Anything Lime

Category Archive

The following is a list of all entries from the Patrick category.

To get to the other side

Woke up 30 minutes late. Had a mental breakdown while trying to dress myself. Wore my hair up because of the matted-down sweaty look from having slept on it. Typical morning stuff.

I was finally on my way to work with an estimated time of arrival of 9:07 – math I did while sitting at my first of 17 red lights – when I saw an innocent creature attempting a death-defying feat. A turtle was trying to cross the road. In the land of normalcy, you drive by, maybe ignore the turtle or at most think a good thought for it and hope it makes it across. In the land of Whitney, this falls into the CATASTROPHE!! column and ranks right up there next to a bomb in a maternity ward set to go off at the sound of a baby’s cry and blow the entire Midwest off the map. Needless to say I re-focused my energy and made this turtle my first and foremost priority. Because sometimes there are more important things than hunger and world peace.

I pulled the most illegal of U-turns and parked my car on the wrong side of the road in the exit lane of a driveway headed into a nook housing business buildings. That might be hard to follow or picture in your mind, but just understand that it was risky. And James Bond-ish. Well, more like Jack Hanna meets James Bond. Yeah, that’s probably pretty accurate.

I got out of my car – other vehicles flying past – and looked forward at my little shelled amigo who had by now made his way into the center of one of the two lanes on this road. Cars were honking and swerving to miss him. My heart pounding, I got the scare of my life (or so it seemed at the time) when a big black Escalade came speeding toward the turtle. It seemed to happen in slow motion as I flailed at the driver, and then the turtle and I seemed to perform the same series of movements as though we were a pair of synchronized swimmers moving through a choreographed routine. Both of us extracted all of our extremities into our mid sections. My head was completely buried in my arms and neck, wondering whether I should even look up. My heart broke at the thought of him being squished, but I lifted my head and was overcome with a feeling of relief. I puffed up my chest and took commanding steps into the road. Horns were honked, middle fingers were thrown, but I managed to STOP TRAFFIC WITH MY BODY in order to grab the turtle. And by God, I was proud.

He was much bigger than he looked from the side of the road. I scooped him up with both hands and ran him to his destination – the other side of the road. He poked his head out a little and showed me his eyes. This is why I save animals – because even though he couldn’t speak to me and tell me he was grateful for the lift, I knew he was. And that makes it worth it. That look in his beady little eyes makes it worth having run into traffic. And being called “crazy bitch!” by the passersby who apparently had an estimated time of arrival that was much later than 9:07.

I carefully got back into my car and tried to avoid touching anything with my turtle fingers. I started thinking about how that’s a great way to start the day. Saving a turtle from the middle of the road. Putting him in a safe place. Well, ok, maybe not a “safe” place, but at least the place where he was headed. Ok, well, maybe not even close to a safe place. In fact, wasn’t there a fence right there? So what now? He gets across the road, discovers there is a fence and then TURNS AROUND? WHAT WAS I THINKING?! I SHOULD HAVE TAKEN THIS TURTLE HOME AND TUCKED HIM INTO MY BED BECAUSE THIS WORLD IS REALLY NO PLACE FOR A TURTLE!

The rest of the way to work I thought about where else I could have put him, maybe over the fence? Maybe driven around until I found a happy turtle lake for him to bathe in? GEEZ?! WHY IS BEING A GOOD SAMARITAN SO FREAKIN HARD?!

I arrived at my office at 9:12 feeling lousy. I figured I’d just try to distract myself by going through my to-do list and throwing myself into non-turtle tasks to get my mind off of the fact that I might or might not be seeing a mound of shell and turtle sauce on my way home from work. Patrick called after about 20 minutes, and the conversation was filled with a lot of frustration on my end. “I’m sorry, Patrick, it’s not you,” I explained.  “It’s just that I’m not sure I found the safest place for that turtle.” Needless to say I’ve since been committed.

We discussed a few other things – bills, plans for the day – before the conversation circled right back around to where it started – my amphibious acquaintance.  Patrick hesitated a little before asking, “Where is the turtle?” He asked in a way that was of utmost seriousness – a tone that I knew meant he was planning to swoop in and save me as he so often does. I knew just by his asking that he was going to go find that turtle.

“You don’t have to go there, Patrick, I will go after my meeting at 10 and move him,” and then I thought, I just hope he’s not dead by then!

Patrick decided that checking on the turtle would make me feel less stressed. And relieving my stress would relieve his stress. So he left the course, which is 25 minutes away, to go check on my turtle. He never found the little guy, but he thoroughly inspected the situation and figured that the turtle likely made a short trek along the edge of the fence before finding refuge in some nearby shrubbery. Patrick said he’d probably followed his senses toward water and was most likely basking in the nearby lake just beyond the fence. Then Patrick told me that the turtle was no doubt thinking about me and how grateful he was to have met me. And this is the story I am going to tell whenever people ask me how I know Patrick is the one.

Sometimes life is about sticking your neck out for those who are helpless and can do nothing but duck and cover in the face of danger. And sometimes life is about containing the crazy, which is something Patrick’s become an expert at doing. He knows that I’m not without my quirks, he knows I’m not perfect and he knows that sometimes in the midst of a normal morning I’m going to run into traffic and stand up for a turtle. There are a lot of things about me that people don’t understand. But this is where Patrick is different – he understands everything about me. He consoles me and comforts me and saves me and protects me. And when faced with a choice, he makes a long drive to check on a turtle because he knows just what to do to make me feel at peace.

And that is why I am marrying him.




Meet the newest addition to my Collection of All Things Weird and Random. This handsome little gem came to me from the MOMA website.


I came across this little orange piece of heaven months ago and have wanted him since, though I haven’t much need for a paperclip holder. I mostly wanted him as a cubicle knick knack. And a snuggle buddy.


It was Patrick’s frustration with the swarm of bobby pins living in our bathroom that pushed him to eventually buy this for me.


And it’s serendipitous the way it worked out, because bobby pins, not paperclips, make this little guy look most like a porcupine.



I love him.


The end.

How romantic

“You look so incredibly beautiful,” he said to me as I paraded out of the bathroom dressed and done up for work. “You still take my breath away every time I look at you.”

I gathered my things – my purse, my bag of running clothes and my lunch he had made for me – and headed toward the door.

“I love you darling, have a good day,” he said.

“Love you too. Have a great day,” I said in reply.

“Oh, wait!” He said as I reached for my keys. “Here.”

He handed me a fiber bar.

“This will help you go.”

Destined for a life in seclusion

Last night my handsome darling offered to take me out to dinner as a way to pick me up from the long, exhausting and somewhat saddening day (see: workplace bullying) I had at work. He got it into his head that it would be a good idea for us to go to Applebee’s because of a current promotion: one appetizer and two entrees for $20. So we hop in the car, head out for a FANCY! meal, and arrive in good spirits and good conversation.

We’re waiting in line to check in with the hostess when we overhear the couple in front of us. “Two please,” the woman says. “Can I have a name?” the hostess asks. “Whitney,” she says.

To any normal person this isn’t a big deal. Yes, that is correct. To any normal person this isn’t a big deal.

For me, however, such a thing meant catastrophe. “Oh my God!” I said to Patrick. “What on earth name am I supposed to put down now?!” (Keep in mind the Spazz Factor has now reached near maximum.) “Hello,” the hostess greeted us, interrupting my frenzy. “How many?” “Two please,” I responded. “Non smoking.” She laughed a bit, then asked, “Are you guys from out of town?” “No, we live in Orlando,” we said. “Well,” she went on to explain, “In Florida, all restaurants have been non smoking for the last five years.” We laughed a little, by this time other members of the wait staff have entered the scene to look into the faces of the people who haven’t been to a Florida Applebee’s in five years. “We don’t get out much,” I said in a joking voice. Though I certainly wasn’t joking. “The name’s Patrick,” he chimed in. A rush of relief went over me. AND THAT IS WHY I’M MARRYING HIM.

We took a seat in the waiting area and fixed our eyes on a nearby TV. We were there about five minutes – watching and chatting – before we heard, “Hoyt, party of two” come from the hostess stand. I looked over at Whitney and Guest and was relieved that she was not, in fact, stealing my identity. The name belonged to a middle-aged couple wearing matching pairs of khaki shorts.

We ate a meal that was what we expected – worth $20 – and then finished it off with the best part of the day: dessert. When we go out Patrick usually vetoes dessert, but yesterday was different. Yesterday I was on the verge of a mental breakdown (see: Wednesday).

While at dinner we had a long discussion about the stressors in my life, and I filled my gut with molten chocolate cake (which is, of course, the greatest answer to all of life’s problems). And I went home feeling a little more ill, a little less stressed and a lot more thankful to be spending my life with someone so great. No wonder we never go out in public – we’ve got everything we could want in the comfort of our own home. Plus, we could have given ourselves diarrhea if we wanted it, no need to pay 20 dollars. Our time, we decided, is not best spent in public, but best spent at home together. Away from human civilization.

So in fifty years when kids ride their bikes past our house – a house no one is ever seen going into or coming out of – and throw things in our yard because we’ve become the neighborhood crazies who do crazy things; and when origin stories and urban legends start to trickle down the grapevine about us, all I ask is that you tape a nice little note to the brick you use to throw in a taunting manner through our living room window.

E-mail correspondance

Me: “Wicked is coming to Florida (Jacksonville and Fort Myers) in 2009. Would you want to see it? If you have no interest, then we don’t have to go, but I just thought it might be a fun thing for us to do. LOVE YOU!”

Patrick: “I’d love to go see Wicked with you. I think that would be SO must fun. We should definitely go see it. Love, P.”

Me: “So must fun? Then absolutely.”

Patrick: “Lol. Weird I don’t know how that happened. I much have been typing too fast.”

Bedtime circus

The winter means two things: the first is that Patrick’s traveling season has come to a close so he spends all of his evenings at home. The second is, well, it’s cold.

There are few things more uncomfortable than the feeling of ice-cold ceramic tile under my feet first thing in the morning. And I don’t think to put my slippers on until about point two seconds after I take my first steps into the frozen hallway. I know, I know, cold is relative. Since moving to Florida I haven’t seen ANY snow let alone scraped my windshield or shoveled my driveway, but I just wasn’t built for the cold. And, if his sleeping tendencies are any indication, Patrick isn’t either.

And so our night time routine begins – teeth are brushed, contact lenses are in their respective places and the apartment is locked down for the night. I, in my sleeping moo moo, carefully sneak below the covers so as not to cause any untucking. After strategically placing all of my pillows, moving my hair away from my neck and face, straightening out any bunches in my night shirt and putting on lotion and lip balm, I’m ready. Patrick’s routine consists only of flopping onto the bed and falling asleep on top of the comforter.

Maybe an hour later, Patrick will violently wake up, yank blindly at the covers and finally find his way into the sheets. By then I’ve become an insulated heat capsule that he carelessly destroys merely by allowing his frigid body to come anywhere near it. So I do my best to retain as much heat as possible, and at about this time he discovers that my side of the bed seems to be radiating heat. Hmm. Fancy that.

Still half asleep, he turns his back to me and backs his body up against mine in a shameless act to steal any heat I’ve managed to retain. This I can handle. It isn’t until his feet fresh from the frozen tundra press up against my legs that I have to actually fight back. Mostly I try the defensive plays such as tucking my legs up closer to my body or scooting away. Sometimes I even resort to using my knee pillow as a wedge between us to prevent him from making physical contact. Such a move comes at great cost to me because I then have to spend the rest of the night figuring out a way to sleep without letting my knees touch.

I should be glad that he wants to sleep close to me, but sharing a bed with someone isn’t as glamorous as it seems in the movies. Too many times than I’d even be able to count, I’ve woken up with one of Patrick’s elbows in my side. He sprawls out in an area that is CLEARLY not his side of the bed and then juts his bony elbows at me. Meanwhile his body is bent at the waist and his long legs are hanging off MY side of the bed. Not sure how he makes this work, but all I can do is just try my hardest to withstand the cramps in my legs as I’m curled up in a tiny ball – my knees still not touching.

Then some nights after he’s annexed all the blankets and all I’m left with is my knee pillow, I’ll make the slightest of movements and my night gown will brush against his fragile arm hairs. He’ll shoot up, make a huge fuss, and loudly say, “WHA?! WHAT?! WHAT’S GOING ON?!” And when I’m all, “sorry darling, I was just getting situated,” or even, “Sorry my breathing upset you, dear,” he reacts as though I said, “Bad news, dude, I just crashed your car …into your mom.” He spins sideways, slams his body down onto the pillow and then yanks at the covers violently as he mutters angrily and tries to fall back asleep. Which, by the way, HE DOES INSTANTLY. I know because as he’s falling asleep he thrashes about violently as he experiences limb spasms of every variety.

Last night he was uncomfortable because of a recent rib injury from golf, so when he fell asleep and backed up into my territory, I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want to move him, I just wanted him to rest. The problem was, I wanted that only slightly less than I wanted to not have my legs and feet exposed to the cold air that was was coming into our room from under the balcony door, so I knew I had to try to move him. I softly put my hands on his back and whispered, “Patrick, scoot scoot.” I couldn’t believe it, he inched like a worm toward his side. Though, he didn’t go very far, so I had to try again. This time I pushed a little harder on his back thinking that I would give him a little help. “Scoot scoot,” I whispered, and he made his way back to his own pillow. I climbed back under the covers and reclaimed my dent in the bed. And as I put my ice-cold feet down toward the foot of the bed, I felt the comforting warmth from his feet reaching out to warm mine. I suppose loving someone means taking care of that person even in your sleep. And despite his having no apparent knowledge of boundaries, or my having to be on the receiving end of an occasional head butt or eye gouge, I feel pretty well taken care of.

Uncanny resemblance

Patrick gets to choose the costumes next year, meaning I’ll be the one dressed as a gas station burn victim or a wad of lung cancer.

Simple joys

Dear Patrick,

I rocked at yoga class tonight. During the savasana at the end, I just lied there with my eyes closed, and thoughts of you filled my head. I kept hearing your laugh, and it made me wonder when the last time it was I made you laugh. I imagined the smile taking shape on your face, with your eyes squinting and your nose slightly wrinkling. I pictured your dimple and your teeth. And then I heard the sound again, a sound that fills me with so much happiness. It gives me great pride knowing how easy it was to conjure up such an image, and it made me realize just how much of our time together is spent laughing.

I am eternally grateful for you, Patrick, because the image of you laughing is what I need sometimes to keep me going. And when you’re worlds away and I need you, I can just close my eyes and picture your face. There are few comforts like the sound of your laugh and the shape of your smile, but they’re as meaningful as they are simple, and they’ll be close to my heart for the rest of my life.

As I walked out of class, still thinking about you and prouder than ever that I’d manage to master crow pose and shoot out to plank, I realized that there is a silver lining in your traveling so frequently: only when you’re gone can I look forward to your return. And as I’m filled with anticipation and joy and excitement, none of those feelings compare to finally being close enough to touch you. To reach out and feel you against me. Because the best things in life are often the simplest. Like our love. Like our dog. Like your laugh.

I want to thank you, Patrick, for bringing me happiness when you’re here with me and also when you’re not here with me. For helping me to realize the power of a laugh, the importance of a smile and the joy we bring to one another. And as I think about my life and imagine growing old, I’ll always cherish the power of laughter and the sound of happiness. That’s what you have shown me, Patrick, and I’m excited to spend the rest of my life returning the favor.

So, darling, here’s to true love and laughter. And to answering so many questions with, “Because he makes me happy. Because he makes me laugh. Because sometimes a little pee comes out.”



Obituary will read, “was devoured by insects”

I went walking with Kya and Soto this morning, as I do most mornings that I’m actually able to fight the urge to hit the snooze button several hundred times before slinking out of bed and onto the floor. And that’s usually followed by a few slow but forceful log rolls into the bathroom where I curl up into a ball on the bathmat and fall softly back to sleep. I stay there until Patrick returns from walking the dogs, when he’ll open the bathroom door into my head and act confused like, “You still live here?” or “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

So anyway, the walk is about a mile out and a mile back, a journey that is essential to both Soto’s energy level maintenance program and Kya’s weight-loss plan. Not to mention it’s the only time I am not confined to my cubicle, so breathing outdoor air is always more than just a bit refreshing.

We’d reached our landmark this morning, done our business and were turning around when it hit me. I mean, bit me. An ant. I looked down at the point of origin: one red ant had his face sucked onto my ankle bone. I flicked him off in one swift motion, and I got a sensation that he was a leach attached to my leg. I started flinging my feet every which way when I discovered that this ant, the one who had bitten into my flesh and left a burning sensation in my leg, had brought along his entourage. And, judging by the size of this posse, he must have been some sort of celebrity. Maybe a rapper or reality TV star.

When my feet were clear, I carefully examined the paws and underbellies of my walking mates. They were fine, and we continued home, my leg on fire.

By the time we reached the apartment, my ankle had swelled up and turned red. This is the kind of morning that makes me feel worse, not better, about not having given into my morning sluggishness. Here I was, in the bathroom, throwing my clothes off in a fit and trying to talk myself out of dunking my legs into a barrel of battery acid.

I arrived at work a few minutes late this morning, which, for me, is right on time. I’ve stayed at work late the past two weeks or so finishing projects that needed to be done RIGHT NOW and are of UTMOST IMPORTANCE!!! I wish I would have had the nerve to tell the bossman that I’d rather be at home with my fiancé, who would soon be out of site and out on the road again as yet another series of tournaments fills his schedule.

He finally left yesterday for his prequalifier for Q School, the bridge to the PGA Tour. So this prequalifier is like a tinier bridge that connects to the original bridge that connects to the PGA Tour. I am thrilled. Plus, I love bridges. Especially when they lead somewhere good. It’s like magic.

So while he’s gone I just go about my routine and find ways to bide my time. I mostly spend my nights watching girly movies and prime time television, eating eggplant, developing flyball strategies and try to avoid dangerous situations – like that time I was ambushed by fire ants.

And maybe a side of hummus

Me: We’re going to a vegetarian restaurant for lunch today!
Patrick: Oh wow. How cool.
Me: I think I might get the Fakin, lettuce and tomato sandwich.
Patrick: Fak yeah!