The white picket fence

Shameless plea

2007-05-15T08:06:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry my posts have been a little sporadic. Hubby and I are gearing up for our vacay to Myrtle Beach, so we've been trying to get things done at home and at work!

I just signed up to walk in the American Heart Association's Heart Walk here in Cleveland. I have decided that I want to try to spend more time volunteering. I feel like I don't do enough with the National Marfan Foundation and other organizations and I want to try to do more. Soooooo, I'm lacing up my walking shoes and am participating in the three-mile walk with several friends from work.

All that said, I am making a shameless plea for donations. The money we raise will help fund research and development for treatments for heart attacks, strokes and other conditions INCLUDING Marfan Syndrome. The money will help further research into mechanical hearts, artifical heart valves, grafts and everything.

With everything I went through with my surgery and with the possibility that I can always have to have more, I want to help in any way I can.

If you would like to make a donation please visit my heart walk homepage here.

Musical motivation

2007-05-07T12:37:00.000-07:00

I am probably one of the least athletic people you will probably ever meet. I've never worked out, save for my stint on the high school pom squad. Despite the fact that I'm only 140 lbs. at 6'2" tall, you can definitely identify my slacker-ness due to my serious lack of toning.

On doctor's orders, however, I have been attending cardiac rehab. I am the youngest one in my class by about thirty years, but I LOVE it. I only go three days a week, but I find myself craving the workout on my days off. I spend an hour those mornings cycling, walking on the treadmill and lifting weights. (Don't be too impressed, the weights are only 2-3 lbs.)

The only terrible part is the music. I simply cannot stay motivated listening to Johnny Cash or The Four Seasons. The rehab office has their own mix of CDs, but they are definitely not intended for listeners of my generation. (The funniest part, however, is when the Beastie Boys' "Brass Monkey" comes on. Most of my fellow rehabbers look a little confused and startled.)

I have persuaded Clare to make me a kicking-cardiac-rehab's-butt mix, so I can't wait until my workouts are infused with better tunes! I'm voting for the "Don't Phunk with my Heart" by the Black Eyed Peas. I think that would be a fitting tribute to my ordeal!

Any other suggestions?

Well-heeled

2007-04-20T12:33:00.000-07:00

I LOVE shoes. When I moved into my dorm room at the start of my freshman year at Mizzou, I took more than 100 pairs of shoes with me. Seriously. I think my roommate, Nikki, thought I was insane. She came with three pairs. I converted her, though. And I'm sure her husband doesn't appreciate that she shoe collection has grown extensively. I know my Hubby doesn't appreciate that our suitcase if half-filled with shoes when we go on vacation!

Currently, I am stalking eBay. I am dying to buy a pair of Manolos. While my freelance side business is going fairly well (Note: Anyone out there need a graphic designer?), It's not pumping in enough cash for me to drop about $800 on a new pair of heels. Especially since I just bought a new dress, and I am eyeing a new pair of jeans. So I've entered into two auctions on eBay. I'm currently winning one, and I'm waiting the other out a bit to see how high it gets.

I know that there is a (rather large) chance that the shoes could be fakes, but I don't care. I just want a pair that I can believe are from Mr. Blahnik.

Jack update

2007-04-05T11:13:00.000-07:00

Well, Jack the Cat has found a new home ... at least, I'm pretty sure he has. I took him to my friend Nicole's house to meet her and her dog, Tramp, and everyone got along amazingly!

He was so cute and tolerant as the dog ran forward all excited and trying to play with him. And he cuddled with Nicole, too!

I'm checking back in with them on Saturday, but I think we may have found a forever home for him! And I've told Nicole I get dibs on pet-sitting so that I can visit him. I almost cried when I left him there. I know, I'm a sap.

The beat goes on

2007-04-04T11:32:00.000-07:00

I'm a little late in spreading the good news, but my legions of docs decided I don't need to have a defibrillator implanted. Woohoo!

My docs did a new echo and decided that my heart function (the amount of blood your heart pumps out. A normal person's is about 60%) has improved even further to 40% from 30% in January and 15% in November. Unfortunately, I had my echo while all of the cardiologists were at a national conference in New Orleans, so I had the "leftover" staff there to read it. I am sure they are all quite good, but the person who deciphered my test put my heart function at only 25%. Ummm, hello! That would have been unfortunate! But my cardio reread the scan and had several other colleagues look at it, and they all agreed on the improvement!

Yay, no more hardware for me! At least for now.

The kids

2007-04-03T11:45:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering, this is what our girls look like ...

Josie, the 8-year-old cat-catcher:

Sierra, the two-year-old peacemaker:
(These are a bit old though, and were taken when she was about half the size she is now. She's now 70 lbs. of love.)

That's Jack

2007-04-03T08:12:00.000-07:00

You should know that I'm NOT a cat person. I'm very picky about cats. I hate claws that dig into my arms, the threat of their bite scares me more than dogs, and I dislike that you can't really put anything out of reach of a cat. Dogs can only jump so high so items on tabletops and counters are safe ... unless they are food items and are too close to the edge.

I have a story to back up why I am not a cat person. You see, I used to be more of an equal-opportunity animal lover, with only a slight bias toward dogs. One day, Hubby and I decided we were going to get a cat. At the time, we lived in a second-floor apartment in a big complex. We didn't have a fenced in yard or even much indoor space for a dog to run around, so we thought a cat was the perfect solution. And our complex manager said she could get us one for free. Even better! So we set about buying cat toys, beds, food, whatever.

Then Truman the Bengal cat came into our lives. We named the cat Truman in honor of our good ole' Mizzou and we were so excited to have a pet to cuddle and love. But Truman had other ideas. Apparently, this cat didn't get the requisite "people time" that cats really need before they are 13 weeks old. Truman DESPISED us. We had him for about two or three months. In that time, he did not let us touch him once. He bit our vet. He bit Jason. He growled instead of purred. And he alternated between hiding under our couch and sitting above our kitchen cabinets glaring at us.

One day, I was excited because we seemed to be making progress. I was half asleep in bed while Hubby was in the shower. In the back of my mind, I realized Truman had hopped up on the bed. I thought: Yay! He is voluntarily in close proximity to me. Then Hubby came out of the shower and found Truman peeing on the bed, right next to my head.

That was it. But despite the peeing and the biting and the all-around bitchiness, we felt bad about just kicking him out. So we found him a nice home on a farm in a heated barn with many other unadoptable cats.

So you see why I'm scarred?

Somehow, Hubby and I have managed to become the TEMPORARY FOSTER home to an adorable cat we have dubbed "Jack." He showed up on our porch Saturday and hasn't left since. It probably doesn't help that we've started feeding him. We think he belonged to a renter in the neighborhood that probably abandoned him in a move since he showed up right at the end of the month. And he was definitely someone's house cat.

Anyway, he is perfect. He's playful, yet falls asleep in my arms each evening, loves his chin scratched and isn't obnoxious with his claws.

So we are trying to find him a "forever home." I can't bear the thought of just letting him wander around out there. Our neighbor lent us a crate, so he's living on our front porch right now, but Hubby is moving him to the basement today because it's supposed to storm tonight. We can't let him in the house because Josie likes to snack on cats, though Sierra would love him.

I'm taking Jack to a friend's house tomorrow to see if he gets along with her dog, but if that doesn't work out, I don't know what I'll do! Jack can't live in our basement forever! Any takers?

Funky stuff

2007-02-28T12:52:00.000-08:00

The other night I entered the realm of celebrity dreaming. I hardly ever remember my dreams, and rarely do I actually dream about famous people. But a few nights ago, I was graced with the presence of James Brown. As cool as that might sound to some, it wasn't. He beat me up.

The dream started with me hanging out at a lake house (which looked suspiciously like the lake house my friends and I christened with copious amounts of alcohol our freshman year in college) with a former friend from high school. Don't worry friends from high school. If you know about this blog or have spoken to me within the last five years, I'm not talking about you. Anyway, so I was at this lake house when said former friend forced me into her car and drove erratically for what seemed like eternity. Finally, she dropped me off at a deserted train station. Only it was then that James Brown came up to me. And he started beating me up, all the while yelling his trademark "I feel good!" line.

According to my friend Wendy's dream book, dreaming about both attacks and celebrities means that you are feeling under appreciated and like you are not reaching your full potential.

Apparently, I'm having some issues. As if that wasn't clear from being beaten up by James Brown.

No, Clare, I'm not pregnant

2007-02-27T18:23:00.000-08:00

And we have another new addition to our family. Really, Clare, I promise I'm not expecting a baby. Nope, my new bundle of joy is the brand new, bright orange 2007 Dodge Caliber sitting in our driveway. I'm in love.

The car is a "Yay, I didn't die!" congratulatory pat on the back and gift to myself. Hubby and I tried to be so environmentally conscious going down to a single car and puttering around town in George the Prius. But it was just too hard. Cleveland is not convenient for the carless. It got to the point that I was scheduling my gazillion doctor appointments around his work schedule. It was also up to him to do all the errands and the grocery shopping since I couldn't very well walk home from the store carrying the 17-lb. bag of dog food we get each time.

So we got the Caliber this past weekend. It is so cute. I feel so sporty zipping around town with the sunroof and the satellite radio. It's even got a "chill zone" for beverages in the glove compartment. Though, I don't think that is intended for anything less wholesome than pop or water.

So now all that's left is a name. Any suggestions? Hubby suggested Santiago or Chiquita, but the latter makes me think of the color yellow. Hmmm, what to name my new pride and joy?

Congratulations to me for pulling through!

Pat, pat, pat.

Long overdue, Part two

2007-02-20T08:48:00.000-08:00

As you must have realized by now, this has been a loooooooooong ordeal. Little did I know that going into the hospital for elective, preventative surgery would leave me fighting for my life and enduring emergency procedures.

I came home just two days before Thanksgiving. It was amazing to drive through the streets of our neighborhood on our way home from the hospital. I felt like I was seeing everything for the first time ... Houses had changed, landscaping had changed, we even had new neighbors. And I can't even describe how it felt to enter our house for the first time. While I was in the hospital, I felt myself forgetting what our home looked like. I made Hubby take pictures of it for me so that I could look at it whenever I wanted. But actually sitting on our own couch in our own living room surrounded by our canine kids, Josie and Sierra just felt awesome. I cried. Of course.

I spent the next few weeks building up my strength. Relatives and friends took turns staying with us so that I wasn't alone. I first walked with a cane, couldn't get up from sitting (whether it was the couch, bed or toilet), couldn't make it up the stairs and was scared to be alone. My sister stayed with me the first few days, then it was my aunt's turn.

My aunt had only been there one day when we got a call. My grandmother, who was living in Illinois, died. My Mimi, who I always bragged was the perfect grandmother, passed away in her sleep. I couldn't believe this was happening. After all I had been through, and after all my family had been through, how could we handle letting her go right then? Now I was not only crying for me, I was crying for her.

I thank God, though, that I was out of the hospital. I truly believe she kept her strength through my ordeal. Once she knew I was okay, she just let go. I remember calling her for the first time after my trach was removed. I surprised her by calling from my hospital room. She was so happy to hear my voice after so long, that she broke into tears. I remember telling her that she shouldn't cry, that everything was okay, and that I loved her. We talked a few more times that remaining week. We even talked the day she died. She said that hearing my voice on the phone that first time was the happiest day of her life. I'm so grateful I could give her that.

But I couldn't go to the funeral. I didn't feel comfortable making the long trip and was on a short leash by my doctors. They told me it was my decision and I wanted to be there, but I just knew that Mimi would want me to recover and that I wasn't strong enough yet. But I wrote a memorial, a tribute, to the grandmother I love, and my sister read it at the service.

The rest of my recovery at home has been pretty uneventful. I slowly became stronger, no longer needing physical therapists to work with me at home, and I stopped having to take IV antibiotics right before Christmas. Hubby had been administering those every morning to prevent infection from building up on the artificial part of my aorta.

The only lingering question is whether or not I will need to have a defibrillator implanted. My heart became so weakened in the heart attack, that it isn't performing at a normal level. A few of my doctors are pretty confident, though, that it will return to normal, so we are holding off on that decision until the end of March.

On January 2, I finally went back to work. I went back part time for two weeks, but it was amazing just to feel like things were getting back to normal.

Now, I'm working full time. And I'm taking the train home from work, though Hubby still drives me in the morning. In fact, things I returned so much to the way they were before all of this, that it almost feels like a dream. While in the hospital, I couldn't imagine my life ever being normal. Now I can't imagine spending all that time in a hospital bed.

I've returned several times to try to thank as many people as I can. There are so many doctors and nurses that I credit with saving my life on many occasions. I know I will never be able to track down every single one of them, but I'm doing my best to make sure they know how they impacted with me, and how my heart will carry that love and appreciation for the rest of my (hopefully now a long and full) life.

Long overdue, Part one

2007-02-08T10:43:00.000-08:00

I can't tell you how many times I've started writing this blog entry only to stop and erase everything. How can I tell you what has happened to me since September? How is it possible to detail every twist and turn of my hospital stay, every euphoric up followed by every spiral down? Do I even want to tell you?

Yes. I do. It's therapy for me. I went through a period of time when it was hard for me to talk about it. I cried endlessly every day. I still cry, but the tears eventually turn to marvel that I'm still here.

You see, I almost died.

Where to begin? I guess I should just dive right in.

I went for aortic replacement surgery on Sept. 19 at the Cleveland Clinic. It was a day earlier than I was prepared for, but I felt okay with it. Nineteen is a good number. It's the day that Hubby and I each celebrate our birthdays, and February 19 was the day of our first date.

I cannot tell you how nervous I was. It was so hard to fall asleep the night before, Hubby and I both holding each other, pretending not to be scared of what the next day held. I was to be at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. because I was scheduled to be in the first round of that day's surgeries. My dad and his wife met us there. I could only take two people back into the prepping area, so my dad and Hubby went. It was so weird to be surrounded by all these other people and their loved ones preparing for surgery. The nurses asked me the requisite questions, and then it was off to the O.R. As I was wheeled away, Jason broke down in tears. I tried to be brave. I tried to reassure him, but I had never been so scared in my life.

The next thing I remember is waking up, still intubated, in the ICU. I remember using my fingers to spell out words on my dad's palm. I spelled out "PAIN." He thought I told him I loved him. I meant to say that, too.

But I was in a lot of pain, and they couldn't find a drug cocktail to alleviate it. Morphine had no effect at all.

I was transferred to a regular room the next day. I had a private room, which meant I didn't have to deal with a roommate. (All my rooms were private once I left the various ICUs). Hubby slept in an armchair for the first two nights.

After the second night, I remember two cardiologists coming in to talk to me. They had taken an echocardiogram and saw something that looked funny. I don't even remember what they said. All I remember is everything in my vision suddenly turning red. I remember saying this aloud, and then I closed my eyes ... I guess sort of passing out.

The doctors and nurses rushed me to the cardiac catheterization lab. They threaded a catheter through my arteries to determine what was wrong. They found it. My corroded arteries weren't reattached to my aortic graft correctly. It was a complication of the surgery. And it meant I needed emergency surgery. Now.

They let Hubby come in and talk to me for a few seconds. He asked if I understood what was going on. I said I did. He told me I would be alright. I told him I knew that. He said he loved me. I told him how much I loved him. And then I was off to the O.R. again.

The emergency surgery was a triple bypass. The blood wasn't flowing through my arteries correctly, so they needed to create new pathways. They harvested arteries from my right leg. I have five incision scars to prove it. They also inserted a balloon pump into my left leg. My heart was too weak to beat on its own. The balloon pump did the work for it. It kept me alive.

They couldn't even close my chest after the second surgery. I spent the next five days in the ICU with my chest open and rib cage spread. Thank God I don't remember that.

I almost died that first night after the second surgery. I was so weakened from what essentially was a heart attack. I had countless blood transfusions. And they assigned a nurse to sit by my bedside all night. I was his single patient. He held my hand and tried to comfort me as best he could. I was supposed to be unconscious, but I wasn't.

I was doped up enough that I only remember snippets, and I don't remember my chest being open. But I was coherent enough that my eyes were open, and I communicated by writing things and facial expressions. The nurses were shocked. They said they couldn't safely give me anymore sedative, but they couldn't believe I was awake.

Eventually, my chest was closed and the balloon pump was removed. I spent the next six weeks in the ICU. I was transferred to step-down units several times, only to return to the ICU within hours. I developed pneumonia. They tapped my lungs but the fluid kept coming back. I wore high-pressure oxygen masks, but my breathing got more and more labored. I fought as hard as I could, but I just wasn't getting better and my heart function was declining. Finally, they reintubated me. I hadn't wanted that, but the ICU nurses and doctors said it was the only way to improve my situation.

The next thing I knew, I woke up with a tracheotomy ... a hole in my neck ... and I was on the ventilator with a feeding tube running up my nose into my stomach. (Did you know they put Ensure milkshakes down the feeding tubes? I guess I was expecting something more scientific ...) But my situation still didn't improve. I was still retaining fluid and had gained about 20 pounds. I didn't realize until I got home and saw the stretch marks left on my skin how much I had gained weight.

Finally, they transferred me to the heart failure unit. I didn't know at the time, but it was then that my cardiologist placed a call to Hubby. He told Hubby to be prepared to put me on the heart transplant list. He said I was too young to die from this.

But luckily, I responded to the heart failure drugs. I shed the extra fluid and began to breathe easier. I even started walking again with my physical therapist. And they started weaning me off the ventilator.

But then I developed a staph infection. They found it on one of my blood cultures. I had to start heavy-duty IV antibiotics to fight the infection.

After a few weeks in the heart failure unit, I was transferred to a unit that specializes in weaning people from the ventilator. I had already started that process. I was doing well. I was the only patient most of the nurses had ever seen who actually ate solid food while still having a tracheotomy. And I walked farther and farther up and down the halls.

I began to lose hope that I would ever come home, though. Hubby was at the hospital every spare minute. He'd spend his days off there. And he would come before work to say good morning and after work to wish me sweet dreams. He knew how to adjust machinery, help me in and out of bed and settle me into bed for the night. He was my best nurse. But I couldn't help the gut-wrenching feeling every time I saw him. I couldn't stand that I was putting him through that. I hated how tired he looked, how hopeless it all felt. I burst into tears each time he came into the room. I begged him to take me home. He said he never saw me smile anymore.

On my final weekend in the hospital (I didn't know it was the final weekend at the time), my best friends came to see me. Nikki, Clare and Diana. They are my emotional support, my comic relief and my family. They came armed with CDs, cookies and hair care products. They washed my hair for the first time in two months. They watched Sex in the City episodes with me on Clare's laptop. They painted my toenails. And they made me smile. Something I hadn't done in a long time. And they got to hear me speak for the first time in over a month.

Like I said, I didn't know then that I was headed home within a few short days. But I now credit them with helping to make that happen. They lifted my spirits. They put the fight back into me. I was energized and ready to make it. I had clean hair, but more than that, I had the love of my best friends. And they were cheering for me. I can't tell you how much it meant to me, that they drove or flew in from different states to sit in my hospital room. I had been devastated when I missed Nikki's wedding and was unable to toast her and Jon. I still am. It's a memory that I will never have. But the memory of those three women, sitting at my bedside, sharing stories of our friendships is one I will cherish forever.

After the girls left, the holidays were approaching, but I didn't dare to dream I would spend them at my own home. But then a new doctor came into my room. He promised to get me home the next week. And he did. In a flurry of activity, my trach was removed, I was set up with a permanent IV, given a walking cane and sent out the door. Hubby brought me comfortable clothes to wear home, and even brought my wedding ring. I hadn't been able to wear it while in the hospital. He gave it back to me by getting down on one knee to present it.

And so I went home. I went home with an army ready to help me out. My sister came just as I was leaving the hospital. She wheeled me out while wearing her National Guard fatigues. My aunt had booked her flight to come in, and Hubby's mom was planning her road trip. I also had home nurses and physical therapists scheduled, along with a slew of follow-up doctor's appointments, which were not likely to end anytime soon.

Next time .... I'll update you from my first time leaving the hospital until now.

Mobilizing the troops

2006-09-07T12:49:00.000-07:00

There is no question. I have the most amazing friends and family one could possibly have.

Since I started spreading the word of my upcoming surgery, everyone has sprung into action. I have family high-tailing it into town — Hubby's mom, my dad with whom I'm slightly estranged (where the heck does that stand now?), my fabulous sister, Hubby's fabulous sister. I also have friends trying to make plans to drive in so I'm not bored, and they are even pledging to bring DVDs and play Trivial Pursuit. And I have more friends and otherwise-unknown blog readers posting messages of encouragement (Thank you so much! I truly appreciate them!)

And I even have a theme song.

Thanks to one of my bestest friends Clare, iTunes delivered to me the gift of Janis Joplin's "Piece of my Heart." As Clare put it, it's an excellent "kicking heart surgery's ass" theme song.

The Christmas after my mom died, Clare made me a CD that I still treasure. I always made sure I had it with me — that is, until I downloaded it into my iPod. It was titled "Comfort and Joy," and included songs Clare felt would get me through my grief. She also got this newest recommendation right — I definitely need to kick some heart surgery ass.

Meanwhile, I'm just getting everything in order for my mandated vacation from work. If anyone wants to visit (probably best to limit it to only those of you I actually know), you're more than welcome. I won't be allowed to drive for six weeks, so you'll know where to find me!

Operation: Aortic Freedom

2006-09-05T15:44:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm sure I've worn out the suspense by now, and it's time I come clean. I (well, and Hubby) are preparing ourselves for the biggest medical decision I have made in my life. I am having open-heart surgery in just a little more than two weeks.

I have a condition called Marfan Syndrome. No one ever recognizes that name until I tell them its what "they" thought that Abraham Lincoln had. It's a connective tissue disorder that affects many aspects of your body. It's why I'm so tall (6'2") and thin. Yes, I know, I should have modeled. But I have ... my leg appeared once in Time Magazine when I was an intern there and they used it to illustrate sunless tanners. It's also why I'm double-jointed, am near-sighted and a host of other things. But the biggest characteristic of Marfan Syndrome is that the aorta, or main artery leading away from the heart, can enlarge and tear or dissect.

I've known I had Marfan Syndrome since I was 3 years old, so I don't remember a time that I didn't know I had it. And up until recently, my mom was the only other person I knew with it. She passed away from an aortic dissection in 2000 because she was too scared to have the surgery. And that's what brings me to today. They will go in and replace the part of my aorta that is enlarged.

I'm having it because I don't want to be scared. I want to live. I want to love my husband. I want to start a family. I want laugh with my friends. I want to go further in my career. And I want to grow old. With my husband. I want to sit on our porch swing at 80 years old (probably somewhere in Colorado if he has his way) and look back at this decision as the wisest one I have ever made.

And I think it is. It's less risky for me to do the surgery than to wait it out and see what happens. My surgeon has a 100% success rate, and has done 130 of the procedure.

But I'm still scared.

I'm also sad. I'm sad because this means I could possibly miss my best friend's wedding. I'm going to try my hardest to be there, but I hate the thought of sitting at home while she is experiencing one of the most important days of her life. It's my job to be there to fix her veil and train, and to offer my friendship as she marries that man she loves.

I'm scared to miss that, too.

Ultimately, I know things will work out. I know I'm going to be okay, and I know Nikki will be okay if I'm not there.

I'm still scared.

Creepy-crawly

2006-08-30T17:45:00.000-07:00

For those of you who haven't figured it out already from my forays into gardening, I hate tiny, defenseless bugs, worms and arachnids. Yes, I know I'm girlie. Get over it.

I really, really dislike them. My usual MO when I find a spider crawling in our house it to yell for Hubby to come and kill it while standing a safe distance away and helpfully pointing at it until he scrounges up a tissue and takes the little bugger away. Hubby is even the sort that will carry the creature out the front door and attach him (or her) to a welcoming plant outside. Not me.

If Hubby isn't around, which tends to happen when we work opposite schedules Monday through Friday, I bring out the big guns. Our vacuum. I used to try to squish 'em like any normal girl ... by making contact with the bottom of my shoe that I had launched toward the thing from a respectable distance. If you know me, however, you know I love my shoes. And I didn't really feel like knowingly spreading spider guts all over them. Plus, it's messy. Enough said. But with the vacuum's handy attachments, I can suck that spider up while maintaining my four-foot radius. And I ALWAYS run the vacuum a few minutes longer to make sure it can't climb its way back out.

Needless to say, I was not pleased to wake up a new eight-legged friend the other morning.

I keep a glass of water next to my bed for my morning ritual of pill-popping (all legal and prescribed to me, I promise). But before I am ungroggy enough to handle sitting up and facing day, I hit snooze, oh, about a half-dozen times. During one of those times, I felt my hand brush something. Considering the amount of stuff I have sitting next to the bed, I didn't think anything of it. That is, until I woke up enough to take my pill. There, floating in my water was -- I kid you not -- the biggest spider I have ever seen in my life. Of course, it could have been the biggest I'd ever seen simply because I'm practically blind without my glasses so I had to hold the glass EXTREMELY close to figure out what the black blob was. Well, that woke me up! But just long enough to take my pill using a different glass and hit snooze once more.

Unfortunately, when I finally grudgingly rolled out of bed. I checked the glass and the "dead" spider was dead no more and had split. Now I'm afraid the spider will come back to taunt me. Just in case, I have the vacuum on stand-by near our bed.

Road trip recap

2006-08-29T16:12:00.000-07:00

So you'll have to envision our tour of Wisconsin without the visuals because Hubby has been working very hard and has yet to post his photos.

Our trip was absolutely lovely! We made the rounds of family and friends and even managed to squeeze in a few stops that weren't planned.

We spent our first night with Nikki and her Hubby-to-be, Jon. We met up with them in Milwaukee for some fabulous Mexican food and booze, which was much appreciated because it took us three hours just to navigate through the city of Chicago. I realize road improvements are a necessity, but come on people! You do not narrow a five-lane highway down to one with no warning and no way to exit for 20 miles! While we were crawling through our concrete prison, we discovered the joys of the rental car's satellite radio -- particularly the stand-up comedy channels. We were laughing so hard at the Blue Collar channel (I know, I'm not usually a fan) that we must have looked like we were wayward travelers gone crazy to those angry Chicago drivers.

While we stayed with Nikki and Jon our first night, we had to leave early the next morning to head to Radisson, WI - a town of exactly 222 people in northern Wisconsin. Hubby's grandparents live there, and I must say, it was very cute. Their house was the house typical of all grandparents with interesting knick-knacks, photos and memories.

Because of the sheer number of family members gathering in Radisson, we did not stay at the house. We stayed at a "resort." I use quotes because this was not the type of resort that the Hilton sisters would frequent. It was a fishing resort. It was pretty comfortable except for the fact that it didn't have a phone. Or cell service. But it did have it's own gas pump, which came in handy when we were running on fumes after forgetting to fill up in town. And the single station the TV picked up happened to be playing a program on font and typography when I was bored and had no channels to flip through. I know, I'm a nerd.

After leaving Radisson, we headed to northern Illinois to visit my extended family. During our entire trip, the over-indulgence of drinking did not actually happen in the Land of Cheese and Beer. Nope. It happened in Wisconsin -- by Hubby only. Let's just say that Hubby had a bit too much fun hanging out with my cousin. The next thing I know, he's calling to say he won't make it back to my grandmother's house after all. And the next day? Yeah, I had to pull the rental car over a few times during our travels. I don't think the rental agency would have been too forgiving if we brought back the car all puke-ified.

Finally, we rounded out our trip by returning to Nikki and Jon's. We visited a museum of advertising and design which was hosting a business card design display. It was fabulous! Yep, definitely a nerd! And I occupied my time by throwing my best friend and bride-to-be her first of two bridal showers. Which was fabulous (if I do say so myself), with fabulous alcoholic and non-alcoholic punch and a fabulous assortment of goodies and treats. The men were sooooo jealous of the snacks.

All in all, it was a fun and BUSY trip. Once renowned photographer Hubby gets his photos in order, I'll share those with you as well! Ahhhh, now I need another vacation from my vacation.

Stay tuned for why you should NEVER sell your car on your own. Just trade it in, trust me.

Hiccup!

2006-08-28T06:46:00.000-07:00

I'm so sorry for my long absence, my dearest blog readers. No, I did not drown in a vat of beer while clinging to a wedge of sharp cheddar while on vacay. Though we did bring back some tasty dairy delicacies from Mars Cheese Castle, the finest cheese kingdom in state of Wisconsin. I can't begin to tell you how my life has turned upside-down since coming back from the Land of Cheese and Beer. It's like we went to a foreign destination and returned to our normal lives, only while we were gone, someone decided to put everything in different places to confuse us.

We did that once in college. I shared a dorm room with Nikki, and directly above us lived Clare and Diana. For April Fool's Day freshman year, we swapped our door decorations to see how many people we could confuse. Our dorm only had three floors so it's not like it was hard for people to keep track of what floor they were on, but we still managed to find a few people staring blankly at our door, mumbling in confusion.

Anyway .... I've been sidetracked.

I will post more about our trip later once Hubby, the renowned photographer, posts his photos, but in the meantime .... We picked up our Prius Saturday! George the Prius is so amazing. I never though I would refer to a car as "amazing," but I can't short-change him. I drove George off the lot with a whole five miles of experience under his belt. As we were about halfway into the amazingly tedious drive home on the highway, I called Hubby who was in the Focus in front of me. I told him I wasn't stopping the car. I was just going to keep driving, and I would never relinquish the wheel. I'm in love.

Since entering the blogging world, I have decided that most good blog posts have a cliffhanger. Well, here's mine:

Coming soon .... The Midwestern girl makes a LIFE-ALTERING DECISION, calling on the strength of her friends and family to help her out. And she gets a swell vacation to boot!

But first ... Until I feel comfortable discussing my LIFE-ALTERING DECISION, you folks will have to settle for the long-overdue vacay update and the hilarious story of trying to sell our Focus. Stay tuned!

On the road again

2006-08-03T19:59:00.000-07:00

In just a few (eight) hours, Hubby and I will hit the road for our Great Wisconsin Extravaganza. I will try to blog once I have an internet connection, but please be patient with me as I won't be really back in action until August 14.

I'm hoping I'll come back with great tales of cheese and beer.

Chivalry is on life support

2006-08-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

I realize that what I'm about to blog will probably draw angry comments from feminists (and probably men) around the world ... or just the ones who read this blog. But is it too much to ask for a "gentleman" to offer his seat up to a lady?

I take public transportation to work. Most days, I absolutely love it. I can read, listen to my iPod, zone out or whatever without having to worry about ramming into the bumper of the car in front of me or speeding too fast through the traffic cameras. It's a much more relaxing way to start my morning. If the train's running late, there's not much I can do about it so why not kick back, close my eyes and dream about stopping in for a danish at Panera on my way into the office.

I do not enjoy it, however, when I get on the train and have to stand during the whole ride with my heavy bag while wearing a skirt.

I realize that many women fought very hard for equal rights, and I also realize that if it weren't for them, I would probably spend my days wearing an apron, mending my husband's clothes and baking pies. (Side note: Hubby and I actually did make a pie this weekend, and it is fabulous! It's a peach, blueberry and raspberry pie, and I HIGHLY endorse it. And for someone who rebels when her dessert does not contain chocolate, that says a lot!) But it's just POLITE to offer up your seat! Just like it's polite to hold the door open for the person right behind you instead of letting it swing shut in his or her face. I would offer my seat to an elderly person in a second so why shouldn't able-bodied males offer theirs up to the ladies?

The thing is that there are just some mornings where I don't feel well, and standing and hanging on for dear life just doesn't agree with my body. But because I look normal, no one thinks anything of me standing. Maybe this is my hangup, but I really don't feel like tapping someone on the shoulder to explain my medical history. And what drives me crazy the most is when they obviously avoid making eye contact so they don't feel compelled to get up.

Hubby (as well as all of my/our male friends) always offers his seat up to a woman, but I'm beginning to lose faith in most of the men in my Midwestern metropolis. During my stint living in New York, I always saw men offering their subway seats to women. And Midwesterners are supposed to be the friendly ones.

Maybe their mamas should have taught 'em better.

The worms crawl in

2006-07-31T10:13:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I spent our weekend toiling in the jumble of plants and dirt that we call our backyard. You see, our house was built in 1930 and while the former owners all took great care of the inside, they seemed to have just thrown whatever plants were discounted into our backyard without actually taking the time to figure out the best place to put them. We have plants growing under other plants, people, and random trees sprouting up throughout our lawn after the birds dropped the seeds.

For being in the city, we actually have a pretty big backyard. It's big enough for two dogs to run around and big enough for us to wince at the cost of re-landscaping it. It is still small enough, however, that Hubby actually uses a non-motorized push mower that he got for free from our neighbor's garage sale. (Between that and the Prius, we are sounding more and more environmentally conscious with every blog entry!)

So we spent the majority of our weekend transplanting things and trying to organize the yard a bit better. Well, Hubby spent the majority of the weekend transplanting things. I spent mine sitting on an overturned bucket, holding the garden hose and watering where he told me. I don't do dirt. I know, I'm such a girl. Growing up, my sister used to pick up worms and put them on the outdoor compressor of our central air-conditioning unit. In the summer sun, the compressor's metal was so hot that the worms would actually fry. While she would perfect her creepy-crawly torture tactics, I would spend my summer changing my outfit if one happened to get dirty and avoiding her setup on the air-conditioner compressor. Like I said, I don't do dirt -- or worms.

Actually, with a good pair of gardening gloves, I have no problem with the dirt or the bugs or the worms. But I tucker out easily because of health issues, especially in this heat. It's my genes; I blame them.

The rest of our weekend was spent showing off our (nonwrecked) car in hopes that someone would take pity on us and buy it. I feel like I should be wearing the classic polyester suit and gold wristwatch of a used car salesman as I try to talk up its the "reliability" and "great gas mileage."

I also get too attached to prospective buyers. I coo to Hubby that he/she "was so cute!" after they've taken their last look over the car and have driven away. I'm actually rooting for certain people to like and buy our car. But I also worry about angering other people wanting to look at it or not giving them a fair chance.

I'm not wormy enough for this car-selling gig.

What's a whisk?

2006-07-27T12:28:00.000-07:00

Those of you who know me, know that I probably am the furthest thing possible from a whiz in the kitchen. And for those of you who don't, let me give you a little testimonial to my cooking ineptness. I have actually succeeded in disintegrating a grilled cheese sandwich. I blame the butter or imposter-butter-spread or whatever it was.

Seriously.

I have managed to make many a grilled cheese since I first learned how to operate a stove, and I pretty much thought it was my kind of cooking: mindless. But my grilled cheese experience took a turn when my sandwich turned to goo on the hot griddle. It didn't burn; it just melted away. So from then on, I have even doubted my grilled cheese capabilities.

My lack of cooking skills is being highlighted as I prepare the menu for Nikki's bridal shower in two weeks. I know bridal shower goodies are supposed to be all girlie and dainty, so I don't think my skills at making a mean frozen pizza or Hamburger Helper will be appreciated. And my one specialty dish is similar to quiche but involves ramps, a plant similar to wild onions or leeks that is only available for two weeks in early spring.

I keep looking at all of these elegant sounding recipes online, but it just seems so daunting. I usually feel very comfortable as long as I have specific directions to follow. My cooking aversion doesn't typically kick in until you start asking me to improvise and throw in random ingredients. Maybe I'm freezing up because I really want Nikki's shower to be perfect. All I know is that a co-worker gave me a recipe for spinach and artichoke dip, and so far, that's all the ladies will eating!

The menu selections at my bridal shower were wonderful, but Nikki co-hosted my shower with a woman who was Betty Crocker incarnate, so I think she had an unfair advantage.

This is why I married my Hubby. The man knows his way around a kitchen, and he keeps me from eating frozen pizza or mac and cheese seven nights a week.

Oh, and I do know what a whisk is. I'm not that hopeless.

We're expecting!

2006-07-25T13:34:00.000-07:00

And we've even picked out names for our new baby — George or Rosie. We should expect the new family addition to arrive in two to five weeks, and we hope it won't happen when we're trekking around Wisconsin.

Now I should tell you something before I start getting the calls from all of my friends demanding to know why we A) didn't tell them about our bundle of joy sooner or B) might name our baby after the president. Deep breath, folks. It's okay. I'm not knocked up, but I am expecting a shiny Prius to arrive in our driveway soon!

Hubby and I went to test drive what seemed to be the only Prius left in the Midwest last night, and I completely fell in love with it. It's so tech-y and fun! Between the transmitter that senses when you are approaching the car and unlocks the doors to the fact that you start the car by pressing a button, Hubby and I were salivating by the time we stepped back out onto the asphalt. So after many discreet head nods and winks behind the salesman's back, we put ourselves on the waiting list. And since we aren't completely picky about color (we only nixed the silver and beige), we're hoping to bump above the other three people before us!

As we were glowing with anticipation last night, I told Hubby we needed to name the car. I remember naming my Focus in college, but I've long since forgotten his moniker. But I told Hubby the Prius NEEDED a name. It didn't feel right without one. Our thinking behind George or Rosie — they are color-dependent names, of course — comes from the Jetsons cartoon. I LOVED that cartoon, and the car just reminds me of it. In fact, I really wanted it to make that space-age sound that the cartoon's flying cars made when they flew around on TV. Since George and Rosie are the only two names I can remember from the cartoon, those are the ones I'm sticking with!

So there you have it. Hubby has already called me a nerd so please, no comments pointing that out.

Wise woman

2006-07-24T14:47:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I are preparing for a wonderful journey to the Land of Cheese and Beer. In about a week and a half, we will be touring the fine state of Wisconsin. While some people head to the beach for a summer vacay, we prefer to hightail it to the nation's headquarters for dairy products and alcoholic beverages.

In actuality, we will be visiting several family and friends over our 10 day trip. One such pitstop will include hosting my best friend's bridal shower just outside of Milwaukee. I know she reads this blog, so I won't be revealing any cheesy bridal shower plans like the game I have planned to have everyone dress her in a "gown" of toilet paper. (Just kidding, sweetie!)

I have to admit, it's quite a bit more fun to have a friend plan a wedding than to actually plan it yourself. While I didn't mind the whole process of preparing for our "special day," I've enjoyed offering my opinion when Nikki asks without having to worry about all the particulars like actually paying for it. It's kind of like being able to relive your own prom when it's your job to teach your little sister how to pin on her date's boutoniere. You don't actually have to worry about sticking the poor guy in the chest, but you feel qualified to offer your wisdom having lived through it before.

One problem with living through it before, is how you are labeled as a participant in the wedding party. At 26 years of age, I have graduated to the status of matron. I know I am overreacting, but that makes me feel like I should get my dress hemmed to hide my orthopedic shoes. Or at least add a bouquet holder to the stroller I will surely be pushing down the aisle.

I lobbied for the title of Best Lady, but I agree with Nikki that it makes me sound like I should be hanging out with the groomsmen on her hubby-to-be Jon's side. (Side note: Why is it that the Best Man's title doesn't change when HE's married? How unfair!)

Anyway, I've made my peace with the Matron of Honor title. Hey, at least I'm being honored, and it makes me sound wise. Maybe I could just be known at the Wise Woman.

It's (not) just a scratch

2006-07-21T11:10:00.000-07:00

Exactly a week ago today, hubby was driving my car and the tire blew out sending him careening into a telephone pole. (He's okay, I promise) Well, careening isn't the most appropriate word when the car is only going 25 mph immediately after making a right-hand turn, but you get my point.

So he paid a little visit to this telephone pole and we have been sitting on hold ever since. We are down to one car, which isn't all that bad since I take the commuter train to work every morning. But it's a bit frustrating that our kindly insurance company and the auto shop that was the lucky recipient of our banged-up car keep telling us different things. After seven days, we have received no estimate and no indication on whether or not they will declare it a total loss. Among many other things, we think the frame is bent and the air bags deployed, which on a low-end, 5-year-old car means a big chunk of change in comparison to its value.

Even though I hadn't actually driven my car for three weeks before this happened, I'm feeling a bit trapped without access to a motor vehicle. I can walk to several restaurants/bars, a movie theater, a grocery store and a bookstore, but I can't help feeling like I am being drawn to locales outside of my designated radius. Like Target. And the really good gelato place. And Target.

I know I need to get used to this slow-moving, energy-exerting way of gettin' around. Prior to the car hurtling into the telephone pole, we had been talking about selling it anyway. The plan was to sell that car and trade in my hubby's for a shiny new Prius. And while he would be able to zip around in his new anti-gas-guzzling vehicle, I would still be left to my own two feet.

I wonder if there is a bus that runs between my house, the gelato place and Target.

If everyone jumped off a cliff ...

2006-07-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

... apparently I would, too. You would think I would have figured out how not to succumb to peer pressure by now, but I guess I haven't. After occasional nagging by my already Internet-published friends, I am taking the plunge.

That's right, soon-to-be-faithful reader(s), I am starting a blog. A bit late to the blog trend, I feel pressure to provide you with witty insights to my Midwestern, married, 20-something life. But let's just take that slow. What do ya say?