hell is going on.

I need to get to work.



As I transition from my election mania to, well, just my regular ol’ mania, I’d like to take a second to be grateful.


1. for INDEPENDENCE in all its varied ways

2. for HEALTH



5. for true-blue RELATIONSHIPS

6. for the RIGHT to vote

7. for MUSIC

8. for COFFEE


10. for baby IRIS

10 and 7


10: I was able to find my happy place during the race today and stay there for approximately 1 hour and 39 minutes. Congrats to my running friends who also rocked it out today.

7: Iris is 7 months old, which – in puppy terms – means she is becoming a woman. Well, thee who giveth can also taketh away (or something like that?) so, on behalf of her doggy mother, I will be taking Iris to get spayed tomorrow. And so the sun sets on Iris’ womanhood.

In an effort to tie these two bits of unrelated news together, below is a computer-generated image of 7-month old Iris running a 10-mile race. On the beach, no less. So spoiled.