I think I’m over hard boiled eggs. For the past few weeks, I’ve been eating three of them just about every morning. Before you turn into my mother and accuse me of getting fatter by the second, I don’t eat the yolk. Just the whites. And now I’m tired of them. I have to find something new to get sick of at breakfast time.

I’ve been really bad about updating my picture of the day. I’ve taken one every day – haven’t missed – but I also haven’t posted. My bad. I should have some free time this weekend and I’ll make sure to post the past week’s worth. Not that any of you look at those pictures, but I feel obligated to apologize for my slack-ness.

I’ve recently thought about posting pictures featured on this blog directly to Flickr. It seems easy enough and then I don’t have to mess with as much html. But that means I’ll have to pay Flickr $29.99 for the rest of my life if I want the links to keep working. And I’m not sure I want to give them that much money. I mean, I pay the fee now, but what if in five years a better, cheaper alternative comes out? I’ll still be Flickr’s bitch. And it won’t be cool.

So I’ll continue posting directly to the site for the time being, which means I will continue to eat up space on servers. I don’t know much about the server – or company – that hosts this. I really out to check in with my Webmaster Extrordinaire and find out how this whole thing works.

Speaking of blogs, I recently came across the most beautiful and heartbreaking blog I’ve ever read. I think you should read it, too, but if you have a heart, make sure you’ve got a box of tissues handy. You very well may need them.

This bothered me yesterday. This seriously, truly bothered me yesterday:

So, I was in the corporate gym. There are five treadmills. I was on the treadmill in the center, the others were empty. Then a woman came in and got on the far right treadmill. So it went like this: empty treadmill, empty treadmill, me, empty treadmill, woman. Then a man came in and got on the treadmill between me and the woman. So it went like this: empty treadmill, empty treadmill, me, man, woman. wtf? Then another woman came in and got on the treadmill directly to my left. So it went like this: empty treadmill, woman, me, man, other woman. WTF? Why in the hell did no one get on the treadmill to the far left? Is it because I smelled so lovely that everyone wanted to be near me? I really have no explanation other than people here don’t know about exercise equipment etiquette. You should always give your fellow exercisers as much personal space as possible. There are some insanely smart people where I work (no, I’m not one of them), but man can they be stupid.

To make sure you have a firm grasp on what the hell I was talking about, I drew a diagram for you.

Oh, and the same goes for bathroom stall etiquette. Give people space when they’re doing their business.

On that note, I think I’m going to go ahead and wrap this up now. I’ve got a weekend full of nothingness ahead of me that I need to get ready for. And I’m happy about the nothingness, just so you know. It’s the last weekend of nothing until mid-September. Well, maybe until October, depending on how things go. More on that later.

Oh, Internet. I’m so sore. Allan and I went hiking with some friends in the mountains on Saturday and our day-trip turned into a weekend getaway, which was a ton of fun and involved a ton of muscle movement from muscles that rarely move. In fact, I think I strained a muscle that I didn’t even know I had before this weekend. It’s on the underside of my arm and I used that muscle to brace myself against boulders as I was tumbling between them. Yes, I ate it. Thankfully the ramifications of the fall were minor – a bruised thigh (saddlebag), scraped knee and wounded ego.

While the hiking was fun, it was even more fun to be spontaneous and spend the night. We had no hotel accommodations, no toothpaste or underwear and no deodorant. Deodorant is key when you’re hiking around the Blue Ridge Mountains for hours on end and then climbing into a car with four humans and two dogs. Deodorant is KEY.

So at around 10:00, after having eaten a delicious tapas dinner and loaded up on liquor from the fanciest ABC store this side of the Mississippi, we wondered into a giant Wal-Mart – the best Boone has to offer – and got the bare necessities. We then headed back to our super-cute log cabin condo (complete with two bedrooms, 1.5 bathrooms and a fireplace) to play gin rummy and drink margaritas.

Sunday brought more hiking, my epic fall, and further proof that my husband and my dog are fearless while I am neither. Murphy runs up and down steep rocks like a bat out of hell. He hurls his little body across boulders that humans have to pull each other onto. He is incredibly brave and with such bravado surely comes a thread of stupidity. The dog could kill himself doing some of the things he does, but he’s happy and oblivious and brave (stupid), so we let him go.

Murphy is the perfect dog for us. He’s incredibly sweet and cuddly and attentive – all things I find charming – and he’s the rough and tumble companion Allan craves. Allan is quite possibly the most athletic person I’ve ever met. And I’m not just saying that because I’m married to the kid. He’s just one of those (sickening) people whose body adapts to any and every environment whether it be the soccer field, on water skis or climbing up rocks and boulders. He’s just good. And, like I mentioned before, I am not. So I’m glad Murphy can accompany him on these little adventures while I sit hundreds of feet below snapping pictures.

And it was so, so nice to go away for the weekend with another couple. The Farfalles (not their real name, but how they’re listed in the Crapberry) are some of the most genuine, kind and funny people I’ve met since I moved down here. Their friendship means a lot to all three of us in this little family.

I love this song: Any Other Name. It’s what’s playing on Pandora right now, and it would ordinarily provide the title for this entry, but because it has no words, I will have to wait for the next song.

Today marks the two-year anniversary of the day Murphy came to live with us. Every beautiful cliché about having a dog – and a rescue dog, to boot – is true as far as he is concerned. He is my joy. He is my absolute joy.

If you’re wondering what happened to the dog I wrote about previously, I don’t know. I made phone call after phone call, sent dozens of emails, shed hundreds and hundreds of tears, and I finally had to let it go. I exhausted every resource I could to try to help him, and I did the best I could for him. I haven’t looked at the shelter page because it’s easier to not know. My hope is that he’s either safe in the shelter, at the SPCA, at a foster home or in a forever home.

But if he’s not, if he reached the end of his road, I find solace in thinking that at least he was in a cool environment (no longer tied up in 100 degree weather), that he was fed regularly, that he was tended to by people who cared. And that if he was put to sleep, he saw a comforting face and felt a slight needle prick before going closing his eyes.

I’m not a religious person. I have a lot of questions and qualms about and with Catholicism, but I prayed a lot over the past week. I prayed for the dog to find a happy ending, and I prayed that I would be able to let it go. The Serenity Prayer became my mantra, especially the line about accepting things I cannot change.

***Update: just got an email from a rescue group saying the dog was pulled from the shelter. He is either in a foster situation or in his forever home.***