(Watch for updates as new players are introduced. And as I change what I feel like saying about myself.)
Me/I: yours truly. Midwest-raised and PNW-settled (with a seven year interlude in the desert in between). Call me K. or Kay (even if you know or figure out my real name, please). I’m pro-Oxford commas and aprons. My favorite things include tucking dogs into blankets and sticking my finger into a freshly opened jar of peanut butter.
Jonn Hammm: my husband. Basically, the best roommate ever. Balanced like a tall, super handsome chalice of fine wine, he’s robustly easy-going and good humored with an intellectual essence, productive/industrious notes, and a hint of adventure. His beard is more majestic than a unicorn on a mountaintop at sunset and, he would like to note, totally not turning white at all.
Elvira (also El, Missy Moo, Sweet Pea, Sweetheart, or Butthead): our current and beloved dog. Only she knows if her alias is an homage to the Mistress of the Dark or The Oak Ridge Boy’s song as performed by my high school marching band, complete with line-dancing choreography. Giddy up oom poppa omm poppa mow mow.
Dexter (2006-2016, also Dex, Poochacho, Little Man, or Tiny Pants): our first and treasured dog. His pseudonym comes thanks to an Arizona neighbor, with whom I had the same conversation on at least three separate occasions.
Neighbor: “Good lookin’ dog. Rhodesian Ridgeback?”
Me: “We don’t know. His mom was an Australian Cattle dog, but no one knows who or what the father was. He’s a mutt.”
Neighbor: “Must be a Rhodesian. Gets the same ridge in his fur as ole Sandy here. What’s his name?”
Me: [Dog’s actual name]
Neighbor: “Dexter, eh? You ever see that show? Too weird for my tastes.”
Three times. Same conversation. By the fourth conversation, I gave up. So, Dexter it is.
Captain (not so much “military” as “person who made the houseboat trip arrangements and received mail addressed to her as Capt. for years after” experience): my mom. Our family’s bastion of equity, etiquette, grammar, and posture. Surely must have kept secret lists in the name of fairness to keep track of whose turn it was to lick the beaters or ride shotgun. When I was in college, she would send single line emails, asking only, “Are you sitting up straight?” (She probably still should.) Was perhaps the only person to 100% successfully evade Dexter’s French kisses, despite his persistence and her questionable decision to rest on the couch right at tongue height. From laundry and cribbage to gratitude and generosity, one of my most important (and patient) teachers.
Wallace (also Walli or Sisty 2): My middle sister. Not only a member of the fivehead club, but also its chairman of the board. In sixth grade, she was one of the cool high-schoolers who came to my class for D.A.R.E. as a role model for keeping off drugs. My crush told me, “your sister is really pretty.” I kept it cool and responded, “Yeah. She looks a lot like my uncle,” to which he replied, “You must have a pretty uncle.” True story. Also a true story? She’s pretty awesome. And she met Fabio (yes, THE Fabio)—he’s the one holding her in the above picture. (No, not the monkey, the other one with the flowing locks. No, no, no, that’s her holding me when we were kids, and I’m not sure you can really classify a bowl cut as “flowing.” The other other one. Yeesh.)
Adios Poochacho 