A Tera - What?

I hope you had a very Happy Thanksgiving! This is long, so I will get straight to the point. I want to share a story with you.

Two weeks ago, I shot straight up in my bed. It was 4:00 am, and I was fairly confident that someone had stabbed me in the stomach. I ruled Mike out because he was still sleeping, and I didn't think I had done anything recently that warranted physical harm. I crept downstairs and poured myself some of that green juice that tastes like garlic but everyone pretends tastes great. I thought maybe it would help calm my stomach down, but it didn't seem to do anything. So I sat on the couch with the awful pain and eventually fell asleep. When I woke up, I called the doctor and let her know what was going on. She suggested I come in immediately. Mike drove me downtown, noting that I would be a danger to the City of Dallas if I got behind the wheel. We got to the doctor's office, sat in the waiting room and waited.

Mike played a game on his phone.

It's called Deer Hunter.

Have you seen it? It does exactly what its name suggests. The player tries their best to massacre a fake cartoon deer with a ginormous AK-47. I wasn't happy and since I had already read all the People magazines in the waiting room, our conversation went a little like this:

J: "Why are you playing that game? I hate that game. Stop it."

M: "I'm Sorry. What would you prefer for me to do?"

J: "I would prefer for you to stop playing that stupid game. Do you see any other husbands in here playing video games?"

M: "I don't see any other husbands in here at all. Maybe I should have waited in the car."

Thankfully for both of us, the nurse opened the door and called my name. I followed her to a back room, changed into the flimsy paper gown and laid on the table. "I am going to do a sonogram" the technician announced to me.

"Ok. Any idea what you are looking for down there?" I asked.

"We are just trying to get a better idea of what is causing the pain. By the way, your uterus looks great!"

"Thanks..." I said, because - what else can you say?

We finished up and I was sent back into the waiting room. I began to cry, partially from the pain, but also because I was starting to get scared. After her initial compliment, the sonogram tech had gone radio silent. I knew something was going on because I saw grey, fuzzy images on the screen that looked nothing like the hundreds of in utero fetuses I have seen posted on Facebook, plus I didn't think I was pregnant. When I asked what the pictures were, the tech kept saying, "The doctor will want to talk to you about this."

My biggest fear has always been that something would be wrong and I would not be able to have to children. There were too many unknowns at this point, and my mind was spiraling with the worst possible scenarios.

Finally, we got a chance to talk with my doctor. "You have a mass on your left ovary," she said. It's bizarre though, because your pain is on the right." Yes, bizarre.

She explained that this was not a "classic" ovarian cyst, being neither water filled nor an easily recognizable benign mass. She wanted to take it out as soon as possible. I needed to get an MRI done so she could get a better look  - would next Tuesday work for surgery? She needed to run some blood tests. With the odd shape, she wanted to rule out anything "abnormal."

I asked her if she was talking about cancer. My doctor said, "Well, yes, but a very, VERY small chance." I didn't hear much after she said Yes. I was picturing operations and chemo, hair loss and wigs. How much I hate throwing up.

Mike looked like he had been punched in the face. He kept saying, "I'm sorry. Could you explain this again? I really did not think you were going to be saying any of this." My doctor was incredibly patient and kind. She drew a full diagram out for us, but really didn't have any answers. She kept apologizing, and explaining that she would have a much better idea of what needed to be done once the MRI was completed.

We booked the surgery for the next Tuesday. We talked with Wendy, who had me sign a consent reminding me that if the doctor got a look at the mass and was unable to easily remove it, she had my permission to also remove my left ovary. She also discussed the possibility of calling "Other Doctors" if the blood work came back with "Abnormal" results.

"Oncologists" I said.

"Well, yes" Wendy agreed.

We went home. Neither of us said a word during the drive, and my phone rang almost as soon as we walked in the door. My dad was checking to see if I had gone to the doctor and I was holding on to the blue sticky note that had the names of the four blood tests being run. CA 125 was first on the list. CA...CA...CANCER....I started crying when I tried to explain what had happened. Mike took the phone and went outside to talk with my parents. I went upstairs and continued to cry.

Here's the thing about me and crying. I cry all the time. I cry when I am sad, angry or happy. It's really very confusing to those who love me. That night I was really angry, but I just cried.

The next week is a blur. I sat and waited for two days until Wendy called with my test results. My CA 125 was only very slightly elevated and there did not seem to be cause for concern. They would not be contacting an oncologist. We had gotten over one hurtle, leaving the MRI and the surgery. Mike had to leave for a conference and thankfully, my mother was able to come into town.

Before the MRI. 

Essentially, I pushed the pause button on life until Monday night. I didn't have anything I really wanted to do and I was in too much pain to exercise or concentrate on reading. Mom and I went to see a movie. We watched a lot of television. Mom taught me how to knit. Mike got back into town.

This is going to be a scarf...

One night at dinner, Mike asked me if I wanted to discuss my wishes if something were to happen to me. I wish you could have seen my mom's face. He now claims it was "a joke."

I slept for a whopping 2.5 hours that Monday night. I couldn't eat or drink anything after midnight, so I stared at the television. Mike, mom and I headed to the hospital, arriving promptly at 5:15 am. I changed again into a flimsy hospital gown, and waited for 2 hours while the nurses poked at me and asked questions. Finally, the anesthesiologist came in and gave me something to help me relax. As I was drifting away, I heard Mike say, "I won't let them take both your ovaries. I promise." It was the best thing he could have said.

I woke up two hours later, incredibly thirsty and very loopy.

Things go in and out after that, but the next thing I remember is seeing mom and Mike smiling on either side of me. "How did it go?" I asked. "Everything is great" they said. "It couldn't have gone better!" I still had both my ovaries and the doctor was able to completely remove the mass.

I cried, but this time it was because I was happy.

Turns out I had a benign congenital teratoma. Have you ever heard of that? Me neither. Apparently, they are rare and made up of tissues that develop while you are in the womb. Most likely it has been there all my life, so this is really all my mother's fault. If you Google it, you will see pictures of masses with teeth, hair and other random body parts. They wouldn't let me bring it home. I asked.

It has been 5 days since the surgery and I am doing well. I have three tiny incisions on my lower abdomen, giving me an excuse to wear sweatpants at all times. The weird thing is we still don't know what was causing the pain. The doctor suggested severe digestive issues, which led to the discovery of this mass. I'm not sure about that - we are going back to see her next week.

We didn't end up being able to travel to Birmingham for Thanksgiving, so Mike cooked an entire Thanksgiving feast for us here in Dallas. He even fried a turkey. Before my mother left, she made me a pecan pie, which I devoured in three days. An entire pie.

The turkey looks almost as big as the dog. It was only 10 pounds lighter.

Every year around this time, I say, "I am thankful for my health, my friends and my family" but honestly, I always took my health for granted. While I only suffered a scare this year, it made me realize how lucky I am to be healthy and able bodied. I am incredibly thankful for family and friends who said it was ok to be scared. That this kind of thing is scary, and that maybe, they were a little scared too. And my heart goes out to the families that are dealing with or have dealt with serious health issues- you are much braver than me.

Happy Belated Thanksgiving! I hope you spent time with some of the ones you love.

On Being Brave

What does it mean to be brave?

When we are little, the doctor asks us if we can "be brave," just for a second while he/she pricks our finger. In that situation, being brave has no repercussions. Either you sit quietly and wince as the needle stabs you, or you scream before, during and after the needle pierces your finger. It really doesn't matter. The doctor gets your blood and you get to head back to the sandbox without another thought. We don't really understand what being brave is, because at that age, we don't really have that much to lose.

As we get older, "being brave" is a little scarier. Maybe you are trying out for the dance team, calling the cute girl/boy in your class or applying to colleges. At the time, all of these events seem life altering. And while you are probably not significantly changing the trajectory of your life by deciding whether or not to enroll in the school talent show, you are learning valuable life lessons. You are learning to step out of your comfort zone, even when it is scary, and realize that YOU are going to be alright, even if things don't go the way that you were hoping.

I tried out for the basketball team in 7th grade only because my best friend did not want to try out alone. I had no business even attempting to launch a ball towards that basket, but I was brave, and made it through the first day of practice. Surprisingly, I was not invited to attend the second day of  tryouts. What I learned was, I am not a good basketball player. Sports are not my strong point, and there was no point in me pursuing a career in the WNBA. But, I also learned how it feels to be told no, and how important it is to be flexible and have a back up plan. (I was brave a lot and tried out piano, cheerleading, softball and swimming. Sometimes it takes awhile to figure out exactly which path is yours.)

There are so many phrases we throw out suggesting that being brave is an easy thing to do. "The worst thing they can say is no." "The worst thing that can happen is you don't get "it"." "What's the worst that can happen???" When we are all grown up, being brave is HARD. The worst that can happen is that you can lose your financial security, your mortgage, your family. The stakes are high and sometimes we get so wrapped up in the stakes that we forget about what we learned in middle school. If you are brave, even when it is scary, you are going to be alright.

I write this because exactly one week ago, I resigned from my job. Effective immediately. I had been struggling with this decision for months, but was so bogged down with the logistics of how we were going to pay our bills and keep our health insurance that I was scared to lose the stability of a monthly check. I was so scared to lose this that my health was beginning to suffer. I was angry, tired and stressed out, which didn't make me, or anyone around me happy. I noticed one day when I came home from work that I snapped at the dog for jumping on me because he was happy to see me. And that's just not fair. It's not fair to my husband, my pets or to me. The job I was in wasn't a good fit for ME, and somewhere along the line, I had forgotten that there are other paths to explore.

As soon as I hit send on my resignation email, I truly felt as though a weight had been lifted off of me. When I woke up the next morning, instead of stumbling to the shower and grumbling at Mike to JUST STOP TALKING, I was happy. I was singing. I was annoyingly optimistic. I had an entire day full of opportunities in front of me that had been hiding under all the fear.

I am not suggesting that you throw all caution to the wind, quit your job and figure out the plan later. Mike and I have a plan, which makes all of this just a little less scary.

So today, I challenge you to be brave.

As Sheryl Sandberg says, "What would you do if you weren't afraid?"

Ten

This morning I was sitting quietly, creating a massive to-do list for the day. My husband walked by, picked up one of my shoes and said, "What is this?"

I replied honestly, "It looks like a shoe."

Mike responded with a quick eyebrow raise, letting me know that he was choosing to ignore the sarcasm in my answer. I went back to my grocery list. Unfortunately, subtle comments were not going to be enough to dissuade this man. My husband had a point to make, and gosh darn it, he was going to make it.

"Sooo.." he said. "I've been thinking and I have an idea."
Again, my eyes shot up from my grocery list, quietly cautioning him. This sounded like a trick and I had too many things I needed to get done.

"Do you think this week we could make it a goal to take all of your shoes upstairs? I bet if you did it for one week, it might become a habit, and then the dog wouldn't eat them."

As the above photos suggest, we have had a problem with Mags gnawing on Every. Single. Pair of my shoes. (Never of Mike's.) When I come home and see my new Target wedges torn to shreds, I get upset (and also wonder when we will actually have to pay to get the dog's stomach pumped.) 

During the first few ruined pairs, Mike was empathetic. He told me he was sorry that my shoes were destroyed, but also managed to slip in a little PSA about cleaning up after myself. Now we skip right to the lecture about how if I put my shoes away, they wouldn't be attacked as chew toys and left in a sad pile, never to be worn again (despite my best efforts with duct tape and a stapler.)

I sighed, and started to protest, but ended up nodding. "Alright" I said, shocking both Mike and myself. "Will do." Mike quickly said, "thanks" and crept out of the room before I changed my mind.

Here's the secret. Ten years ago today, my life changed in a really big way. For FOUR DAYS I had agonized about whether the cute boy I met that Friday night was really going to call. He had promised he would. He got my phone number. We had danced. And laughed. And he read BOOKS. He was perfect.

At the time I was living with three other girls and they did just as they were supposed to. They assured me that this boy didn't want to look too eager... he was busy...it was a football weekend. But  I was starting to give up hope. Maybe I had accidentally given him the wrong number...should I try to contact his friend to see if the number was right? Craziness was on the horizon.

To prevent my picture from appearing as a wanted stalker on the 10:00 news, my best friend dragged me out of the house for a run. We came back and I heard a horribly annoying beeping coming from my room. My cell phone was screeching, alerting me of a missed call. (At that time, phones weren't so smart, and I don't know if it even had a silence button.) I ran to the room thinking, "Please don't let this be my mother. PLEASE for the LOVE of  GOD don't let this be my mother!"

I dialed my voicemail and a deep, slightly nervous voice started talking. "Um. Hey Jenny. This is Mike. From Friday night? I ...I was going to call you last night, but I fell asleep....Anyway, I wanted to see if you would be interested in getting together later on this week...you know if you're not busy....or whatever....ok. Give me a call. Talk to you later....if you want...."  Click.

I did what every other 23 year old who has waited for days on a cute boy to call would do. I ran through the house screaming, "HE CALLED! HE CALLED!" And then I did a little dance. Then I waited the requisite 30 minutes to call him back (just so I didn't look like I had nothing going on) and we planned to meet for dinner on Thursday. I chose a Mexican restaurant, ordered queso and a Gordito Burrito. Mike said, "I honestly can't believe you ate all that food."

The rest is history. Not all rainbows and butterflies history, but good history. We have learned and loved and changed together, and I am learning that I am not very good about putting up my stuff. So today, before I go to the grocery store and make an attempt to vacuum up all the pet hair, I am going to put my shoes up. And hope that every day I am able to make Mike as happy as I was the night I checked my messages ten years ago.

Hope you had a wonderful weekend.

What's on Your Name Tag?

My mother tells the story of a night when she and my father attended a dinner hosted by my father's employer. I imagine her excitement at the chance to dress up, leave the children with a babysitter and enjoy thought provoking, adult conversation. I picture them sitting at round tables covered with starched, white table cloths, crystal goblets and silver flatware, carefully solving the world's problems. Wine is poured and steak is cut. Wait staff in black uniforms look on from the sides of the room, keeping an eye out for an empty plate or half full water glass. As my father engages in conversation with a coworker, the stranger to the left of my mother asks, "And what do you do?" My mother explains that she is raising three daughters. Before she can offer up their ages or any further details, the man has turned away, making it clear that, to him, her chosen occupation is unworthy of conversation.

When mom first told me this very true story, I was angry, but also shocked that anyone could be so blantantly rude. I have always thought that she handled the situation with much more grace than I ever would have. Rather than tap him on the shoulder and ask why raising three little people to become productive members of society did not warrant a discussion, or whether he would prefer to talk about her Bachelor's degree in English, or her Master's in Counseling, my mother ate the rest of her meal and talked with other guests at the table. "Besides," she says, "He didn't want to talk to me anyway. What was the point of trying to make him?"

Several nights ago, I attended an open house for a non profit legal organization. My job requires a lot of interaction with this group, and I was excited to see their new office. I walked through the double glass doors of a beautiful building and paused as a valet called the elevator for me. I got in and began riding up to the top floor. I took a minute to examine my reflection in the mirrored doors. I was becoming more self concious of the ripped hem on my linen pants, where my heel had caught earlier that day. I tried to scrunch some volume into my hair and pinch my cheeks for a little color before the doors opened, but it was obvious I had had a long day. I wiped some mascara flakes from under my eyes, smeared on some lipstick and stepped into the hall with a smile.

Everyone in the office was well coiffed, pressed and perfect, making me feel all the more self conscious when a tomato flew off my plate onto the brand new carpet. I tried to laugh this off, muttered an apology and grabbed a glass of wine. I glanced at my watch to see how many more minutes I needed to stay before I could respectfully excuse myself to drive home and climb into my pajamas. A girl about my age started talking to me, and I jumped in the conversation, hoping that we would chat, time would fly, and I could eventually escape to my car. The young woman explained that she does fundraising as a volunteer for the organization. She then launched into a monologue of how she never expected to be eliciting funds for a non profit because she was a lawyer. She talked to me about law school, and how I wouldn't know, but lawyers are very competitive, and she was lucky to have made life long friends in law school. She told me about her husband, an executive at some prestigious company, and how she refused to let him apply for a promotion out of state because she was a lawyer in Texas.

Neither of us had name tags on, but eventually this LAWYER stopped to ask me if I was originally from Dallas. I shook my head and explained that it was a long story, but my husband and I had moved to Texas so that he could complete a PhD program. She smiled, cocked her head and said, "Oh, I see. You are one of those women that just follows her husband around, huh?" Ouch. Everything that was racing through my head seemed to be stuck in my throat and I could not get any words out. I smiled and mumbled something, trying to defend my existence as more than a follower, but she was already moving towards someone whose presence she respected. I was livid. I said my goodbyes and grabbed my co-worker, telling her it was time to go. As I relayed the story, my coworker said, "Did you tell her that you have your law degree?" I said, "I tried to, but I couldn't get it in." And then my mother's words came back to me. "Besides" I said, "She didn't want to talk to me anyway. What was the point of trying to make her?"

I brooded over this woman's comment for the rest of the night. All the nasty things I wish I had said came tumbling out when I told Mike what had happened.  My favorite, "B**** - get out of my face!" made me feel a little better, but I really wished I had had the nerve to say something to her. I emailed a friend who simply said, "Rest up. Let it roll" which was really all that could be done. I went to bed and woke up feeling less angry and more hurt. Who was this girl to make assumptions about me? Why did I care what she thought? Regardless of my personal issues, I think this interaction is a nice reminder not to judge a book by its cover. You never know who, or what might be hiding in those ripped linen pants. Whether you have a fancy degree is not the issue - it is life experiences that make people interesting. So give people a chance to tell their story - you might just be surprised.

Soapbox

This picture and its story have been making its way around the internet lately. Have you seen it? The gist is that the new pastor of a mega church disguised himself as a homeless man before his first Sunday service. Since no one had ever met him, the pastor stood out only as a gritty, dirty man asking for money. During the 30 minutes that he walked around, only 3 people out of 7,000 to 10,000 acknowledged him. Not just to give him money, but to even say hello.

After the "mix and mingle," the pastor took a seat in the back of the church. Eventually, he was introduced and began walking towards the pulpit. Everyone stared, shocked and shamed, as the "homeless" man unveiled himself as the newest leader of their congregation. The final words to this story read, "Being a Christian is more than something you claim. It's something you live by and share with others."

Initially, I read this story and "liked" it. I read other comments that read, "Awesome message!" "Really makes you think!" but for some reason I couldn't shake a feeling of irritation. I told the story to my husband, and then again to my mom, but was unable to put a finger on why this parable really annoyed me. My final discussion with Mike led me to the conclusion that I do like this lesson - I just wish that it had gone a little deeper.

My bet is that many people left church that Sunday pondering whether or not they would talk to the next homeless man they meet. Maybe it was discussed over lunch, with some people boasting, "I bought McDonald's for a homeless guy a few weeks ago" or compensating with a statement along the lines of, "I hear what the pastor was trying to say, but he didn't take into account that homeless people can be dangerous. And they really don't want something to eat, they just want the money for drugs and alcohol."  At some point, these church members were able to convince themselves that they are not bad people, and were able to talk themselves out of the guilt and shame they may have felt that morning.

I think this story is a great way to make people examine their prejudices and perhaps consider a different reaction in the future. But what is really changing? If we all walk around smiling and saying hello to the homeless people on the streets, what is that going to do? Are we going to have a a bunch of cheery homeless people?

Every weekday, I drive to a house 40 minutes south of my home. For at least eight hours, I sit in an office and work with individuals who are homeless. I can assure you that a smile or a kind word would definitely have helped my clients when they were living on the streets. During that moment, they might not have felt so invisible and alone. That McDonald's lunch DID help - they were starving and you gave them something to eat. But at the end of the day, they were still homeless, with nothing to show for the life they have led.

I get annoyed when I hear people insinuating that being homeless is a choice. That it could have been prevented. What person would choose to live on the streets and be treated like the dregs of society? To be branded as a dangerous criminal when life veered off the path you originally planned? Can you imagine watching someone cross the street so that they do not have to acknowledge you? There are so many issues involved when someone is homeless and unfortunately, a smile or a McDonald's lunch can't fix them. There are mental health issues and substance abuse issues combined with a lack of education and a broken family structure that is most likely completely foreign to you and me. Mix it all together and you end up with a mess that is very hard for one person to sort out alone.

And yes, I am generalizing. I am very aware that one bad apple can ruin the bunch. But what if, instead of assuming that all of these individuals are bad, we assume that they are good? What if, instead of talking about giving someone on the streets a nod or a smile, we begin considering how we can offer both good and affordable mental health and substance abuse treatment? Sound crazy? Even crazier still, how about making sure that all children are receiving the same quality education, whether they are in public or private school, rich or poor. Maybe then, mental health issues would be caught and treated early, before someone starts hearing voices at work, is fired, misses some mortgage payments and ends up on the street.

Still crazy? Perhaps. But imagine it was you sitting on that street corner this afternoon. Today it is 105 degrees in Texas and I am chugging water to stay cool indoors. If I were searching for shade in this heat, carrying my life's belongings on my back and dealing with depression or another mental illness that I can't afford to take medication for, I would hope that there was someone else in my corner who was not just going to offer me an Egg McMuffin.

The Top Five

If you know absolutely nothing about me, you won't know that we got a dog 10 months ago. If we have met for even two minutes, I am quite sure that I squeezed our dog into the conversation. Mags is the most precious thing ever, and has turned me into a rule breaking, money spending, lying to keep him out of trouble, Momma. Below is a list of things I swore I would never do for any pet. In fact, if you did these things, I probably made fun of you (behind your back, in a southern manner, of course.) But Mags has wiggled his way deep into our hearts and it doesn't look like things will be changing anytime soon.

The Top Five:

5. When you show me pictures of your child, I will pull out my phone to show you pictures of my dog. Eating. Sleeping. Panting.Walking. His first haircut. His first treat. His new collar. Him on the couch, even though he's not supposed to be up there. Each picture is cuter than the last, and it is necessary for you to see ALL of them. I got fussed at for taking this one...because I was driving. (Can't help it - it looked like he was smiling!)

Headed to the dog park. 

4. Mags is fancy. When he gets groomed, we pay just over what I pay for a haircut, and 4 times the amount that Mike pays for a haircut at SuperCuts. The first time Mags went to the salon, I noted the relaxing blueberry facial available for the low price of $43. And I considered it. (It didn't happen. I decided there was no way I could reasonably explain that expense to my husband without both myself and the dog ending up on the streets.)

Summer cut.

3. I buy doggie ice cream. They sell it at the pet store, as well as the grocery store. It is more expensive than the generic brand ice cream sandwiches Mike and I get for a treat. On the same note, I recently asked the guy behind the counter at Ben & Jerry's whether they sold doggie ice cream. When he began laughing at me, I defended myself by explaining that Einstein Bagels offers special doggie bagels, and the company might increase their capital gain by exploring this angle. The cashier did not care whether Ben and Jerry's increases their profits and continued laughing at me. Mike's response: "Jenny. They are hippies, but they are not THAT extreme." A loss for Ben & Jerry's, I say. Don't come crying to me when we follow up on that idea!

This is organic blueberry frozen yogurt. Nothing but the best!

2. If Mags is sleeping a lot or acting different in any way, I take him to the vet. I worry that he has kennel cough, pneumonia, heartworms...? In my defense, we did have a small scare a few months after we got our sweet dog. I took him in because he had been sleeping a lot, and the vet told me he might have cancer. He started back peddling when I began crying and asking questions about the success rate of  using chemo on dogs. I waited anxiously by the phone for 2 days until the lab called to confirm that my dog had not been given a death sentence. Mags has had a lot of medical visits though: X rays for hip dysplasia, antibiotics and eye drops for one infection, cough drops and cough medicine for another. He is due for a vaccine - I am quite sure the vet will find something else we should be concerned with.

1. Mags does not like to go outside when it rains. I do not enjoy getting wet either, but my bathroom is not our backyard. For awhile when it rained, either Mike or I would find a little "surprise" waiting for us in the guest room. One day when Mike was particularly irritated with Mags' stubborn behavior, I heard myself saying, "Would you want to sit in the rain to go to the bathroom? Don't get mad at him - he just doesn't want to get wet!" Sorry Mags-y, I tried. The dog has since learned that the guest bedroom is not a alternate bathroom.

This could be an ad for Diet Coke and Coors Light.. I hope we had just gone to Sam's.

*Bonus*
I wanted to make a top 10 list, but this post was getting too long.

In the event that we have to board Mags, he stays in a suite. Now, we don't upgrade to the deluxe package that offers a television showing Lassie and other canine shows (that would just be silly.) But. Our pup is not locked in a cramped crate with a roomful of other dogs. The suite is sound proof so that our Mags-y doesn't become stressed from other dogs barking. The "hotel" provides a little bed, but we bring his own things so that he feels right at home. Finally, there are 24 hour cameras throughout the facility so that we can watch our child dog on our phones.

If the way one treats their dog is highly correlated with the way they treat their children, we may be in trouble. :-) For now, he makes us happy and we want him to be happy. If it starts to look like I need to pick up a second job, maybe we will reevaluate our priorities.

I took this video the day that I brought Mags home. Sorry it is sideways - with my technical skills, it is a miracle that it is even uploaded.

 Please excuse the screeching, high pitched voice. And no, I didn't realize it was possible to use the word "precious" that many times either.

Still Here!

Y'all. I have missed you! I love writing and it makes me sad when I feel like I am too busy to sit down and catch up. I have been off since Thursday and found that I am much more productive around the homestead when silly work doesn't get in the way. I am able to catch up on cleaning, shopping and reading, and quite honestly, I think I am much more fun to be around. I love vacation Jenny!

Yes, we have been busy with work and school, but we have gotten to do a little bit of relaxing as well. Mike and I went to Hilton Head, SC to meet his family and celebrate a friend's beautiful wedding. I love seeing my sweet niece and nephew, and Mags even got to experience the beach! Do you like his new summer collar? He's very stylish.

If you haven't heard this story, Mike decided to drive cross country on our 3rd anniversary so that our dog could run in the sand. It was less expensive than boarding him, and we loved having him there, but I like my story telling better. The bad part was when I had to go back to work for a week while Mike and Mags lounged on the beach, at the pool and ate an excessive amount of seafood. I was jealous and  to be honest, I didn't handle it very well. Sadly, my phone has broken twice since then, so I lost the multiple pictures Mike sent of them doing all the lounging. It's probably for the best, but I'm sorry you can't see them.

We celebrated our third anniversary! Yay! All downhill from here :-)

The weekend after the beach, my sisters, Mike and myself met my parents in Baltimore for a special birthday celebration. When my father previously asked my mother what she wanted to do for her birthday (go on a tropical vacation? Travel to Europe?) my sweet momma simply said, "I want my family to be together." Well. Your wish is our command. My father decided the best way for us all to meet up was at...a Red Sox game. Actually two. Mom traded the second one for a massage, and we spent the weekend visiting and eating. It was so fun and entirely too short.

I hate this picture, but it is the only one of all 6 of us. We are all disproportionate heights and I  have a weird comb over thing going on. Fun times though!

These two celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary just a few weeks later. Love them. Don't they look like a couple of teenagers?

So that was vacation. A few days after returning from Baltimore I was talking to my mom during our usual morning chat. She alerted me to the fact that our cat, Torti, was not doing well. Sweet Torti, whom I named 22 years ago after my favorite food, Tortellini, was winding down. We got her from the pound when I was ten, and allowed us to become that family with three cats. (I had friends who had to take allergy medicine before they could come over.) Anyway, Torts was the last survivor and had become a fixture at my parents house. As you can imagine, my parents were very upset. They were concerned that they were going to have to put her down, and were having a hard time thinking about making that decision. Of course, that was the day that Mike was supposed to drive back through Birmingham on his way home to Dallas. After a lot of discussion, we decided that Mike should stay at the beach one more day. This would give my parents time to begin dealing with their loss.

Torti didn't die. They didn't end up putting her down and Mike was still scheduled to drive through Birmingham. At some point, he had to come home (or at least send my dog!) So, Mike rang the doorbell of my parent's house three hours after my mom had discovered Torti's body curled up in the basement. My dad was working that evening, so it was just mom, Mike and the corpse. Sound morbid? Mike ended up digging the grave in the backyard. Just another day....

Again - a horrible picture. She was super cute and we miss her.
 Those are not my feet.

So, my husband and my dog returned to Dallas. Mike came home with a cold, which we didn't think much about, but he also had a bite on his leg.We still aren't sure what kind of bite it was and really didn't care once it turned super red and hot. Mike was complaining of aching joints and pain, and being the loving wife that I am, I told him to take some Ibuprofen and get moving. The next day his fever was 102. He felt awful. I was convinced that Mike had either Lyme Disease or West Nile. He finally went to the doctor, who prescribed antibiotics, pain medication and gave him a tetanus shot. That doc had no idea what the hell was going on. Luckily, one of those treatments worked, the fever broke and we are all healthy and happy.

Well, that pretty much sums up life here at the Cherbonneau's! We are looking forward to meeting my parents down at the coast over Labor Day, but don't have anything else planned. I'm sure something will pop up - it always does.

This picture was taken when I was investigating Mike's bug bite.

Hope you and your families had a wonderful and relaxing Independence Day!

Taming Mags

I think at some point, everyone has likened their dog to Marley, in the great film, “Marley and Me.” But it has become a daily occurrence when either Mike or myself look at Mags and say, “What is wrong with you?!” Here is a follow up of what has been going on since I brought our little surprise home.

Oh, sweet Mags. You have been a part of our family for five months now. Never could we have imagined the joy and laughter that you have brought to our house, as well as the unconditional love. But let’s be honest. It hasn’t all been fun and games. You have tested our patience, and on more than one occasion made your father say, “Do that again and we are sending you back to the streets.” I don’t think that you MEAN to upset us. Your incessant chewing and eating must be a habit from when you were on the streets and scavenging food. However, your momma’s suede heels, special slippers and most recently, ENGAGEMENT RING, have us curious. What is wrong with you???

You are breaking the bank. Because you have no discretion in what you put in your mouth, we have visited the vet several times. You gave me quite a scare when the vet informed me that you might have cancer, but it turned out the MRI was wrong. The blood tests came back negative. We have bought so many toys for you, but they all end up in your stomach or strewn across our house. The girl at PetSmart told us you need the “extreme” toys, made for very large dogs. You are topping the charts at 22 pounds.

                You have so much energy, and perhaps you are alerting us of your boredom by chewing up or tearing apart everything in the house. We try to walk and exercise you but there are only so many hours in the day. So many people at the dog park have said to me, “Wow, your dog never gets tired, does he?” Or, “I can’t believe your dog isn’t scared to take on that German Shepard, Pittbull, (any other huge dog.) I don’t know why I was ever nervous that you would get hurt, and have developed a sense of pride when other owners stare at you in disbelief. Their dog may be a pure breed, but they could never compare with your tenacity and bravery. (Plus, I have yet to see a purebred with a tail as cute as yours!)

                You are a cuddler, and your dad has begun to call you Magnet because you are never more than a few inches away from me (even when I try to go to the bathroom.) I think he might be getting jealous and this doesn’t let me not get very much sleep. I put you in your cage the other night because you were being so disruptive. I woke up to this:

We are now calling you Houdini. I have no idea how you managed to break out of the metal cage, but no one ever said you aren’t determined.

                We put you in training classes two weeks ago. This had been talked about, but finally decided on when you decided to, “mark your territory” in both of your grandparents’ houses. More than once. I was a little worried about you in our first class because you don’t seem to focus very well in large groups. Once we got home, you showed us you could “sit” like a champ, but we still have a long way to go.

                You love to run, even away from us. If you see a chance to escape our house, you take it, even when it leads to me running after you in a soaking wet t-shirt and no shoes, cursing through the neighborhood. (We figured out you do better with baths inside.) You terrorize Lullabelle, and quite frankly, she hates you. I know you are just trying to play, but she does not enjoy being chased, jumped on, or having all her food eaten. She also does not appreciate that you have claimed her bed as your own when you have a perfectly nice one on the other side of the room. She has asked me to tell you to stop removing her excrement from the litter box and leaving them for us to find. No one likes that Mags. Not one person.

                But we love you, and I love to see how happy you make your dad. He loves to play with you, and it doesn’t matter if he is rough because you never seem to get hurt. The two of you have “accidentally” spilled red wine all over the furniture and me on several occasions because you were both so excited.

               We love you Mags, and can only begin to imagine what you have in store for us in the future!