a saturday morning thought

there was a time this weekend when robert and i were driving in town on saturday morning. it was too early to be up (robert is the only person who could convince me of the delicious, soul-strengthening power of sleeping in on saturday morning. that pocket of perfect nothingness), but there we were. cruising down main street with the early birds, meeting my parents and sister for breakfast.

and i had a sort of early memory. a happy sort of sadness that comes with the realization that life is so fast. that one day, this family will look incredibly different and that's neither a necessarily bad or good thing, but an honest one. it reminded me of a time, riding in the back of my parents' van, that i looked up at the people sitting in the rows before me and thought to myself, remember this. remember your sister in middle school and your brother with the shaggy hair and skateboard. remember your mom and dad as laughing and young and pretty. and remember yourself as happy, in the backseat with your book.

we've added some people to the van in recent years, and lost one incredible man. and leaving them that morning, driving back home to get  back into the covers, i realized that the journey is really the best part. and there will be changing faces, and spaces. and shifts and swaps. and big gigantic leaps out of the car. but there will be forward motion, and that's the beautiful part about it.

in defense of pretending

 speaking of pretend, pablo likes to pretend he's an outdoor dog by looking out the window toward freedom. what a suppressed life that dog leads (not).

there was a man who called our house once convinced that someone else was on the other line.

he asked by name to speak to someone we did not know. and at first, we tried to explain. sir, you have the wrong number. but due to bad hearing or not listening or some combination of both, he kept on. he was thrilled to hear our voices. he had been wondering how we'd been. he missed us. he filled us in on the day-in, day-out happenings of his life. of cousins we must be thinking about and aunts he was certain we hadn't seen in ages.

and he called back, this man. left rambling messages on our machine. we'd huddle around it and listen as he breathed laboriously on the other end. sometimes, when we were there, we'd pick up, and engage him. be for him, in that moment, the family he needed us to be. he stopped calling after a while, but i never forgot it. maybe his memory failed him. maybe he truly thought my dad was his nephew. maybe he had pretended long enough that he forgot it was a charade and had succeeded in convincing even himself this was true.

i found myself thinking about him this morning while pouring my coffee. about how we morph into who someone thinks we are, sometimes without even knowing. and often, this is such a catastrophe. because the skinny jeans don't always fit and maybe the bangs aren't right for our face shape, or the book just doesn't excite that part of us that books are supposed to excite.

but sometimes this transformation can be just a little exciting, even fun. when you slip on the work pumps even though you sometimes feel just special enough for flats. when you curl your hair and swipe on the lipstick to become ready for friday night. or when you nod across the phone line that yes, you miss uncle billy even though you know full well that uncle billy is not your uncle billy and may not be anyone's uncle or even named billy. because pretend doesn't always mean pretense, after all.

christmas at home

 

like any other christmas since i can remember, we spent yesterday at nanno's house. except this time, it was our house. and like always, there was food. there was laughter. there was the 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. stretch of lounging on couches, floors and beds. and we missed him like crazy, his absence weighing heavy in every crevice of that old ranch house. but it's been a beautiful process, this reconstructing of a home. a changing of hands. robert and i have the immense privilege of living here now, a stone's throw away from our beloved cottage.

and the rose bush is still where he left it, creeping along the porch rail. there are notes and names written in pencil on the stairwell to the bedroom that tell stories from my mom and my aunt when they were teenagers. on thanksgiving eve, we stood on those same steps and wrote our names beside theirs. a new generation generating. and his recliner is in his bedroom, along with the blanket i gave him two christmases ago. except now, it's on a new bed. with a new rug and the same old trunk against the wall.

this first holiday of hosting, of rising early and getting the french toast in the oven, sweeping, vacuuming, setting the table, and filling the dishwasher as the last of the relatives drives away, was a gorgeous one. and the first of many. i can't wait to work in the yard, to build another garden, to pick leaves from the old, towering magnolia, and string lights on the shed out back for summer suppers.

it was so hard to leave the cottage. no one asked me to, but the morning of our first day here, i went back there. and i deep cleaned it. i got on my hands and knees and scrubbed the linoleum i used to dance on, the hardwoods pablo used to slide on, and the shower that cleaned our muddy bodies after we got soaked in the downpour last july while working in the tomato plants. and after i threw the last rag away, i hopped up onto the counter and cried (in hindsight, playing "winter song" by the head and the heart may not have been a good idea.) i said goodbye to that place and drove away on the gravel.

but there are new hardwoods now. and new memories to be made. and new traditions to make and old ones to keep. and yesterday was the start. and like nanno would say, "it looks beautiful."

my ducks in a row

robert and i snuck away to the mountains this weekend, my sweet parents in tow. to see one of my best friends in the whole world marry a man who choked up at the mere mention of her name at the alter. to wake up early and take walks around the lake and stay up way too late drinking mcdonald's coffee at midnight. and the lake! what a beauty. i don't think i've ever seen so many ducks.

and upon seeing these waterfowl, i started thinking. and maybe it was the way the sun was hitting the middle of the water just so, or the cross sitting on the hill within eyeshot, or maybe just looking ahead of me and seeing mama and dad cross over the bridge, his arm around her shoulder because that's just where it fits, but i started thinking about getting my ducks in  a row. getting things organized and cleaned up around the house after a weekend away. getting my homework done ahead of time. getting the e-mails sent and the Bible read and the phone call returned within a reasonable hour.

the things i could accomplish if all my ducks would just line themselves up, pretty as can be.  but it's up to me to corral them. to wrangle them in line. and sometimes, like today, i'd honestly just rather let them play. let my mind wander, and my hair fall and the music sound. because ducks look nice in a row, but wouldn't you much rather see them splashing around in the water? i know i would.

perishable goods

around midnight, all my appliances start glowing. my laptop casts a pretty blue light around the office, my cell phone glows in the dark bedroom, buzzing occasionally with a late night call from my sister. the television, in all its glory, beckons me with light and sound and moving images just waiting to take me out of my world, off the couch in our tiny house by the side of the road, and into a realm of glamour, where giada can eat five pounds of pasta without gaining weight, emily can deny a boy a rose and make him cry, and country stars can sashay around in painted on jeans. even the news doesn't seem as scary when delivered by a pretty blonde in a smart blouse.

but last night, when i was directly in the throngs of technology, i looked over at robert and pablo and had a clear thought. if i wanted them to be, every single appliance in this house could be here forever. this iPad can sit right there on the sofa until i'm 90. it's not going anywhere at all. it's a non-perishable good.

but these boys looking back at me? why, that's a different story. we're aging. pablo hesitates to jump up on the guest bed now. it's harder for me to touch my toes in the morning. even robert has a few renegade grays in his beard. the truth is, we're perishable. it's not morbid or sad, it's a beautiful truth. we will go bad one day, just like the cucumbers hanging in the kitchen, or the bread on the shelf. so i have to remind myself to savor the good. the now. the ripeness of today.

of course, if i plan on saving pablo, i've got another thing coming. that pup's been spoiled since the day we got him.

from clara to frances: a letter

when i read my first lines of neruda poetry, i thought i'd found the reflection of my truest self. i would lie awake in the middle of midnight and write lines in my old leather journal. so pretty were the words and so deep their sentiment that i even named my sweet puppy after the poet.

but then i came across this letter last week. from a woman named clara to my grandmother, frances. written at the height of their womanhood, when they both worked at the u.s. postal service and were living on their on in washington, d.c. truth be told, the letter is a bit gossipy, in the most polite way possible. there are spatterings of "i'm not sure what she told you" and "i think it only fair that you hear this from my side of the fence too."

but a few paragraphs down, clara begins describing her dream life. what truly makes her happy. and though time and space and seventy years separate us, i felt my heart sink to my stomach when i read her thoughts that so mirror my own.

that's the funny thing about being a woman, i suppose. the fashions change (or do they?) and hairstyles go from big to feathered to flat to big again, and technology finds its way, every decade, to sneak into our homes and lives and rearrange the way we do dishes, fold laundry and relax in the afternoons. we are different colors and shapes and personalities. but every so often, we find that in some ways, we are so very similar. perhaps we don't all love living in the country. i know some very fabulous women who make entire cities light up. but that need to communicate--whether by telegraph, typewritten letter, phone call, e-mail or facebook chat, remains.

i'm just glad my grandma had the wherewithal to save such a treasure. little did she know i would unearth it from an old album whose plastic pages had long decayed. and i hope clara, wherever she is, is sitting on a rocking chair looking up at the birds, her head thrown back laughing, her drama resolved.

our plans, and His

sometimes, your best laid plans get washed.

sometimes, you pay out the ears for a groom and a haircut for your pup.

you put your own hair in one of those "i'm so hippie and free yet this took me quite a while to do and required more bobby pins than a real hippie probably owns" topknots.

you wear your new shoes handed down to you from your mama. the ones that didn't quite fit her feet and came along on the exact evening the tennis shoes you've had since high school decided to shed themselves  as you walked down the driveway.

you wear your favorite shades and your t-shirt with a pickle on it, and you're feeling pretty fabulous as you start out for the dirt road, just a pretty sunday evening in june.

then, the heavens open up and from nowhere at all black clouds spin into view.

you start walking fast, then a little faster, almost to a power walk (because even in the most dire of circumstances, running must be avoided)

and you realize you're still a good half mile from home and the rain is pounding furiously

then, you look down and see your fluffy, manicured, pampered, prissy pooch

soaked to the bone with his held thrown back

taking the water square in the face

jumping up and down and wagging his tail harder than you've ever seen
happy as a lark

deliberately jumping in every.single.puddle on the way home

and you realize that sometimes
God's got better plans in store than yours.

on brothers and milestones

my little brother leaves for college this weekend. between beach trips and summer school and a busy schedule and the crazy/hectic/beautiful life of a teenager, i haven't seen him much these hot months. but i still call him every night and i'm still planning the long trip east this weekend to move him in. the same way i did for my sister, and they did for me upward of ten years ago.

and it's wonderful. it's such a gorgeous thing to grow and go and move and experience new things. but it's got me thinking about life and children. about the cycle of it all.

because no one ever tells you how to love a child. they tell you how to make your own hair bows with ribbon and a hot glue gun, how to sneak vegetables into a casserole, make all the voices on sesame street, bury pets discreetly, and make a halloween costume from a bed sheet. you learn how to pack a baby dress without crying and to drive away from the preschool with only one eye left lingering, sobbing and hot, still searching for her face pressed against the window. you become a doctor, blowing kisses on a skinned knee when the training wheels are taken off too soon. you are counselor and culprit, bank and hotel.

until one balmy summer, you find yourself in the middle of a little college town wondering how in the world it came to all of this. how the one person you know better than anyone is getting smaller and smaller in the rearview and you think as the pit forms in your gut if you really loved her the way you could have. if you didn’t have to learn all those things and take on all those roles. if all you had to do for eighteen years was lie in bed and cocoon her against your chest, rocking her back and forth as she grew in the nook of your elbows, her knees against her belly at first, then jutting out and resting against your own, until eventually you are two well-rested persons who have not really lived, but who have loved to their core.

it's times like these i think on such things. and lo, when that day comes that we are faced with this time, i hope i handle it with half the grace and optimism my parents have. because while no one teaches you these things, you do indeed learn. that's the mercy. and the learning and loving make a padding for the leaving.

love you, clint.

back from the beach

 

 

 

it's a funny thing, leaving the ocean. shaking the sand out of your shoes and hair and getting into a hot car to ride the hot miles back home. this reddening of skin and lightening of hair. there's a physical and spiritual transformation that happens on those shores.

somewhere between riding bicycles at sunset and trudging our sore feet to the italian ice shack to eat a pint a day of the delicious, creamy treat, between helping grandparents up the stairs and sitting around an old table with them, between the late mornings and midnight movie screenings and long walks amid shells we find ourselves kinder. gentler. our hard, stressed, working, maxed-out bodies eroded like the old houses on the far end of the island, with sandbags against their bases and wind-decayed shutters.

but nothing sleeps like your own bed, and nothing feels as sweet as walking barefoot in your own kitchen, even when juggling piles of laundry from a weekend away.

p.s. that picture of robert's grandparents just melts my heart. that's what this life is about. more than anything else. that right there.

**today is the last day to enter my mixed tape giveaway project. i'll start compiling the songs this week and pick a winner by monday!

to see it again

via

there are few things i enjoy more than seeing someone experience afresh and anew something i've long taken for granted.

it happened with the song "passing afternoon," when i made my sister three iron and wine cds just so she could fall in love with them. and in love she has stayed.

it happened again when i gave robert a collection of short stories by gabriel garcia marquez. we'd lie together on his twin bunk bed in the middle of the afternoon, his head propped up against the wall and mine against the window, reading out loud to each other as college kids trampled outside in the hall.

it happened also to robert when he took me up into the little alcove on the hilltop that overlooked the lake. the little nest of bushes and shrub that he used to immerse himself inside as a child. his hiding spot no longer secret.

tonight, we are taking robert's grandparents to the beach. armed with a pair of new culottes for her and bullfrog sunscreen for him, as well as a supply of homemade chocolate pound cake for us all. to see them walk on warm sand toward a cerulean sea for the first time in many, many moons.

because yes, they've seen the ocean. but when there are years between visits, when there are babies and grandbabies and gardens and three meals a day and cancers and needlework and bluebird mornings between the first and last time they've walked on a pier,

it's time to go again. time to dip again. dance again. feast again. and not take one minute of drenching sun for granted. like us beach bunnies and teenagers and lovers of the forever summer tend to so often do.

a burial and a burr patch

this weekend was beautiful. we sent nanno off with a full military funeral, some special big band music, and a slideshow that didn't leave a dry eye in the room.

in other news, pablo broke his leash on saturday, ran into the woods, frolicked in a burr patch for five minutes, and came out looking like this.

when it's a weekend and no vet or groomer is available, parents have to do what parents have to do.

we shaved him with my dad's beard trimmers.

hope your weekend was equally lovely!

a good and faithful servant

  photo by my talented cousin jeff portaro

he always told me i would be the next poet laureate, but for the life of me, i can't come up with the right words to tell you about my Nanno, sam.

he was 91 when he passed away thursday morning, warm in his bed holding the hands of his daughters (one being my sweet mama), his family all around him. i was lucky enough to know him for 25 of those years. to sit beside him at the kitchen table three times a week and yell out jeopardy answers and wheel of fortune letters. to meet him and mama for lunch at chick-fil-a, wendy's and a slew of other little fast food haunts he loved. he had a smile that, when he flashed it, took away any little worries or stresses i had hanging over me, and warmed me. actually, it was more of a grin than a smile, a genuine happiness.

he wore a cardigan with elbow patches before they were cool, and for years he proudly sported a tan baseball cap that read "NANNO" in big letters, one i had custom made for him at those little kiosks in the mall. he loved big band music, especially artie shaw's begin the beguine. "put that one on repeat!" he'd tell mama. he also loved italian loaf bread, root beer, and jell-o.

he was eternally grateful; "thank you" was his favorite phrase. he loved to fire up his old desktop computer and use his outdated software to make custom greeting cards for every birthday and holiday, the same message always in each: "i wish you at least a hundred more filled with health and happiness."

i could go on. i could tell you about how he talked to my grandma's side of the bed in the evenings, when he thought no one could hear, or about how he loved crosswords and novels all of his life and was the sharpest man i knew. how he served in the navy and lived in sicily as a child.

on wednesday, he asked if my sister and i had to go back to college soon. we told him we still had a few months, and that we would spend them with him. "oh, that's going to be so great!" he exclaimed, "'i'll try to get my strength back up."

now, a tremendous void is left, filled only with the beautiful glimpse of Heaven he gave us these last few days. he saw boys in white suits and called out my sweet grandma's name. he reached out his hand and said "i'm reaching beyond. i'm reaching through it." i have never felt anything more sacred in my life. there were angels all over the place in that tiny bedroom, inside the house he raised his children in, and the bed he shared with his sweet wife.

he looked at all of us and said, "i've got my treasure here with me." he was ours, and losing him is nothing short of a deep, sad blow. but he left such a sweet legacy. one of humility, grace, kindness and purity. one i will forever measure myself against.

he was truly one of a kind, an irreplaceable original. a few days before he passed away, my cousin held his hand and told him, "they just don't make men like you anymore, Nanno."

"nope," he grinned,

"they threw the pattern away."

a lesson from dolores: a meaningful life

"he just looked at me, on the stoop in front of his parents' house, and said, 'well, dolores. it looks like we're in love. you reckon we ought to get married?' and i said 'well lewis, i reckon so.'"

we sat side by side on her couch last night, our thighs touching as we embroidered. i've been coming to see robert's grandma twice week for four months now. and while she has almost completed an entire set of pillowcases, i'm still working on the same dresser scarf. but we gab. we sit. she feeds me yams and chew bread and banana pudding, green beans with corn and apple fritters. and as lewis sits in the recliner cracking walnuts, an hour or two passes. then, she pulls the curtains forward and hugs me close, breathing me in and telling me how much she enjoys our visits. i tell her the same.

i asked her about courting. about her favorite movie stars (clark gable) and where she met lewis (walgreens. he stepped on her foot.)

she sighed. "you know, life sure is meaningful."

and we talked some more. and i completed a few more back stitches. but that sentence stuck with me. for its simplicity. its honestly.

it's meaningful, what we're doing here.

every corporate memo you type.
every time you fix the paper jam in the office.
every time you stretch against the kitchen counter waiting for the coffee to drip.
every early morning and late night meal prepared against music.
every phone call you make to encourage, to check in.
every time you're tired and just want to eat cereal, take a bath and go to bed, but you swipe on the lipstick and go dancing anyway.
every time you eat cereal and take a bath and go to bed.
every handshake you give and nod or tilt of the head.
every time you sit on your bed in the middle of the afternoon and watch the sun dance across your quilt and think about when you were young, and your parents were invincible.
every time on your knees, in a group, in your car or under the covers, you whisper a prayer.
every time you look someone in the eye and say i really, really love you. 

they mean something. they are vital to your story. the story you build, shape, tear down and remold. until one day you find yourself in your eighties, sitting beside a woman you won't know until your children are older. i pray our stories are as colorful, detailed and bright. and sweet enough to stop someone mid-stitch.

a silver christmas

 

i put up two christmas trees yesterday. a white one for robert's grandma and this one. the same silver tree that has graced my grandpa's formal living room for the past fifty years. it is shiny and the ornaments are so fragile i may or may not have cracked one. and i declare, i do love the smell and look of a good fraser fir, but these tiny trees, with their revolving, colorful bases, stir up a delight in me that is unmatched. i think it's because i can see the history in them. in the grubby hands that packaged them up every january, and the faces who would lie under the stems, watching the kaleidoscope show.

it's a red and green christmas. but every one needs a little sparkle now and again.

scenes from a country cottage: a borrowed christmas

 

these are the hamburger years. the years of sewing on patches and cutting coupons and drafting a new, tighter budget every other week. of washing down baseboards and scrubbing steel sinks.

very few things are ours. at this stage, they are hand-me-downs. the old round table from my uncle in the corner. the light wood desk from my aunt, repainted a happy red. the kitchen table from my parents. there are stories in my house that are not my own. rather, we live in a little collection of sorts, an family antique gallery, just nice enough to display but worn enough to spill on, leave a sweaty cup on, or prop our feet on that it doesn't really matter.

it becomes especially apparent every december, when i lug the tupperware out from the basement. our christmas decorations are mainly borrowed. our stockings were made by aunts and cousins. our tree comes from our sweet neighbors. the ornaments come from mama, who started collecting them for me when i was a baby. when we turn the lamps off, the lights twinkle against the old blinds, an orchestra of color.

it's a loaned road, filled with loaned time. and we are the mosaics that walk along it. i can look at the stockings, with their particular, perfect stitches, and remember the skilled hands of my uncle. the crocheted ornaments sing of the skill of my grandma. the baby's first christmas ornament reminds me of my parents, young and just starting out.

so if i am to be a compilation, i'm happy it's of these folks. these memories and these christmases. for especially this month, i am reminded that really, when it comes down to it, we're all just renting this space, this blessed, borrowed life.

wednesday night discord

it was a computer night. robert tucked into his walnut corner desk, plumbing tickets organized and spread across the smooth wood. and i behind my cherry red table, the one we painted ourselves that hot august, with scratches and dings along the side, battle scars of moving.

and we sat there and stared. into the black hole that is the internet. microsoft word. etsy. pablo nudged my heels and i looked down to see his little squishy face, tennis ball in his mouth. i wish there were some sort of tennis ball machine we could get that would just shoot out balls for him to chase, i found myself saying.

and as soon as the thought made its way from my crowded mind to my loose, sleepy mouth, i regretted it. regretted asking for silence. for peace and quiet. for a still, resting home.

give me the noise, the hectic. that floorboard in front of the guest room that moans when work boots hit. give me cereal bowls in the sink and curlers on the bathroom vanity. i want to revel in the mess of it all, the lived-in feel of a  house turned home. give me late nights on the linoleum in the kitchen, dog face mashed into my own. robert's tennis shoes under the coffee table and plants overflowing on the windowsill. give me the underbelly of the beast of chaos.

i don't want to miss it. this fleeting bubble i can almost tangibly feel drifting higher and higher toward the heavens. of all my loved ones still here. a pup who still wants to play, and can hop onto the bed. able arms that can throw toys, stretch into child's pose and wrap around my husband. it's brief, this life. a whispered breath, really. and to wish for it to be any easier, any less involved, is a pity. for discord, i've found, is the mother of dreams.

the day after: a reflection

i am thankful for the feast. for the green bean casserole and the yams. the chicken and dumplings and the sweet tea. for the children playing in the living room and the adults gathered around the kitchen table. for the after-lunch walk down that country road. a solid, straight path of land, flanked by cornfields and oaks.

but when it's all over, when every single tupperware dish is pulled from the cabinets to hold leftovers and we sink into bed with full bellies after the ballgame, what i am thankful for most of all is this: time.

like my sweet mama and dad who came with me to the thanksgiving eve lovefeast on wednesday night. one town away, in a church we did not know. just to support me, love me and encourage me, feasting alongside me on sweet lovefeast buns served as we sang songs of praise to our Father.

the service was free, and the buns were small and cold. but mama held my hand when i prayed and i looked over and saw dad singing. and i remembered the intangible blessings of life, relayed through a handhold. a song. and a prayer. i am most thankful for this pocket of time, this sweet envelope of borrowed hours. to love every day. every single, glorious, God-given day.

p.s. the giveaway winner of the justaddsunshine contest is amanda! i'll contact you to claim your $18 gift credit! happy thanksgiving:)

my weekend: music and the mountain air

 

 

 

 

 

 

there is something spectacular about mountain air, something about altitude and attitude. the weather ran the gamut this weekend, from warm sunshine hitting our shoulders as we sat on rocking chairs to a blustery chill between our fingers and toes as we sat huddled outside the concert hall, waiting for the doors to open.

it was a sweet balloon of time, spent in little breakfast diners. on front rows of live music, lights flashing and sweet folk music wafting a few inches from my wondrous eyes. of still water and rickety old bridges.

but mostly, and perhaps most importantly, it was a weekend spent with two of my favorite men. my brother and husband are good-hearted, kind and spectacular people and just to be in their presence for 48 hours was a blessing. it also helps that they have killer taste in music and don't mind staying past midnight for an encore.
because after all, i do believe that's the heart of living. staying for the encore.

an adultnapping

robert and i are leaving in a few hours to take my brother to the carolina mountains. a weekend spent in the heart of the blue ridge, with early morning pancake house visits and late night walks around still, black lakes. of a lykki li and first aid kit concert inside an old, echoing music hall.

i first wanted to title this post "a kidnapping," because that's what we're doing--stealing him away from life for a few days to breath in air that's a little colder, a little more filling.

but the problem is, he's not a kid. before i could gather him in my arms and ask time to slow down, he grew. from riding his skateboard, to driving to applying for college. he leaves this spring. so, adultnapping it is.

on a semi-related note, adult napping is exactly what i want to be doing right now. filling my veins with lots of black coffee after last night's premiere of the latest twilight installment. yes, i hopped on that bandwagon. and yes, i thought this movie was one of the best. chugging through today with the tree-topped peaks soon on the horizon.

two essential topics

#1: today is my sister's birthday. she is turning twenty. twenty!

the girl who slept feet from me all her life until i left for college.

the girl who made my phone calls in high school when i just couldn't and stood beside me at my wedding.

the girl who is infinitely more  beautiful, kind and good-hearted than i could ever hope to be.

i love you, carly. and i'm honored to call you my best friend. the sisters thing is just the icing.

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#2: today i'm over at my friend sarah's blog, desirous of everything. sarah asked me to do a little how-to post. and i thought. and thought some more. i've seen super blog tutorials about how to make bib necklaces. how to sew a wallet. how to cook a delish nutrish meal.

but i can't do any of those things, so i began to feel like a tiny failure.

then i looked at my ankles and saw my bundle of fluff, pablo. and remembered.

i am an expert in doggie belly rubs.

so hop on over and watch as i break down the art of the belly rub into seven easy steps! then give sarah some love because her blog is a true treasure. just try to not get lost in her writing. just try!