Shameless plea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.