Hair of the Dog

James is going to regale you with tales of our travels in France; so I won't mention the Fr-word again and I'll stick to an entirely different topic... I'm thinking dog hair.

It seems that the longer we're away from America, the more intense the homesickness (not quite the right word) is becoming... and the odder the things that trigger those feelings! Take the dog hair. It was so annoying to find a black Remy-hair on a clean white shirt (according to James) or stuck fast between the S and the D keys on my laptop. Let's not mention the rogue hairs that collected in really gross places like the bottom shelf in the freezer door or under the soap dish in the spare bathroom... Yeah, let's not.

Instead, let's talk about poo-bags. (Because British people don't say 'poop.') It was so frustrating to find those scrunched-up little pink bags in every single pocket of every single jacket, bag or pair of jeans I owned. We'd go to Vegas and so would sixty-six (new) poo-bags -- one in every handbag, backpack, jeans pocket, plus fifty more in the boot/trunk of the car. Someone would open a car door at the side of the road on the way to Estes, and a gazillion little pink bags would float out into the wilderness. We'd find them stuffed down behind the washing machine, folded into tiny squares and stuck under the coin dish, tied to our keyrings. Everywhere.

Now I can actually get sentimental over a scrumpled-up (clean) poo-bag -- one that mysteriously ends up on a dressing table in a hotel room in France. Or a Remy-hair inside a shoe; a pair I bought in London only three weeks ago. I miss that dog, but I suspect I'm focusing all my homesickness and missing-ness (missickness?) on him, in an effort of wimpy self-preservation. Gosh, if I can cry at the sight of a (unused) poo-bag, imagine what else might set me off...

We are happy here; I'm happy here. I'm so very grateful for a job I really love and have learned so much from already, and the most incredible scenery right on our doorstep. I just miss the poo-bags; the nasty little dog hairs; our church; our friends; more incredible scenery; the best dog in the world... and not neccesarily in that order!

***A little disclaimer: all bags that escaped with the wind were dutifully chased after and stuffed back into the car -- or a pocket, or a bag. Perhaps that's why they were so very everywhere. ***