Dead in a ditch on the side of the road (but then, where else would a ditch be?)

When we were growing up, my mother loved to guilt-trip us about being home on time (or calling if we weren't going to be) by telling us that when she didn't know where we were, she thought we were "dead in a ditch on the side of the road." It's one of those phrases that has gone into Neiheisel-lore, which, when recited, is done so in sing-songy unison by the whole of the family offspring. Now expecting my first, I find that I, too, am more worried about where and how people are, in particular my husband (since the offspring is pretty easy to keep tabs on at present). Wes often comes home several hours after his shift ends, owing to the time it takes to finish up with patients and catch a bus home. Occasionally he gets something to eat with a colleague or stops by the office to sends some emails or do some work and doesn't call first. If he's within 2-3 hours of the end of his shift, I don't really worry -- or try not to.

So when I woke up last night at 3:30am (doesn't everyone wake up to pee then?) and saw the other side of the bed still empty -- despite a shift that ended at midnight -- I was a little worried. Wes has recounted incidences recently when he's narrowly missed one bus or another and ended up walking home. Chicago isn't completely safe, but the strip between here and the hospital, especially down Michigan Avenue, is brightly lit and somewhat inhabited even in the wee hours. The other day, however, he mentioned walking home at 2am through the Loop -- something he would have personally assaulted me for doing. When I was still awake and worried at 4am -- Wes, bloodied and unconscious in an obscure corner of the west side of Chicago, where he had been taken by evil gang members -- I decided to give him a call. Just as the first ring subsided, I heard his keys in the door.

Where, pray tell, was my husband? He'd finished his shift shortly after midnight, gone to his office with the intention of doing a little work, and promptly fallen asleep.

How Lucy decided to approach the situation

What we saw from over the bushes

She's just not that into you

Those who have met Lucy know that she's a pretty happy dog. Yes, she barks when new people when they come in the apartment (or anyone walks by the door...), she growls if you move your feet when she's trying to sleep on them, and she sighs a lot, especially while falling to sleep at night. But by and large, she's an easygoing kind of beagle. She is dog friendly, though less so than in her younger days. She prefers larger dogs to smaller ones, and she usually just wants to get a sniff, say hi, and be on about her way. She spends most of her time at the park smelling the grass, trolling for bunnies, and rolling on her back in all kinds of unsavory piles. Occasionally, though, there will be a dog or owner who just doesn't get that she doesn't want to play with them. I've got no problem with a dog owner bringing his or her dog over to meet Lucy and let them sniff. But Lucy is pretty clear when she's not interested. She doesn't approach the other dog or walks away after the initial butt clearance check. Unfortunately, not all dog owners seem to read these signals the same way.

Yesterday, there was a lady in the park whose pug-like dog wanted to meet Lucy. They sniffed, Lucy wagged her tail, and then she turned and walked away. I usually say "bye" in that situation to indicate that we're moving on, but in this case, the lady just kept following us. Lucy tried to find a place to poop, and there was this dog. She tried to follow a ripe trail, and there was this dog. It was unclear who was getting more annoyed by all this -- me or Lucy. At one point, I wanted to turn to the lady and her dog (neither of whom, it seemed, understood any English based on my previous attempts at conversation) and say, "Look, she's just not that into you."

From Grant Park

A cool tree (wait, weren't you in The Wizard of Oz?) and Buckingham going off.

Up in the air

We took a "family walk" the other afternoon, during which time Wes took lots of pictures with the new camera. For reasons that are unclear to me, he kept wanting to take pictures of us holding the dog above our heads. Now, I'm not that keen on trying to hold a 27-pound dog, prone to anxiety attacks above my head when I'm not 7 1/2 months pregnant, but I was especially wary to do so given that I am. Wes did manage to completely hoist her for his shot. The dog was non-plussed by the whole thing.