Foolish Southerners

The weather forecasters have been predicting snow this weekend for at least the past few weeks, 6-12 inches to be exact. The locals thumbed their noses in the air, laughed, and exclaimed, "It NEVER snows here! It's been eight years since we got even an inch! Someone needs to fire those dumb meteorologists!!" We knew it was a definite possibility, but being new to the area, believed the people who had survived a few decades of winter and just bought some food to get us through the weekend. Sounded like a reasonable compromise at the time.

Yesterday morning I woke up, looked out the window, and saw about 4 inches of beautiful snowy white landscape. It was gorgeous, and then it started snowing even harder. Guess who's laughing now?! We now have about 6-8 inches on the ground and it's a nice change despite the inconvenience (and wonderful news of school cancellation).



What we DIDN'T know about snowy conditions is that when it snows you need to shovel your driveway... not so that you can get out of said driveway, but because it freezes over and creates a slippery patch of awesomeness that will either cause you to slip and fall on your arse or unintentionally slide out into oncoming traffic on our busy little piece of the road. I have done one of those two things already while playing with Kimber in the yard. You would think a dog from Africa would hate the snow, but she thinks it's the most awesome thing that has ever happened to her. She is especially puzzled by snowballs. I like to throw them at her and when they hit the ground she pounces on them and then looks at it "WTF MY BALL DISAPPEARED!!"



Hank, as predicted, is not a fan. It's a chore to get him to go to the bathroom and while I normally end up pushing him to the yard in grassy conditions, I'm not about to bust it while carrying his fat butt while there's ice on the ground. Poor scared Monkey.


The worst part about this whole thing is that every time we have inclement weather, one of the climate control contraptions goes out. On a Saturday morning when we can't call our landlord. Last August it was the AC and we spent 5 sweaty nights (with 3 trips by the handy man) before our landlord broke down and bought us some window units. That thing still didn't get fixed for several weeks. This time it was the heater and of course it happened as soon as the snow started falling. Figures.

As soon as the heater broke, Ben braved the storm and found a hardware store that was open. He returned with another space heater and a bottle of rum for snowed-in pina coladas. I think I'll keep him.

I Don't Think Buddy Wants to Hire Me

For some reason, cakes just aren't my thing. It kills me because I love to bake, but I just can't seem to get them right. When Ben and I first started dating, he would ask me to bake him yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Out of a box. Sounds easy enough, right? It should be, but Betty Crocker would slap me if she knew what I've done to her batter over the years.

The first attempt was about seven years ago for Ben's birthday, and it came out beautifully. I had never made a cake by myself before, but I really wanted to impress my boyfriend of a whole month with my mad skillz so maybe he'd think I was wife material and keep me around a little longer. The joke was definitely on him. Turns out that was a fluke and by the time he realized he'd been pool-sharked, it was too late... and that, my dear friends, is how I tricked him.

A few months later he decided he'd like another one of those awesome cakes he thought I could make. The second one came out raw in the middle and black on the edges. If that wasn't amazing enough, the third one came out completely dry and stale-tasting. Every cake came out worse than the last, and by then Ben had been let down so many times he stopped asking and I stopped trying.

It took me a good five or six years to go down that road again, but Christmas of 2008 I decided to try cupcakes with all my newlywed bakeware. They were delicious and over the course of a day an a half, Ben ate at least 20 of the 24. I'm not kidding. Ever since that day I've been baking cupcakes for every special occasion and even bought a fun icing tool so I can make them extra pretty.

Flash forward to today. Ben has been gone for two weeks doing survival training in Maine in the throes of a blizzard, and tonight he's coming home. I'm really excited - it's been a tough week (see previous post). Feeling brave and totally confident in my abilities, I went to the store and bought all the things I'd need to make him his favorite - yellow cake with chocolate frosting. I was going to make the real deal this time, and in my head it would be glorious and Ben would surely bring flowers home the next time he went out. I guess I had envisioned something like this:


Ok maybe not that fabulous, but I have been watching a lot of Cake Boss, paying special attention to all the little details they put into the icing all the while fighting like the hilarious Italians they are and playing stupid pranks on one another (I love that show). How hard could it be?

I only have one cake pan because let's face it, cake and I have a history I'm not real proud of. I thought maybe I'd test the waters before committing to a second one. I went to the store and gathered my ingredients, even springing for some decorating icing to give it that little something extra. Pleased with myself, I mixed up the batter and baked the first half of it as directed on the box. When the timer went off, the cake looked perfect and I thought I totally had this one in the bag. As soon as I let it cool and started pulling it out of the pan, it crumbled into a million pieces and all was lost. No problem - my cake would just be one layer instead of two. I threw it away and tried again. This one held together a little better until I went to ice it. I'm not really sure what happened, but let's just say cake is not my calling. The end product looked like this:


It's a really good thing Ben thinks I'm funny.

My Dear Sweet Granny

This is one of my favorite people in the whole world. We speak on the phone at least once or twice a week and she calls to check up on me every holiday, worried that I'm spending it alone (I never am, but she worries anyway). When I went home, I always made it a point to go by her house and do what I could for her no matter how small because of her osteoarthritis and inability to stand for more than a few minutes. I love this woman more than anything, and yesterday I lost her.

My granny was one of the strongest people I have ever met. She was born in the Great Depression, raised five children, two of which gave her hell (she gave it right back), spoiled 8 grandchildren, and lived long enough to see the birth of her first great-grandchild (for that I nicknamed her GG - she actually liked that one better than when we started calling her Granny, also my fault). Her first husband beat her, the second one was even worse though I hate to say it since he was my gramps and I loved him too. She walked away from both marriages during a time when divorce was not an option with her head held high. She hid her feelings for the sake of her family and despite the divorce, my grandparents were both there at every important family gathering, leaving their baggage at the door. I hope I told her how much I appreciated it. I wish my parents could do the same. She was also very quick-witted, could take a joke, and always had some hilariously snarky comment she'd make with a wink and a smile to get back at you. There was this one time she called to ask how long Ben and I had been married. She thought it had been a couple of months and I got a bit annoyed. "GRANNY! It's been a year and a HALF!!" Yes, I acted five, so what? She laughed and said, ".... and they said it would never last." Totally deserved it.

I called her on Christmas Day this year to tell her I was ok and that we were spending the holidays with friends. She was in the hospital and had just survived a serious electrolyte imbalance, one that almost took her out for good. I got the chance to tell her how much I loved her and that I'm glad we didn't lose her. She was pretty happy too and was looking forward to going home, which she did a couple days later. She told me that when she did kick the bucket, I had throw a party and dance on her grave. She also said some other things I will not be repeating but were definitely entertaining. It was good to hear that the old woman didn't lose her sense of humor... and also that the drugs were spectacular. Morphine is a hell of a drug.

I feel very fortunate to be the oldest grandchild and to have had so much time with her throughout the years. She was one of the few people I could talk to about anything and I will really miss hearing her voice every week. I'm not ready for the grave dancing or the party yet, but maybe some day. What a sight that would be, eh? Rest in peace, dear Granny. I love you.

I'm a Terrible Mother

I'm terrified of the day that I will have to say goodbye to one of my pups and for that reason, I'm super vigilant/neurotic when it comes to their health. The first time I found a lump on Hank I got so upset the vet gave me a big hug even though the thing was totally a giant lump of fat and completely harmless. Lately I've noticed Hank's neck has felt somewhat larger and maybe even a bit squishy near his throat. I'm well aware of my crazy and tried to shake it off, but I just couldn't do it, especially since he's gaining weight despite us cutting back his food at dinner time. He also seems to cough and choke a bit for no apparent reason at least once a day. Finally I decided I couldn't let it go any longer. I mentioned it to Ben who told me I was nuts and that Hank just has "old man throat." I'm sure that's a very real affliction. Much worse than the thyroid condition I suspected.

I called the vet to make an appointment, and the girl who answered the phone told me the same thing. Hank was probably getting old and his metabolism was slowing down and I should not worry about such silly things. The vet would probably just look at him and send us home with no issues. If I had any gall whatsoever, I probably would have gone off. First of all, anyone with a DVM behind their name is probably not going to be answering the appointment line. Second, I know my dog is getting old - I get that he will probably slow down a bit and gain some weight. I don't need you telling me everything will be fine when you haven't even seen the dude. Shut up and give me my appointment already, geez.

She finally gets me my appointment and we show up, only to be hassled by the same girl for a rabies certificate. I told her I had never received one and that shot records were always given to me in summary form when I checked out, which I had brought with me and provided every time before with no problems. She decided to call the vet office in Florida herself, only to be faxed the exact same form I brought. SUCK ON THAT, LADY!!

We finally get in to see the vet who looks at Hank and tells me his neck is indeed enlarged, he had gained 10-12 lbs which is a lot for a dog, the choking is suspicious, and that he does feel it necessary to draw blood and check his thyroid. I knew Ben's analysis was flawed! Turns out the guy worked on research animals (Bluetick Coonhounds in fact) at Baylor and knew a thing or two about Hank's past life, so we have it narrowed down to one of two things: thyroid issues or damage to his trachea/pharynx from all the times they intubated him while practicing anesthesia. My poor little boy. He said the only reason he suspects damage over thyroid was due to the fact that Hank had a shiny beautiful coat. He really does have a beautiful one. Much better than the beaver coat Vic wears (ha!).

Anywho, back to the point of this post. At the end of the exam when the girl mentioned above was checking us out, she asked what he thought. I told her that the vet had drawn blood and she cringed like the vet had made a big mistake and again told me Hank was just old and he was fine. I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU ARE ANSWERING PHONES WHEN YOU KNOW IT ALL. She requested the rabies certificate yet again and gave me the fax number to send it to if I should come across it. I dug through Hank and Kimber's medical records to see if I had ever been issued that dumb piece of paper and I ended up finding something even more interesting. Something that made me feel just terrible.

Our last vet in Florida who we adore wrote me a note to feed Hank Vitamin E every day (which I've been doing, hence the shiny, healthy coat that is NOT consistent with thyroid disease) and also that I needed to come back and get his thyroid checked in 2-3 months because he suspected a problem. That note was dated August 18th of 2008. Aaaaaaand I'm a bad mom. How did I miss that? I started to beat myself up over it, and then I realized I did bring him in 2-3 months later, and he left looking like this:


I kid, I kid. That was his Halloween costume. He was not pleased with us (more like he was pissed), but he won a contest and got lots of treats for it, so he can get glad in the pants he got mad in. Plus he looked really stinking cute in toilet paper. Look at him, he's adorable! In all seriousness, he really looked like this:


Bless his sweet heart. So you can see why his thyroid was not really a concern. We had much bigger problems back then.

At least I can feel a bit vindicated that nursing school has not contributed too much to my bit of crazy. I think it really helped in this case. As for "old man throat," we find out in 3 weeks. Until then, I think I'll just love on my sweet boy, hope for the best, and thank God for my stubbornness.

Sick Day

For the past two weeks I've been training for my first half marathon, and so far I've been doing pretty well. I haven't followed the training plan precisely (I'm slacking on the strength training), but I have been keeping up with the running portion. At least until today, when parts of my face turned purple and my temperature got really high. Let's just say it's 36 degrees out and I have yet to turn on the heater because I'm sweating.

Luckily I have taco soup and two lazy pups to snuggle with. Today just might turn out alright.

Still Got It

Ever since Ben and I got engaged two years ago, all the male attention I was used to getting/warding off pretty much stopped. It became immediately apparent that this rock was like kryptonite - I'd go out to bars with some girlfriends and end up standing alone while guys chatted them up blissfully unaware that eventually my friends would casually mention their boyfriends. The occasional guy would walk up and go, "Soooo.... you're engaged." Me: "Yup." Him: "That's cool. (awkward pause)...... well have a nice night!"

Although I haven't missed the awkward small talk one bit, the change has been pretty noticeable. I'm not one to catch on really fast when a guy is hitting on me (though the change in the dynamic of the conversation became apparent the second Ben was mentioned), but I have noticed that it's stopped, which brings me to the point of this whole post.

Today I was waiting at a stop light when I heard a honk next to me. I find that incredibly annoying and disrespectful, but I begrudgingly peeked over to the left to see one gnarly looking dude with a scraggly beard down to his belly button wearing a torn beanie giving me a giant grin and the biggest thumbs up I'd ever seen. I couldn't help but laugh - this guy was hilarious!

Great Success!

I waved at him and went on my way, laughing the whole way home. Who knew a guy like that could totally make my day? Norfolk sure has some characters.