Pine Car Derby

The pathfinder club I work with recently participated in an area wide pine car derby.  As the boys designed flashy race cars, I took a more feminine approach.  After many hours of work, I am proud to introduce you to the Barbie car:

In case you don't know, the car started as this:

Now you're impressed, right?!?!? 

Not surprisingly, Chris played a major role in building the Barbie car.  Without his skills and attention to detail, the car would look substantially less impressive. Substantially.

On race day, Barbie lined up next to her rival, the only other car built by a staff member from our pathfinder club.  

During one of the heats, Barbie's rival lost a weight.  The weight landed in Barbie's lane, causing her to spin out of control and look like nothing more than a pretty blonde who can't drive.  Luckily, the judges discovered the debris on the track and re-ran the heat.

Did Barbie advance past the first round of races?  Of course not.  She was built for beauty, not speed.  Barbie didn't even win the best-in-show trophy, a title normally associated with Barbie's image.  She's okay, though.  Best-in-show appropriately went to one of the kids who built a marine-life themed car, complete with glittery aqua waves and a plastic dolphin.  Barbie knows the race was really about the kids. Staff members like me were just happy for an excuse to relive our childhood for a day.

Poo-Poo on You

I walked Doug at the park last weekend.  It rained the night before, so the sandy pathways in the park were damp.  An apparently love-crazed pre-teen took advantage of the wet sand and used a stick to proclaim her love for Justin Bieber.  I laughed at the message.  Doug then walked over and pooped right on top of the sandy love note.    Good boy, Doug.  Good Boy.

Hit-and-Run?!?!?

A couple weeks ago, Chris and I  managed to arrive home from work, walk the dog, eat dinner, and clean the kitchen by 7 p.m.  We were anticipating a quiet evening at home, but before we could relax the fire alarm sounded. Because false fire alarms are somewhat regular in our building, we calmly collected our dog and walked outside with our neighbors.

Instead of standing around to wait for the fire department, Chris and I decided to walk the dog.  We rounded the corner on South Alamo street, walked about a block, and stopped for a minute. When I turned around, I saw a car driving backwards across South Alamo street with the driver's side door wide open.  I also heard a man yelling for help.  I was shocked to see the man lying on the ground, wedged behind the front tire on the driver's side of the car traveling across the street.

Chris and I ran toward the car as it dragged the trapped man across the pavement.  As we arrived at a gas station across the street from our apartment, the car rounded it's way into the gas station parking lot and gained the momentum necessary to drive over the man wedged behind the tire.  As the car rolled over the man's lower body, the man uttered horrible moaning and groaning noises.  The car then left the man behind, right in front of Chris and I, and continued to drive in a circular pattern around the gas pumps and out of the gas station parking lot.  

Believing that hit-a-run was in the making, Chris ran after the car.  I remained with the the man, who was lying on the ground and asking me to help him stand.  I kindly declined his requests, assuming that he should first wait for clearance from qualified medical professionals.  I glanced up at the car and noticed that it was continuing in a circular pattern and was again headed toward the man on the ground. I suddenly wanted the man to move, but there was no time.  Luckily, the circular pattern of the car's path was narrowing and the car drove past the man on the ground as it entered the gas station parking lot a second time.  As the car drove by, I looked inside the open driver's door and realized no one was in the car! 

The out of control car continued to drive backwards in a circular pattern around the gas pumps and out of the gas station parking lot.  Chris thought about jumping in the open driver's side door, but the car was moving too fast.  Instead, he ran across the street to the firemen assessing the false fire alarm in our building.  As he ran, I began to realize that the car, which was in the street and headed for the gas station once again, was headed for the gas pumps.  As fast as I could think about my proximity to a potentially large explosion, the car circled into the gas station parking lot and slammed into a concrete post at the end of the gas pumps.  The car came to a sudden halt with a loud, crunching sound.

Within minutes, Chris returned with the firemen from across the street.  The fireman assessed the man on the ground.  I realized that the man was elderly, at least 70 years old.  I overheard the man state that he thought his car was in park.  The gas station attendant, who yelled and panicked throughout the whole incident, said he saw the old man fall out of his car.  

After about 20 minutes, the firemen finished with the old man.  The old man stood up and began walking toward his car.  I walked to to the old man and asked if he was okay.  He stopped and glanced at me.  I noticed that his sweat shirt was twisted and one of leg of his sweat pants was scrunched up to his knee.  The old man told me that he was fine, and did three or four slow motion lunges as evidence.  Unable to argue with him, everyone watched as the old man continued walking, sat down in the car that ran over him 30 minutes earlier, and drove away. 

So much for a quiet, relaxing evening...

Ten Years Later...

My high school buddies and I circa 2001...

... and then reunited in 2011.

Wurstfest

This fall I went to Wurstfest, a festival self-proclaimed as a salute to sausage and all things German.   I did not actually eat any sausage at Wurstfest, although sausage was available for purchase in any form imaginable, but I did stop for a picture with one of the many sausage themed murals.

Aside from the sausage themed murals, the abundance of German music and lederhosen at Wurstfest was very entertaining.  I even took a stab at yodeling along with a master yodeler.

Here's to Wurstfest!  

Family Reunion

This past September, the women on my mom's side of the family converged in a small west Texas town for a family reunion with my mom's dad's family.  I hitched a ride with my aunt, cousin, and cousin's daughter and could not believe how much stuff three women and baby need for a two night trip - ridiculous!

The family reunion was held on a Saturday morning.  I really enjoyed meeting my grandfather's brother, Randall.  We bonded over our shared love for his adorable dog Mitzi.

Equally interesting was the door prize table.  Just look at all those goodies - a vase of rocks, a ceramic rooster, a pair of scissors, sugar free candy.

Actually, because I really wanted one of the plants, I anxiously awaited my turn when it came time to draw numbers.  When my number was finally drawn, I grabbed my grandma's cane, threw it into the air, and danced my way over to the table as if I was a contestant on the Price is Right.  In the end, there were prizes for everyone.

The rest of the weekend was spent at a hotel, but I can't really quantify what exactly we did.  I know that I went to Target at least twice, napped in one bed, and slept in two others.  Also, at one point I rewrote the chorus to Ludicris' song "Move B***, Get Out the Way," as a child friendly song called "Moo Cow, Eat up the Hay."  All in all, a pretty good weekend.

Update

It has been quite a while since I blogged, so I thought it proper to post an update of sorts regarding recent events in the Sias household.

1.  It's official: Chris and I are one of those dog couples.  You know, those couples who have a dog instead of children.  I have taught Doug (our little Jack Russell Terrier) lots of neat tricks and am tempted to post a video, but I think that would only be interesting to Chris and I.  In other Doug news, Doug received heart worm treatment and is now heart worm free.  With Doug's new found health, Chris is trying to channel his inner dog whisperer and teach Doug "calm energies."  I think Chris should teach Doug to stop eating disgusting foreign objects.  Yes, there have been incidents more disgusting than this.

2.  Chris and I have been living in San Antonio for a little over a year now, and time has flown-by!  Over the past year, we've had lots of out-of-town visitors.  Thank you to Mom, Dad, Casey, Dennis, Rudy, Lulu, Jesse, Vanessa, Vivian, Carlos, Lindy, A.J., Stephen, Genie, Mara, Marissa, Ryan, Amber, and Joye for staying with us.  I promise we will have a real guest room someday.  Also, we enjoyed seeing Gina, Heather, Eliel, Victor, Rick, Judy, David, and Cindy during their vacations to San Antonio.  We never had this many visitors in Lubbock.  

3.  Chris bought a new car.  One day we were walking through H-E-B when Chris told me that he posted the Miata on craigslist.  Two minutes later the phone rang.  And then the phone rang again.  Needless to say, the car was priced to sell and it sold quickly.  The new car is a little bigger than the Miata but still seats only two people.  I suppose it's a good thing that we are one of those couples that has a dog instead of children.

4.  Praise God for miracles!  A couple of months ago, Chris rode his bike to work.  During the day, someone stole the bike from the bike rack at his office.  Chris was very upset because this was his fancy mountain bike with oodles of sentimental value, not to mention monetary value as well.  After work, Chris and I checked a local pawn shop with no luck.  Later that night, Chris remembered that we were studying about how we should praise God in all things.  During our worship prayer, I thanked God that we only lost a bike and not something more serious, like one of our cars.  I also prayed for the person who stole the bike.  Less than a minute after we finished our prayer, the phone rang.  The security guard at Chris' office was on the line and told Chris that someone just walked up and returned his bike to the bike rack.  Wow!  A direct answer to prayer, and we didn't even pray for the return of the bike.  God is awesome!

5.  I have tried the following new things outside my comfort zone: I was a member of the praise team at church, singing into my own microphone.  I told the children's story at the Spanish church in Spanish.  I led out a group bible study on Moses and Hosea.  I painted faces at a fall festival.  Through all of this, I learned that kids are your easiest and most honest critics.

6.  I went on my first pathfinder camp-out as a staff member with the Scenic Hills Jaguars Pathfinder Club.  When I was in pathfinders as a child, all the members and staff took turns preparing and cleaning up after meals.  Our San Antonio pathfinder club, however, is blessed with the Flemmers.  The Flemmers are a retired couple who bring their RV, portable kitchen, and yummy food on all of our campouts.  The Flemmers made us baked spaghetti, biscuits and eggs, hot dogs and chili, fresh popcorn, cookies, cupcakes, and even gave us snack bags full of treats for the ride home.  This was camping at its finest, except for the super chilly temperatures at night.
  

All I want for Christmas is . . .

My Christmas wish list:

1.  Vacation.

2.  Vacation.

3.  Vacation.

Can you tell that I really want to take a vacation?

Mr. Sias Turns 30

Last month Chris turned 30.  I asked Chris what he wanted to do to celebrate.  He told me, "Stay home and watch T.V."  I ignored him and planned a small birthday party at the apartment, which elicited a surprisingly sour reaction.  He explained that he did not want a party and that being the center of attention made him nervous.  Again, I ignored him.  I knew that he would regret watching T.V. to celebrate his 30th birthday.

Vivian and I made these architecturally themed chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese filling.  Chris decorated two of them.  Can you find his version of the Dallas Cowboys stadium and the Guggenheim Museum?

Needless to say, Chris had nothing to worry about.  He even had some help blowing out all those trick candles.

Doug joined in the festivities, until the spring-loaded, party poppers came out.  Then he hid in the bathroom and tried to escape out the front door out of fear.

Last week I saw Chris putting one of his birthday cards in storage.  I guess he realized that a 30th birthday is kind of special after all.

Fire Drill

The fire alarm in our building goes off frequently.  The first time was on New Year's Eve while Chris and I were playing the newly wed game with Chris's family.  We were all awake and had nowhere to go the next day, so a false fire alarm was really no bother.  

The next time the fire alarm went off, Chris and I were fast asleep.  We abruptly awoke in the middle of the night to flashing lights and a loud, high pitched noise.   In a groggy state, we filed outside with our neighbors until the fire department arrived and cleared the building. 

The false fire alarms have become increasingly annoying.  One night I awoke to the usual flashing lights and loud sirens.  Confused, I attributed the noise to our dog, Doug, and repeatedly asked Chris to make the dog "shut-up."

On Thursday morning I woke up late and asked Chris to walk Doug for me.  Chris reluctantly agreed.  As Chris was getting ready for his morning jog with Doug, the smoke detector began beeping, indicating the battery was low.  The smoke detector kept beeping, and beeping, and beeping; the beeping wouldn't stop.  Annoyed with the noise, Chris decided to push the reset button on the smoke detector.  The smoke detector beeped one long final beep, followed by the all too familiar flashing lights and loud, high pitched sirens.  Chris and I now knew why we had so many false fire alarms in our building.

Upon realizing that he was the direct cause of a false fire alarm at six in the morning, Chris was suddenly very eager to walk Doug.  He quickly grabbed the dog and ran out the door. I finished curling my hair, and then walked outside to join my disgruntled neighbors.  I was in no rush because I was certain that this fire alarm was a false alarm.  

As expected, the fire department arrived and turned off the alarm.  Before leaving the building, the fireman visited my apartment.  Apparently, the fire alarm system in our building is high tech and records where all alarms originate, although it is not high tech enough to differentiate between an actual fire and low batteries in a smoke detector.  I played dumb with the firemen, making vague references to a strange beeping noise earlier that morning.  The firemen were not amused and looked at me like I was the most annoying person they had ever met.  I couldn't say anything and only thought,  "Chris should be standing here, suffering this scorn and mockery."  But he wasn't there.  He was at the park, playing ball with Doug, where he remained until I called him and told him the scene was clear.    

Chocolate Monster

Doug was a bad dog yesterday.  He ate five individually wrapped Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.  He did not eat five of the small Reese's Peanut Butter cups that come in a gold, foil wrapper.  He ate five of the large, flat peanut butter cups that come in the brown, paper lining.  Not only did he eat five peanut butter cups, but he also ate the five paper linings and one plastic wrapper.  By the time Chris and I arrived home, our living room rug was littered with orange pieces of trash, chocolate crumbs, and three peanut butter cups that Doug had not yet eaten.  Judging Doug's reaction to our presence, he knew that he was in trouble before we even walked through the door.

After thoroughly scolding Doug and waving the plastic trash in his face as evidence of his wrongdoing, I began to worry that he had consumed a toxic amount of chocolate.  I googled "chocolate poisoning in dogs" and read that one sign of chocolate poisoning is hyperactivity.  I looked at Doug and noted an abnormally high level of hyperactivity, even for a Jack Russell Terrier.  I also noted, however, that I would also be very hyperactive if I weighed only 20 pounds and consumed the amount of sugar contained in two and a half candy bars.  

I continued to read and discovered that Doug must eat five to six candy bars in order to consume a toxic amount of chocolate.  Phew.  There was no need to proceed to step two, which is stomach pumping and  would most certainly be an expensive measure.

I continued to read.  According to one website citing to veterinary experts, "eating a speck of chocolate leads a dog to crave more.  It can mean that your dog will jump at the opportunity to get any type of chocolate."  I blame the irresponsible person who owned Doug prior to me for feeding him chocolate, thereby sparking in him the insatiable craving for more chocolate, causing him to jump on my kitchen table and ravage the chocolate sitting there.  

Chummin' the Water

I went deep sea fishing this summer. We all woke up earlier than I thought humanly possible and were on the boat in time for the sunrise. See how peaceful the sunrise and everyone on the boat looked?

The water outside the marina was anything but peaceful. The waves were big - real big! And our boat was pretty little. At first, this combination made for a fun theme-par-like ride. At times, the boat launched over waves, hung in the air for a split second, and then crashed down onto the water's surface. There is a reason, however, that theme park rides last only 30 seconds, as opposed to two hours.

The first deep sea fisherman tossed his cookies thirty minutes into the ride. Over the next hour and half almost everyone else on boat followed suit. Despite my efforts to keep my stomach calm, I too found myself leaning over the side of the boat chummin' the water. On the upside (as if there is one), you really get to know a group of people when you are all lined up and down the side of a rocking boat, leaning and moaning, paying no attention to the never ending assault of salt water drenching your limp body, and wiping bodily fluids from your face and arms as the winds blows it in unexpected directions. Yes, we threw our dignity to the wind, along with everything in our stomachs.

After two hours of nausea, the boat stops and you spend the next three or four hours standing in the sun during the heat of the day with very fishy smelling bait, which doesn't do much for your very fragile stomach. It is exciting when you finally catch a fish, although this excitement is followed by (1) lots of pulling and tugging as you reel in your catch and (2) a bit of guilt as you watch your fish lay on the deck next to you and flop around as he slowly dies. If you are like me, the deck hands will laugh at you when you apologize to the suffering fish, whose stomach is bulging out of his mouth due to surfacing from deep water too quickly.

After about five hours, all the throwing up, standing in the sun, reeling and tugging, and dying fish leaves you with zero energy. That is when you say to yourself, "Wow, I caught three wonderful fish and I do not even know how to cook them. I think that is enough for me. Now I will go sleep in the air conditioned cabin." And the minute you sit down in the cabin, you know that you just made the best decision of your life.

Here's Chris and I with our catch, safely back on solid ground. Cheers!

New Adventures

Chris and I are leading out a pathfinder group this year. At our first meeting last week, Chris said a bad word and I told one of the kids that she asked a "bad question." I guess we can only improve this week. Here's to hoping!

Praise God for Work

Chris and I have every reason to praise God. After three months of unemployment, Chris is working again.

His new job title?

Architect.

His new office?

Less than two miles from our apartment.

His new salary?

Shame on you for even looking!

God has been so good to Chris and I. We lived for three months on one salary and emerged unscathed. We are now both working at jobs we enjoy and that challenge us to grow professionally. We have found a wonderful church family and friends in our new city. We are healthy, happy, and in love. Most importantly, we are humbled as we give all the glory to God, who has provided us with unimagined opportunities and blessings.

You Ate What?!?!?!?

Today I bathed Doug, our dog. He was very hyper after his bath. He was running around the house like a maniac. He threw his rope. He caught his rope. He chased after his rope. He ran circles around the couch. He ran back and forth between the rug and his bed. Then he stopped suddenly and made an ugly coughing noise. This is when I knew Doug's explosion of energy did not sit well with his recently filled stomach. I turned around expecting to see regurgitated dog food on the floor. I did not expect to see what looked like perfectly scrambled eggs. I looked at Doug inquisitively and asked, "When did you eat eggs, Doug." Then I realized that he did not regurgitate eggs. He regurgitated a fully intact, yellow condom. Yuck. Gross! Disgusting!!! Why did my dog eat a condom? How did my dog eat and regurgitate a condom? How many condoms has my dog eaten in the past? Double yuck!

You gross little dog Doug.

Quinoa Anyone?

I visited my parents this weekend. Every time I visit my parents, I leave with a lot more stuff than I arrived with. There are a number of factors that attribute to this phenomenon. First, I frequently discover something nostalgic from my childhood that I want to take home with me. This time I found my some of my favorite childhood books: The House that had Enough and Jenny Goes to the Hospital. I predict that I will someday be excited to read these books to my children, only to discover that my children do not appreciate them like I do.

Sometimes I leave my parents's house with more stuff than I arrived with because my mom always tries to give her stuff to me. During a prior visit, she tried to give me some pasta bowls. This weekend we ate out of the same pasta bowls and I commented on how cute they are. My mom then made a comment about how she tried to give them to me one time but I wouldn't take them. This weekend my mom offered to give me a small rocking chair she bought at a garage sale for $10. I would have taken it if my brother hadn't informed me that it was the only chair he has to sit in while he plays video games. I decided I'd rather my 19 year-old brother sit in a small rocking chair while playing violent video games than have the chair sitting in my living room.

My parents always load me up with food when I leave home. They frequently give me a cooler to keep the food cold while I drive home. So far, I have a red cooler, a blue cooler, and a hefty styrofoam cooler. This weekend I left with with the customary brisket and a bonus 1.5 gallon container of Quinoa. My parents have multiple 1.5 gallon containers of Quinoa sitting around the kitchen. My mom explained that my dad wanted to try Quinoa. My dad explained that he could only find Quinoa in very large quantities. I'm not sure how much I believe this considering my dad's affinity for food in large quantities. I'll never forget the oversized jar of baby corn that lived in our fridge for a while. He explained that one as a good deal, as we all know that baby corn also comes in small jars.

This past weekend I learned just how much my dad loves a good deal. One evening my dad explained that he buys the box of 24 mini ice cream sandwiches instead 12 regular size ice cream sandwiches because while both boxes are the same price, the mini ice cream sandwiches are over two ounces each and the regular ice cream sandwiches are only a little over three ounces. Perhaps even more telling of my dad's weak spot for a good deal are the National Geographic magazines. My dad, whom I have never witnessed reading for leisure, now subscribes to National Geographic. He informed my mom that it was a good deal. Upon seeing me read one of the National Geographic magazines, my mom seized upon the opportunity to send the magazines home with someone who might at least remove them from their plastic sleeve. So, when I left on Monday, I left with a bag full of National Geographic Magazines, as well as a number of Smithsonian and This Old House magazines. There must be a lot of good deals on magazine subscriptions. Perhaps it's inherent in the difference between the shelf price of a single magazine and the price of an annual subscription.

The best good deal that my dad has succumbed to is a vitamin system called Endless Youth. These vitamins arrive at my parents' house periodically. The problem is that my dad did not take the vitamins the first few times they arrived. As a result, there are multiple boxes of Endless Youth vitamins sitting on top of the fridge. I kindly declined my mom's offer to take home some Endless Youth Vitamins. I would hate to be accused of stealing youth from my parents. Besides, my car was already full of quinoa, magazines, and a cooler of meat.

You might wonder if my dad would be offended by this somewhat comical take on his impulse to buy things because they are a good deal. Don't worry, this blog requires reading for leisure, something my dad doesn't do even when he pays for it. Also, my dad isn't the least bit interested in computers. My mom showed my dad a compilation of images from the People of Wal-Mart website. My dad responded by stating that the person who made the video spent a lot of time sitting in Wal-Mart taking pictures. So, no, I don't think my dad will be reading this blog, and I expect you to keep your mouth shut the next time you see him.

Dirty Chuckie

I went to Chuckie Cheese the other night. I didn't remember Chuckie being so dirty.

Look me in the eyes when you're talking to me, Chuckie!

Old El Paso

Chris and I went to El Paso last weekend. We left Thursday after work. Two accidents and one freeway closure later, we arrived in El Paso at 3:30 Friday morning. The first hotel we tried was not pet friendly, despite online advertisements to the contrary. The second hotel was pet-friendly but required a 20 minute wait while hotel staff ran end-of-the-night reports. By 4:30 we were in our hotel room, just in time to watch the royal wedding.

Friday we slept in. We wandered around downtown El Paso (a very strange place). We ate at a fancy restaurant with individual purse racks and mints on a fancy platter. When we sat down the waiter asked us what kind of water we wanted. We should have replied, "Potable." The waiter would have responded in confusion at this unknown brand. We would have sighed and said, "Oh, just bring us some tap water."

The rest of the family arrived on Friday afternoon. We took Doug to Grandma Cuca's house and visited with everyone. At some point, Doug sat in gum, which we did not realize until he smeared it all over the floor of the car on the ride back to the hotel later that evening.

Saturday was the Bat Mitzvah for Chris' cousin. It started at 9:30 that morning. We were only 20 minutes late, which wasn't bad considering that we had four people sharing one bathroom, two power outages, and a belt crisis. The first power outage occurred when I plugged in my blow dryer without unplugging the mini refrigerator The second power outage occurred when Jesse, Chris' brother, plugged in the iron, while his wife Vanessa dried her hair. Chris then spent ten minutes recalling physics lessons and calculating the wattagge of all our appliances to ensure that the power outages would stop. Shortly after this, Jesse realized he had black shoes but no black belt. Chris found a thumb tack, which Vanessa used a poke an extra hole in the end of Chris' black belt so that it would fit Jesse. She succeeded, although there was hardly any belt left to tuck into the belt loop, causing the end of the belt to stick straight out.

I had no idea what to expect at the Bat Mitzvah and certainly did not expect a three hour service almost entirely in Hebrew. I tried to follow along with the English translations, but I was constantly distracted by the rituals going on all around me. Men were tucking their knees and bobbing their torsos as they prayed, the congregation joined in the readings with songs or chants a unexpected moments, and Chris' cousin paraded the Torah scrolls through the congregation so that everyone could touch with with the spines of their books.

Sabbath lunch was nothing short of comical, as was the dancing later that night at the Bat Mitzvah party (think Napolean Dynomite). We topped off the night by going to the very same Peter Piper's Pizza where Chris spent many Saturday nights as a child. I can now say with authority that the Pizza at Peter Piper's is much better than the pizza at Chuckie Cheese.

As I crawled into bed late Saturday night, I felt something wet. I looked down and saw a large yellow spot where Doug had been sleeping when we arrived at the hotel earlier that night. Ugh. We spent the next two hours washing the sheets and comforter, all the while ignoring Doug's playful antics. Luckily, everything cleaned up well. We finally crawled into bed at 3:00 a.m., only to wake-up five hours later, feast on homemade stuffed french toast, and drive 550 miles back home.

Who knew a trip El Paso would be so eventful.

Neighbors

Living in my last apartment was like living in a fiction novel. White Power Bill lived two doors down. He sat at the entrance to the parking lot in his power scooter or at his bedroom window with his binoculars watching everyone else all day, every day. The man with long, messy, greasy hair, a scruffy face, and dingy clothes, aimlessly walked the property with haunched shoulders, darkened eyes, and a protruding lower jaw. I never saw where he lived, nor did I want to know. Every now and then I saw the girl who wore the furry winter hat, even when it wasn't winter, loading her violin into her car. Below me lived loud talker, who moved to Lubbock temporarily but could not leave because she met a man, a man who was the brunt of regular yelling matches comprised of very ugly word. A tiny, old, shriveled hoarder who sat in the lobby playing a hand-held electronic poker game because his apartment was so dirty lived on the first floor. Jay, who had a cat for medical reasons, was an avid member of NORML, and might have cooked a little meth in his apartment one Saturday night lived on the second floor caddy corner from our apartment. And who could forget the OCD man who lived right next to the main entrance and sometimes forgot to close his blinds when wearing nothing but his underwear

Then we moved, and we met our new upstairs neighbors. They like to party. They like to party at night, never before 10:30. They like to party on the weekends and during the week. They like loud music when they party. They like to drink with other people when they party. The combination of people, loud music, and alcohol causes objects to fall on their concrete floors frequently, the same concrete that is our ceiling. They also like to smoke non-stop at their parties. This is why they always leave their windows open. This is also why our bathroom often smells like smoke, even though we don't even have friends who smoke.

The first few times we heard our neighbors, we ignored the noise and dismissed it as a one time nuisance. Eventually, we realized the one time nuisance was a non-stop lifestyle. So, late one night, in our pajamas and with messy bedtime hair, Chris and I went upstairs to the third floor to meet our neighbors and kindly inform them that their music was very loud. Upon exiting the stairwell, we were struck by the pounding music and strong smoke smell that filled the third floor hallway like a night club. This is when I realized that our neighbors should already know their music was very loud. I knocked on our neighbor's door anyway. They didn't answer. I waited for the song to end and knocked again. They still didn't answer. I stood to the side of the door as I knocked a third time so they couldn't see me through the peep hole. They finally answered. The neighbor lady quickly assured me she would stop the loud music, although she declined my kind gesture to introduce myself.

The loud music did not stop. It happened on New Years Eve when my in-laws were visiting. It happened on Wednesday nights when there was nothing to celebrate. It happened when we least expected it. It happened too often.

Last month the loud music started again. It was late, around 10:30 in the evening. It was a weeknight and we were getting ready for bed. Chris went upstairs first. Twenty minutes later, the music died down a bit Unfortunately, our neighbors thought we were asking them to turn down the music until 1:00 a.m., at which point they could turn it up even louder. This woke me up instantly, and I was not amused. This time I went up stairs. I noted the club-like atmosphere in the hallway upon exiting the stairwell. I loudly pounded on the neighbor's door without hesitation. I didn't back down when I heard the neighbors grumble before they opened the door.

The neighbor man who opened the door invited me into the smoked filled apartment and explained to me in his heavy italian accent that he works in music, with the likes of Beyonce, and therefore must listen to loud music late at night as part of his work. No, he could not wear headphones and no, he could not work during the day. He accused me of acting like an old lady for sleeping at such an hour on a week night. He explained that he, on the other hand, was 43 and could be my grandfather (perhaps he should stick to music). He told me that the city is dead and that he is trying to wake it up. He accused me of coming upstairs to sue him. He asked me what I wanted him to do multiple times, even though I had already explained that I wanted the loud music to stop. He told me that he loved me multiple times, even though that statement was always followed by asking my name again. He tried to "hug it out," despite my explicit refusal to do so. His wife attempted to intervene at times. I halfway wanted to deal with her because her thoughts were coherent. At the same time, however, she wasn't wearing pants, which made for an awkward conversation. After 20 minutes of talking in circles, I left. It was a pointless conversation with no resolution in sight.

The next day the music stopped after we complained to management in person and with much agitation. I think the neighbors are one complaint away from eviction because they have been extremely quiet for the last couple of weeks. Thank goodness, because I was starting to miss my comparatively calm neighbors at the old apartment.

The newest Sias

Chris and I adopted a dog. We named him Doug.

Sometimes, when I want Doug to do obey my commands right away, I sternly say, "Douglas, come here," or "Douglas, stop." Sometimes I do this when I'm walking him and I wonder if people overhearing me think that Douglas is a funny name for a dog.

Doug's favorite activity is to play fetch with a ball. This game could go on for hours.

One time Doug's ball fell in the river, and Chris was unable to retrieve it. Doug stood on the shore anxiously watching his ball float away. That was a stressful day for Doug, just as stressful as the day he saw ten or twelve little ducklings swimming in the river, darting around just out of his reach. I don't think Doug likes to swim because as much as he barked and whined and ran and reached for the baby ducks, he never came close to falling in the water.

Doug also likes to chase squirrels. After watching him play with soft, squishy toys, I'm almost certain I know what he would do if he caught a squirrel. First, he would grab it by the neck with his mouth. After he had mouthed it around a bit to ensure a firm grip, he would violently shake his head back and forth so fast that the squirrel would die almost instantly. This shaking would be so intense that the squirrel's bushy tail would whip around wildly, hitting doug in the face as he shook the small animal. Then, Doug would playfully throw the squirrel into the air, catch it, and continue shaking it's now limp body. Next, Doug would place the squirrel on the ground, strategically put his two front feet together on the squirrel's body for leverage, and begin pulling on the squirrel's skin with his teeth in an attempt to rip it open. He would pull the squirrel's skin from the exact point where his front feet come together, so as to maximize the tension between his feet pushing down and his teeth pulling away, causing his shoulders to arch sharply over his head and neck. After a few seconds of tugging on the squirrel's skin, Doug would bring the squirrel to me, drop it at my feet, and look at me with his bloody mouth slightly opened and his tail wagging, waiting for me to play fetch. This is why Doug can never catch a squirrel. Or a cat. Or a duckling.

I like to think that Doug knows we rescued him from the city pound where they "destroy" the animals that go unadopted. I'm sure that makes him thankful to be the first addition to our family. Now we are husband, wife, and dog.