Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

This shouldn't bother me, but it does. So I'm going to write about it- it's what I do.

Bro and I live in a house we rent from our dad's dad. We've been trying since last fall to get our bathroom re-done, for various reasons it just hasn't happened. So Grandpa tells me his friends son is a carpenter and can do the work. Great! So Monday Grandpa brings over Handyman Brad. Handyman Brad is a CREEPER and a drunk. No, really. He called to set up a time to come install my front door and literally said, "You'll have to forgive me, I'm a little buzzed." NICE. But whatever, I don't have to deal with him... Grandpa does.

So I've got at least one drunk coming to my house (I definitely locked my bedroom door and advised Bro to do the same) to work on my front and back doors and a dog that is notorious for sneaking out. So I took Floyd to Doggie Daycare. That's right, Grandma's house. We went over last night for a little while to visit and set up his run. I also wanted Gram to practice putting Floyd on and off his lead, because while he's gentle and loving- he's also a clumsy blockhead and has almost knocked me down a time or two and I'm not 82. Oh, wait, it's 78- she started counting backwards once she hit 80. I'm going to get hit for those last two sentences, I know it!

ANYWAY, Gram and Floyd got to hang out today. He was, according to the babysitter, Very Good. My only two concerns with the whole situation were 1.) Floyd would eat Gram's cat or 2.) he would somehow knock her over/yank on her with the leash. But all was well. Gram said he would lay on the couch, then come sit with her awhile, then go look out the door. Floyd likes looking out the front windows and door to watch the traffic go by- he doesn't get a lot of that at our house...

When I came over after work, everything was fine so Gram and I went and got dinner at the steak place in town. It was either that or Bob Evans, but steak and sweet potatoes won. When we got back, my uncle was at Gram's house. When we got out he said, "I met your dog!" We had left Floyd in the garage, not really thinking that Uncle might come around, we didn't lock the garage door- or warn him the dog was in there. Luckily, Floyd just ran out, peed and came back to Uncle. I say "luckily" because the little pecker head has taken off on both Bro and me in the past.

I didn't realize but my Uncles daughter, my 10 year old cousin was in Gram's house with a friend of hers. Floyd has never, since his recorded history started at the Humane Society anyway, been around kids. Now 10 is different than 3 so I wasn't really concerned. He probably just thought she was a runt. When Floyd, Gram, Uncle and I walked in the first thing Runt said was "when we opened the garage door he growled at us!"

Now I'm about the most realistic person I know. I know no one is perfect- and you never really know what anyone - or anything- is capable of. So it's entirely possible that my dog growled at my cousin. I mean he was in a new place and they probably scared each other- he wasn't expecting a Runt to come running in the garage, and she wasn't expecting a dog to be in the garage- let alone a pit bull. And even though we've had Floyd for 4 months (well it will be 4 months on the 2nd) Runt had never met him.

But I've got a pretty good handle on my dog. And on Runt. She's a good kid for the most part- but most of our family members have caught her in bold faced lies. I mean, I lied as a kid, but generally it was to save my own tail- not just to cause drama. And I have never heard Floyd growl since we've had him. Bark, burp, fart, whine, whimper, yip, yelp- yes. Growl, no. (No I don't beat my dog- he's just a baby and thinks the world is ending if I leave him outside 1 second longer than he wants to be left out- hence the whining, whimpering, yipping and yelping.)

Gram and Uncle shut Runt down pretty quick though. Gram said, "oh I don't think he would growl." And Uncle said, "this is what he did when he met me," Floyd was licking his hand. Then Runt said it. The words that ticked me off. "Well, he is a pit bull."

And you my dear are a Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire.

A few seconds after that, she was down on the floor playing with Floyd- which totally affirmed my suspicion that she had been lying. When I was 10, if a dog had growled at me I would have left it the heck alone! Not gotten on the floor to play with it. Logically I know I should take the whole thing with a grain of salt- Runt is 10, she's a notorious liar/drama queen, she had a captive audience and a ready made 'villain'. A better scene could not have been set if she asked for it.

But it still ticks me off. If he wasn't a pit, if he was a regular old mutt we'd picked up at the pound- this never would have been an issue. It never would have happened. It's the old pit bull/ evil dog stereotype.

Bro and I both do what we can to show people that Floyd is a good dog. All 50 goofy, clutzy, silly, spazy, sleepy, farty, snuggly pounds of him.

Creeper Police, where are you?

I've been at my current job 2 years now, sometimes it feels like I started only yesterday, sometimes it feels like I've never done anything else. After 2 years, we share too many inside jokes and nicknames (for ourselves and others). For instance, the other day I worked on Perry Ellis's car all day, only taking time out to talk with Dickie Doo and Pizza Boy. Perry Ellis is so named because I told him he smelled good one day, he puffed out his chest, stuck up his chin and said, "it's Perry Ellis." Dickie Doo is Dickie Doo because we couldn't remember his name- it just stuck. And Pizza Boy isn't that hard to figure out. Except there is only one Pizza Boy, but others can be refered to as Pizza Boys. It's confusing, but we understand. It's almost a second language. One nickname we've come up with that has helped us a number of times is the Creeper Police, or CP.

One of our customers, Phil, decided he wanted a badge on his car, not exactly like a police officer, but of that idea. While we were dealing with him, another customer came in, a real creeper. So the joke was we needed Phil to be our Creeper Police. Since then, when there's a total creep we warn each other by saying something about the CP.

I should have recruited the CP before yesterday, because boy do I need them. Yesterday, I joined match.com. I've kicked it around for awhile, but never taken the actual steps to get signed up. My profile has been up less than 24 hours and I'm already wondering what I got myself into.

So far, I have used the excuses "Sorry, I'm gonna go- I've got to go walk my dog," and "You look too much like my uncle, it would be weird for me to go out with you." I only said the uncle thing because the poor guy looked like Sloth from the Goonies. No, I don't have an uncle that looks like Sloth, but I doubt the guy would have appreciated my comparison. So I lied.

Like everything else in my life, if nothing else, match.com will be an interesting experience.

Holy Summer!

So I realized today that I have plans, big plans, for nearly every weekend this summer. Already. It's not even June.

Here is, more or less, my summer plans in chronological order: Kelly & Matt's wedding, Ness's birthday bash ( 5th anniversary of her 21st birthday), Anthony's HS grad part, Jessica's College grad part, wedding with Summer (her husband won't go, so I'm her date), Indy?, BROOKS N DUNN & GARY ALLEN w/ Ness @ Blossom, JIMMY BUFFETT in Pittsburgh, Steph's wedding shower, the 5th anniversary of my 21st birthday, Stephs bachelorette party... whooo boy. That's not even mentioning the summer staple events like camping, bonfires and floating at the pit. It's gonna be a good one folks!

Not gonna lie, most excited about Jimmy Buffett though. I've never seen him in concert, but I've been a huge fan for years! He has some of the best lyrics ever, I mean "The weather is here, wish you were beautiful. My beer's too cold, the daquairi too fruitiful." Come on! That's pure genius! My bff from highschool, Heather and I used to blast JB 24/7. If we weren't singing Cheeseburger in Paradise, something was wrong. Or we were sleeping.

I've even read his books. A Salty Piece of Land is probably my favorite. The best way I can describe a Jimmy Buffett book is, like taking a boat trip down a river. You're heading down the river in your boat, then you come to a fork so you head right. You go through some rapids and down a small waterfall. Now you're in a smaller river, more like a stream. Now it's a creek. The creek runs out and now you're going through a swamp. So you stop at a cabin in the swamp for some gumbo with a Cajun family, eat some crawfish, eat some gumbo then head out again. You keep going past the rock that looks like a gator, hang a left by the half sunk bouy, and somehow, miracuously, you're back on the same river you started out on. No kidding, that's how Jimmy Buffett tells a story. But it works for him.

The summer I graduated from highschool we went to Hawaii and got to eat at Cheesburger in Paradise. It was about the coolest thing ever.

When I worked in Florida, we went to Margaritaville in Orlando- LOVED IT! Got a t-shirt there that says TRESSPASSERS WILL BE offered a SHOT on the back.

Then, last summer my best friends from college and I took a long weekend and went to my aunt and uncles cottage on Lake Erie. On the way up I saw signs for 'The Original Margaritaville.' I was pretty excited, so we made plans to go for dinner one night. Turned out to be a cheesy Mexican restaurant. I was highly dissapointed.

But hands down, my favorite Buffett experience (thus far) was last fourth of July weekend. I was in my cousin Allisons wedding at the Science Center in downtown Cleveland. During the wedding I was on a first name basis with the bartender, so to say I was feelin no pain by the end of the night was kind of an understatement. When the reception ended, we went down to some bar that I can't remember the name of- I was even still rockin my sapphire blue bridesmaids dress! Well we got kicked out of that bar because one of the kids with us was too drunk to stand up. So we headed back to the Marriot downtown to drop off the pansy's that couldn't keep up. We were hanging out in the lobby, waiting for everyone to re-group so we could head back out, and being entertained by a man with a guitar.

There were about 20 random hotel guests gathered around him for an impromptu koombaiya session. I, being the supportive drunk I am, decided to start clapping and swaying to the music. I barely have rythm when I'm sober, forget about when I've had a few (and then a few more.) So the man finishes his song, I clap and probably hoot and/or holler. He asked me if I had any requests, so I call out "Cheeseburger in Paradise by Jimmy Buffett!" He replies, "I do not know this Buffett, I'm from Brazil." To which I reply, "YOU DON'T KNOW BUFFETT?!" Then he says the words I'm sure he now regrets, "Sing it, I will accompany you."

And that my friends, is how I came to sing/slur Jimmy Buffett's Cheeseburger in Paradise, wasted, in a sapphire blue bridesmaids dress at 1 oclock in the morning, to a lobby full of Marriot finest patrons, accompanied by a Brazillian on his guitar.

I know Jimmy would be proud.

If I ruled...

If I ruled the universe, Karma would be measured in zits. If you are a good person, no zits. If you're an asshole, lots of zits. It only seems fair.

That way, 1.) You'd know the good eggs from the bad, and 2.) There would actually be some punishment for idiots who get away with murder, or those who don't wave when you let them into traffic. I HATE when people don't wave when I let them into traffic.

If karma was measured in zits, you'd think I robbed a bank, kicked a puppy, burned down a nursing home then went to snack time at the local KinderKare and ate all the rice crispy treats so the little kids went hungry. Yeah, it's that bad.

If you don't see me tomorrow, check my bed- I either OD'd on Clearasil or just refuse to come out from under the covers.

I know Crazy

After yesterday's post, I feel the need to clarify a bit. My last boyfriend was crazy- certifiably crazy- but he hasn't been the only crazy in my life. In fact, I've encountered enough Crazy that it's now one of my 'rules.' The rules are actually my standards for dating someone- they're not that difficult.

1.) Must be taller than me
2.) Must not weigh less than me
3.) Does not work with me
4.) Can not be a Mama's boy
5.) Does not bring more craziness to my life than I bring to his.

See, not that tough. The first three were the original rules, the last two I added after bad experiences. Girls, if you're dude is a Mama's boy, don't walk, RUN away. TRUST ME.

And as far as Crazy, I think I'm a Crazy Magnet.

In no particular order, why I don't date Crazies anymore:

1.) In college I lived in the Townhomes, a notorious party location. We pretty much lived up to the expectations and had weekly parties. Flip Cup Fridays were a blast- but also resulted in a serious lack of judgement sometimes. One particular evening I decided my neighbor was pretty cute. He thought I was pretty cute too. One beer lead to another, and we decided to go to my room to watch a movie. It was all very PG, nothing big and exciting happened- which was great because I had a serious case of beer goggles. (Grandma, that's when someone looks cuter after about 6 beers than they do when you're sober. Not that alcohol has ever passed my lips. No Ma'am.) Anyhoo, we ended up falling asleep at some point during the movie. In the morning, I has half awake, realized 'Holy crap, he's still here!' and promptly rolled over and pretended I was still asleep. He leaned over me, kissed my shoulder and whispered "I love you" in my ear. I wish I was making this shit up. The joke was on him though, turns out while he was snoring in my bed, someone had broken into his room and stolen his tv and Play Station 2. Whoopsie. Maybe he shouldn't have been such a creeper.

2.) I was at the bar with some of my guy friends from one of the restaurants I was working in when we met up with one of their friends who I didn't know. By the end of the night he had asked me out. He wasn't really my type, I equate my type to a kid at Christmas- all this kid wants for Christmas is a red 10 speed bike- but when he wakes up Christmas morning, he finds a scientific calculator. This guy was definetly not a bike, he was a calculator. But hey, calculators are handy and good to have around, sure it's not as cool as a bike- but a bike can't balance your check book for you. So I went out with him. One night, we were sitting at the bar chatting with a friend of his who was asking me about myself. I told him I was trying to get an internship in either Montana or Texas (at the time, I was). My date piped up, "I've never been to Texas, but I've always wanted to go. Yeah, I could live in Texas." My first thought was, "Uh, I didn't ask you to go..." but I (for once) kept my mouth shut. A few minutes later the subject of kids came up. The friend had a son, and asked me if I wanted children. I said, "Yeah, I'd like 3 kids some day." My date kinda sat back in his chair, whistled through his teeth and said, "I'll have to work harder than I thought to support 3 kids, but it's doable." SAY WHAT?!?! We had been seeing each other 2 weeks. YEAH. Crazy. I attract it like flies to shit.

3.) I dated my ex for about 9 months. Turns out, he wasn't just a white trash loser, he was an ALCOHOLIC white trash loser. Yeah. Looking back, I equate it to finding a stray dog. A mean, beaten, sick, dirty little dog. I bring it in the house, clean it up and think I'll make a lap dog out of it. Some days I had a lap dog. Some days, I came downstairs to the trash torn up, poop on the floor and got bit in the ass. I had the best of intentions, but some dogs just don't want to be lap dogs. They're too used to being kicked everytime they turn around so the take to biting first, asking questions later. I was tired of being bit so I showed the dog the door. Unfortunatly, the dog was drunk and didn't want to leave. Instead of calling the cops, I called his dad. Eventually his dad got the dog out on the porch, so I took the opportunity to lock the front door and head out the back. I grabbed my keys, called home said "I'm coming up," peeked around the corner to see if I could get my car out- I couldn't, it was parked in. So I called my pops, told him to come pick me up that I'd be in a driveway up the street. I stealthily ran through my side yard to the road and headed north about 1/4 mile and stood at the end of a neighbors driveway until Pops came to pick me up. He made the 2o+ minute drive in less than 15. At somepoint Mom had called Bro who called me, heard the story, then called the police. Long story short- Pops showed up, the dog left, Bro & Girl showed up, Cops didn't. Good thing I didn't really need them!
3 months later, I've only had him threaten suicide, tell me he was dying in a multitude of different ways, had someone from his family tell me he HAD died... it's been fun. I've only had to threaten a restraining order, block two phone numbers and an e-mail account of his to get him to leave me alone. Did I mention he was Crazy?

I just don't get it- I know I'm pretty awesome, but I don't think I'm cool enough to go crazy over.

Who knew?

Love or Money?

So on my way into work this morning the David Nail song Red Light came on the radio. It's about a guy going for a ride with his girl and at a red light she breaks up with him out of nowhere. Now either the writer had an active imagination, or it actually happened to him. If it happened to him, he went home, poured out his poor broken heart and wrote a song. Then the song sold a ton of copies and now he's a millionaire. So my question is, would he rather have kept his love and his ordinary life, or been dumped, written a song and made a million bucks???

Personally, I would have written the song. But if I would have written it, it wouldn't be some broken hearted country song. My failed love story song would be something along these lines,

Hey you, what's new?
Out celebratin the single life,
how bout you?
Yeah baby, me too.
You leave him or he leave you?
Do you see me cryin?
Ha if he walked in right now,
what would you do?

I'd say 'sorry you're crazy,
sorry you're lazy,
sorry you're out of your mind.
Yeah we were together for awhile
started out as a real good time
One day I woke up n realized
just how far you'd drug me down.
So I kicked ya to the curb
and headed to town
callin over my shoulder,

Sorry you're crazy,
sorry you're lazy,
sorry you couldn't buy a clue-
Dude, I'm so over you!

Copyright Echo 2010

In with the new!

So I've come to realize, it's a heck of a lot easier kicking a 50 pound snoring dog out of bed than kicking a 250 pound snoring man out of bed. If I have to sleep with a snorer, I prefer the canine variety. When we first brought Floyd home, February 2, 2010, I tentatively broached the subject I was nervous about, "So, uh, he's gonna sleep with you, right?" I asked Bro. He looked at me, his eyes got wide and he was like, "I thought for sure you'd want him to sleep with you!" "No way! I just got my bed back to myself, I'm not ready to share yet!" So the first few nights the boys bunked together and I sprawled out, loving the peace, quiet and ample leg room in my queen sized bed. THat weekend Bro went to Girls house, so I (somewhat reluctantly) let Floyd-o sleep with me. We had a little power struggle at first. No Floyd, you do not get the pillow. No Floyd, you do not get under the covers. Really? Floyd, must you sleep in the middle of the bed? Once we worked out that the bottom third, from the duvet cover uo was Floyd Territory, everything went smoothly. Ever since, we basically share him at night. The few nights a week when we're both home, Floyd chooses who he wants to sleep with based on who goes to bed closest to the time Floyd is ready for bed. He's pathetic. We're pathetic for letting him rule us like we do. But, what can I say? We love him.

I didn't realize he acted differently with Bro in the mornings than he did with me, until one moring Bro came downstairs laughing. He said, "when he wakes up he's ready to play, he just wants to play and rip around." I laughed and said, "really? because when he sleeps with me I tell him 'time to get up,' he skooches up the bed and snuggles next to me almost like saying 'just 5 more minutes.' I literally wake up early to cuddle with Floyd before getting ready for work. Now, that being said- do I seem like the type of girl to sleep with, let alone wake up early to cuddle a blood thirsty killing machine? I know some of you odn't know me all that well- but no. I am not that type of girl. And yeah, I've heard it said, it's not the pitbull in general- it's all how they're raised. If they're raised in a kind loving home, they'll be kind, loving dogs. Well Curve Ball for ya- we adopted Floyd at 2 1/2 years old. He had been abused. The people at the shelter, where he had been for almost a year, could only tell us he was picked up with 3 other dogs because they had no food, no water and deep lacerations. You should see the scars on my poor boy. Girl calls him Scar Face. And still, he has the capacity to trust us, learn from us, to love us. That is why we adopted a pitbull.

**Note the teal green leather chair...

Out with the old...

The night after I broke up with my first serious boyfriend- who happened to be the biggest loser on the face of the earth (can I pick em or what?)- my family was headed up to Cleveland to see Ron White. He's one of the Blue Collar Comedy guys and he's pretty freakin hilarious. Anyway, we were in the car on the way up and Bro mentioned that his Girlfriend had gotten an e-mail about an abused pitbull that needed a home. It said 'his name is Buddy, he's had a hard life, but he's put that past him and just wants to be your Buddy.' I didn't hesitate, I said "e-mail them back, let's get Buddy. I want Buddy!" Besides being a companion, I figured a new dog would keep my mind off my A-Hole ex. Buddy was not meant to be ours, but it's all good- he was adopted that night before we got home from the show. From that day on, it was a hunt for 'Our dog.'

Now some of you may be thinking Pitbull?! Aren't those the dogs that eat little kids? Well, yeah, maybe, when they are raised by psychopaths and drug dealers. Honestly, I used to think the same way. My first experience with a pitbull was a mean little pit whose owner had no control over it. A mean dog with a negligent owner, no matter what the breed, is a bad combination. Anyway, I didn't think I liked pits until I met Rebel. Bro's girlfriend has 2 dogs, Brutus and Rebel. Brutus is a huge old black teddy bear of a lab mix and Rebel is a big goofy sweetie pie pit bull. The first night I met Rebel we had a party at the house, things got a little wild (happens to the best of us, right?) I was puking off the porch before midnight. A Life Lesson was learned that night- Life Lesson #59, do not mix cold medicine with alcohol. I went to bed with the Zucchini Rotten Hell Bowl next to my pillow, just in case, and woke up in the morning, hating my life.

Wait. Zucchini Rotten Hell Bowl, I can't just throw that out there and not explain- Once upon a time I grated a bunch of zucchini to make z bread with chocolate chips. I didn't get every single little piece of zucchini out of the bowl- those pesky little hangers on stuck to the sides. Thinking nothing of it, I threw the bowl in the sink and went on my merry way. A few days later I came home to the unwashed bowl, still in the sink, but now with the caption "Zucchini Rotten Hell Bowl" written on it. APPARENTLY rotting zucchini smells like hell. And in my roommates minds, writing that the bowl smells like rotten zucchini hell makes the smell go away. Not washing it, heck no! It's been 2 years and you can still read Rotten Zucchini Hell Bowl- I don't think it's ever coming off. Ok, back to my story.

So I was hungover as all get out, but I had to pee. Isn't that the worst? You're afraid you'll puke if you move, but if you don't move you'll pee yourself?? So anyway, I stumbled down the steep, narrow steps from my attic room, 'The North Wing' as we call it, to use the bathroom. It was far to much work to go back upstairs to bed, so I curled up in our hideous (but oh so comfy) casted off, casted off, casted off teal green leather arm chair. (Whoever bought the furniture in the first place had zero taste or was color blind. And the person that designed the furniture and decided to cover it in teal leather should be slapped.) That's about the time Rebel came prancing downstairs from Bro's room. She walked up to me, licked my knee then climbed up and sat on me. Now I'm hungover with a 100 pound dog sitting on my lap looking at me like 'This is ok right? Cuz I wanna sit with you, ok? I know you don't feel good but I still love you, so Hey, while I'm here, pet me, Please Please Please PET ME!" How could I refuse? Which at the time, for me, was super impressive. I was just out of college and not into pets. I wouldn't like kick a puppy or anything- I just didn't want to get all furry, stinky, gross from having a dog or a cat all up on me. I was so not into animals my mom would wish that I would fall in love with a vet- just because she thought my it would be hilaroius. After that though, me n Rebel were buds. We even spent a drunken (well, I was drunk) night cuddling on the floor of Girls house after a wedding.

So I knew Rebel was a pit, and I knew I liked her. Then one day I was bored, flipping through the channels and came across a tv show "Pitbulls & Parolees" on Animal Planet. Good thing it was a marathon, becuase I was HOOKED! It's a show about the largest pitbull rescue in the country, Villa Lobos, that is run by parolees from the county jail- the main themes though are about second chances and misconceptions. It shows these rescuers going to find abandoned and abused dogs, who have such a stereotype against them, who if you believe the stereotype should try to eat these people trying to rescue them- but in reality, 9 times out of 10 the dog comes running up to them like 'Hey! Get me outta here! I want to be with you! Got any hotdogs, I'm starvin!' My interest was definetly piqued, so I checked out their website www.vrcpitbull.com. I was totally sucked in, looking at pictures and bios of dogs up for adoptoin. Now I'm realizing how sad it is that it took me days to go through all the dogs that were up for adoption. The A-Hole Ex was still around and he was all for adopting one. I was like Really? You can't even take care of yourself and you want to get a dog? Come on. So fast forward a few months, A-Hole is gone (Lets sing it! Ding dog the dick is gone!) and Bro and I were looking at becoming pit parents.

Well, here we go

Hi! My name is Erin, but I'm known to some as Echo. It's one of the many various and varied nicknames I've picked up over the years. I kinda like it. So, from here on out, I am Echo. Welcome to my world. Hang on tight, it gets a little bumpy sometimes!

When I was in fifth grade, I had to turn in a poetry notebook for a language arts assignment. One of the poems I wrote was:

My brother ---- is a nerd
He belongs in a cow herd

I accompanied that lovely little ditty with my borther's third grade class picture cut out and pasted on the body of a cow I had drawn on construction paper. Apparently the rest of the poetry in my notebook was better than that particular poem because my teacher decided to save the notebook as a 'good example' to show to future classes. Two years later, my bro who was now in fifth grade, comes home in tears. All of his friends were making fun of him- something to do with cows, huh, who'd've though that would come back to haunt me? The point to my story is, Dad made me promise not to write about my family anymore. But I'm going to anyway because family is a huge part of me life- and my bro is my roommate. So to keep my promise, I'm just not going to use their real names. Sounds like a pretty good compromise to me, right?

So my bro, who eventually got over the whole cow poem thing, told me about this awesome website stumbleupon.com. You sign up (it's free!) check off things that interest you and hit 'stumble.' The site generates other websites that you should be interested in based off your, well, interests. So after stumbling around for a few weeks, falling more and more in love with this amazing new time waster with every site I'm led to, I found The Pioneer Woman. www.thepioneerwoman.com Pioneer Woman is a racher's wife, homeschooling, mother of four who blogs about her life in such a unique and hilarious way, she completely inspired me to start this, my own blog. So here it is, love it or leave it, my attempt at blogging. WARNING- I will misuse commas, this dashy thing - and definetly the ever lovin dot dot dot... and I will probably end sentences with prepositions. And not use apostrophe's correctly. Don't judge me. I had the chicken pox in fourth grade, so I was out of school for two weeks. Then I got pneumonia and was out for another two weeks. Four weeks out in fourth grade means I'm not good with apostrophe's. And I don't really know the difference between adverbs and adjectives. And let's just forget about my 6, 7 & 8 times tables. But anyway, back to my blog, I'm calling my blog The Pit Girl because I'm from a pit, live in, on and around a pit and most importantly- I love a pit.

What exactly is a pit? you may ask. A pit is short for a sand and gravel pit, or aggregate mine. Stones in your driveway? Came from a pit. Concrete sidewalk? The sand in the cement came from a pit- maybe even the one my family owns. My grandpa bought the pit back in the 70's and my dad worked there until he bought it in 2000 or 2001. It's a family business- from my grandpa and dad to my aunt, uncle, mom, brother and I- we've all punched the time clock at the pit. Even my mom's brother and his sons have worked there just to make it even more confusing and that much more of a family affair. So to say I come from a pit is honest, it's part of my heritage. As far as the living In, On and Around a pit- well Grandpa bought all the land around the pit except for a few acres with a farm house on it. When he finally acquired that as well, one of the pit employees (Mom and I lovingly call them Pit People) rented the house. When he moved out, Bro moved in. A few months later, his highschool buddy moved in with him. Then in July of 2008, I moved in with the boys. Some of the Pit People call our house the 'Frat House,' I have no idea why. Maybe, because on any given weekend night the first summer we all lived together, you would find people in various stages of intoxication in various ares of the house, the porch, the yard, the driveway, the field... but then that's just a guess. Random passed out bodies on the porch or not, we just call it Home. And while we clean up nice, we are not naturally neat freaks- we will never win awards for our housekeeping- hence the live 'In' a pit. Since it's pit property that's the 'On.' And literally, you can see three gravel pits if you stand on my front porch- that's the 'Around.' I know what you're thinking- that you've never even heard of a pit, let alone know what one is and here's this girl with three of em? It's all in location, location, location. There are a TON of pits in this county, apparently there was a huge glacier deposit way back when that left all the aggregate in this area. If you're curious, or a nerd like me, check out this website www.ohiohistorycentral.org.

As for me loving a pit, it's absolutely true. I love the pit, I mean it has supported my family, essentially put my tail through college and is the source of my favorite part of summer- floating in the clear waters of the pond. But my other pit love is Floyd, our pitbull. So while my blog is mostly going to be a journal of my day to day life- funny stories, memories, rants, raves, you name it... I'll also write about Floyd and how much fun he is, how my friends are getting married and how not fun that is for the terminally single, and just for more fun I'll throw in what it's like living in a podunk town that's a mix between Hicktown and Margaritaville.

If nothing else, this ought to be interesting.

Echo