Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Will you vaccum me?

I was ill, which is no unordinary occurrence; sinus infections are hereditary in my family. (Thanks Mom.)
Feeling miserable at work and looking for a bit of virtual comfort via text message, I reached out to my male counterpart.
"I still feel awful," I whined. "I think I'm allergic to our apartment."
Having fought "the crud" for several weeks now - around the same time we moved into the interesting culture that is apartment living - I felt it was a somewhat realistic correlation.
Expecting to receive the closest thing to a bouquet of roses one can send on a smart phone, The Man's response was anything but.
"Maybe we need to vacuum more often," he stated — like that made me feel any better.
Using his response as a bit of self promotion in the realm of marriage material, as I so often do, I changed tactics.
"Nope, I think it just means that it's time for us to get married and buy a house," I replied with high hopes of quickly leaving the multi-family dwelling lifestyle behind.
"Yeah, that's exactly what I said. 'Will you vacuum me?'" The Man so smartly text messaged back.
OK Buck-o, two can play at this game.
"Yes!" I typed with the enthusiasm I expect to have on the day the "real" question FINALLY comes. "But you'll end up with suction hickeys for sure."
Though I had lost the marriage discussion battle, as usual, I had won the war on sarcasm.
Realizing I was going to find no moral support or any of the warm fuzzy feelings one hopes to find from another when allergy medications and hot tea just don't cut it, I gave up and called Mom. It was her fault I was sick anyway.
Letting a few days pass, I made another attempt at matrimonial bait.
With a caption that contained bribery, innocence and love, I addressed a crystal clear high-resolution photo of the ring of my dreams to Santa himself.
After all, I got a vacuum last Christmas.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Thankful for the pork chop coma

I was planted firmly in the center of our couch and wasn't moving. It wasn't that I didn't want to move, I couldn't.
Trying out a new recipe consisting of heart-stopping, fried pork chops with a honey glaze and real mashed potatoes — as opposed to those flakes from a box — I had stuffed myself beyond happy.
It's the little things in life.
Good food holds a special place in my heart — and along my waistline. But it's OK when the food is worth it.
This time of year is my favorite time of year, and not just because the songs or turkey say so. It's my favorite time of year for many reasons — the main one being food.
The pork chop coma I had placed myself under was just the precursor to what's to come, and I can't wait for the days of ham hangovers, turkey tremors and stuffing siestas. I can smell it now.
It's no wonder this is the happiest time of year. It's the only time one can eat for two (or maybe three,) nap the afternoon away and go back for seconds without judgement.
Now don't think I'm all about food. There are many things I am thankful for.
I have the two cutest fur babies who never judge my cooking, even if it comes from the floor, a male counterpart who eats my cooking and a kitchen to cook in.
OK so maybe I do have a bit of a fetish for food. On to other things — for real this time.
This year has given me more things to be thankful for than I ever imagined I would have.
It started a lot like the last few years, living the dream with The Man and our dogs. Our families were close and for the first few months, all seemed as normal as could be.
Boy did our year change in a hurry.
I sit here now wondering where the last three months have gone.
In Beverly Hillbilly fashion, we managed to move all our worldly possessions more than 200 miles from all we had known. In a matter of days we were unpacked and onto a whole new life in our tiny apartment in Columbia, Mo.
Without the help of family, no matter how crazy, I'm certain our television would be in millions of tiny pieces and our mattress still lodged in the stairwell.
Thank goodness for extra muscle and a case of beer.
Monday night television is another of life's little joys I am truly thankful for.
Had we broken the television this would be another story.
Sparky's Homemade Ice Cream, the iPhone, GPS when I need to find my way home and a good pair of shoes will never let me down.
My list goes on and on, like: a good mechanic, Google, fried pickles on a summer night, DVR and the ability to change the channel whenever Jersey Shore comes on.
But most of all I'm thankful for those who still believe in freedom of the press, those who read their local newspaper, soldiers over seas defending those freedoms, the loyalty of my family, friends and readers and let us not forget, Grandma's pumpkin pie.

—Megan Tilk is a reporter who also writes a weekly column for the Boonville Daily News. She can be reached at or through her blog:

Monday, November 14, 2011

Confessions of a worry-wart

Watching my male counterpart wrangle, and all but hog tie, our 90-pound pooch into submission prior to administering several drops of medicated ear treatment, I began to feel a bit horrified for any children we may (or may not) someday have.
Seeing my big, fur baby undergo a bit of routine ear maintenance left me covering my eyes and squealing like — a girl.
This is the exact reason why I leave any nail trimming, teeth cleaning and routine grooming to The Man.
When it comes to picking up the occasional vomit or acting as their human pooper scooper – I’m your go-to girl. Just don’t ask me to handle a task that, if under the right circumstances, could leave either of my fur babies injured.
Like I said, feel sorry for any future children coming our way.
Straddling the large and in-charge mutt, King Ace, The Man continued with the drops and massaging as grunts of delight told me the big lug — the dog, not The Man — was feeling better.
Had I tried to pin Ace down and administer medications myself, two lamps, an end table and a fish tank would have been replaced afterward. Much like when I try to give him baths in the bathtub.
With all of our family photos and a half a can of Diet Coke thrown from the ottoman, I would have been left holding the container of ear cream, now half empty and coating my arms.
Things with our "little one" aren’t any easier – though pinning her down sure might be.
Requiring a daily grooming, so her bow sits just right on top of her head, our Shih Tzu might as well be our child.
Though I would have trimmed her hair short, leaving the poof and bow behind, The Man insists his baby girl look like, a girl.
"If we cut off her pony tail she'll look like every other Shih Tzu," he whines. "And you can't ever tell if they're a boy or a girl that way."
As if the Mizzou doggie shirt and sparkly pink collar weren't enough of a dead give-away. Yet another reason to feel sorry for our possible offspring.
I've got to admit though, we've got a pretty good system with the dogs; and "they" say dogs just train you for children.
I handle the grooming, loving and worrying, while he handles the discipline, trimming and anything involving a q-tip, cotton ball, scissors or a prescription.
It works the same with children. Right?
Megan Tilk is a reporter and weekly columnist for the Boonville Daily News. She can be reached at or through her blog: