For my Sister, Who is on Tour

This post is for Anna, who is on tour. She's currently in the East Coast and she's been gone such a long, long time that you can almost see the floor in our living room. I hate it. Where are the piles of papers, promotional posters, guitars cases, sound system devices, wires and empty boxes of almond jello? What is this neat stack of clean dishes doing on the kitchen counter? Away with it! I want my sister back.

Check out the tour dates by visiting her website here. Upcoming cities/states include new York, Chicago, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Milwaukee and all over California. If you live in or near any of those places, go see her live and person. She is extraordinarily.

Now I'm going to frank and upfront with you. This post is little more than pure, unadulterated corgi-in-fall porn. There are certain states in the South that don't even allow this sort of thing because it's too hardcore. But I put it up in the name of Anna Coogan, who misses her dog when she is out for weeks at a time on the road, playing music night after night after night.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, this is Juno:

Juno is Hometeam's sister. Hometeam is back kicking it on corgi ranch in Vermont, because the landlord won't allow two dogs in his house. The pain and loneliness, the guilt and most of all the cold, loveless, cuddle-free nights this has brought to my life has been my cross to bear. But Hometeam is alive and well, after all, and for now, I have Juno, who I have been known to referee to as "a poor man's hometeam." She does not have a slavish attachment to me, she would not swim across a raging Ottawa river just to be close to me, she does not follow me for room to room and she is not nearly as flirtatious as my freak eared love dog.

But Juno is still a fine, fine dog. And I love her a lot.

So....remember a few posts ago when I made a really terrible simile about sunlight in Seattle? I believe I compared it to a rugged man with a serious commitment problem (of which, in my life, there have been about...no. I'm not going to tell you.) Well, allow me to stretch that simile to within an inch of its life (and yours):

I had a date with that rugged man yesterday. I dressed very carefully in my most provocative Patagonia, and took Juno to discovery park. There, in an empty field besides the ferry studded Puget Sound, I gave myself over to him. Willingly. Shamelessly. It was....warm.   (Please, family members, I'm stalking about sunlight. I know you're all scientists and you won't understand figurative language. I'm not really saying I gave it up in a public park yesterday.)

And today he's gone, just like he promised. And the rain is back. For how long? Who can say. But it was worth it. I regret nothing.

I'm a Vermonter- gosh, have I mentioned that before? I grew up in the land of blue and gold Octobers. The universe was created for there to be fall in New England.  Being now a resident of Seattle, I crave leaf crunch, wood smoke, cider and sharp blue skies just as much as I crave wit, sarcasm, cheddar and people who don't drive like pussies. The city tries to celebrate the season, mostly by shoving a pumpkin latte in my face every time I turn the corner, but it just can't live up to the authenticity of the Northeast. Northwest farmed pumpkins have nothing on Vermont's wild, free range, cruelty free pumpkins. And the frenetic displays of purple Halloween lights slathered all over doorsteps in my neighborhood are merely an attempt at covering up the giant pit of despair created in the lives of the Seattlites by the lack of a real, bonafide, mucus-freezing winter. In New England, negative temperatures, foot after foot of snow and endless, thundering ice storms slam headlong into the long sweet days of humid summers, creating this lovely point break called Fall. Where there is no stunningly cold winter, there is no real fall. All no amount of gingerbread syrups and pumpkin spice whatevers could make up for that. Just sayin'.

But, there are some pretty damn beautiful days. And truth be told, the best of the VT foliage is gone, dead, and turning into worms. Or something like that. The trees are nothing but rattling bones and people are starting to really dread the six months of freezing bleak that's just around the corner.

For now, I'm here, it's late October and it's still warm. And I can drive myself any time (sort of) to Discovery Park, where, if you're very creative and slightly forgiving, you can pretend that you're back home in the Green Mountains. Just for a few hours.

 The next time a beautiful day texts me for a booty call, I'm going right back to that field, bringing a stack of People Magazines (go ahead, judge away) and some chicken wings.  If I can remember how to get there. Jesus, it's no wonder why nobody goes to Discovery- it's like a maze,  all bridges and one-ways, and one wrong turn sends you shooting off into downtown with no way to turn around. Hey! This sounds like another metaphor. It's not, I promise.

Or is it?