why would that even be an option?!

it's been forever. let's just chalk it up to a long year.

i've been watching a long line of English shows- Sherlock, Marple, Rosemary and Thyme, Luther… drama and crime. often quaint, always with an english accent.

so I'm watching and something happens. it's devastating. and i just couldn't stop thinking about it. i gave Sterling a bath. i put him to bed, and i just kept thinking about it.

<< it should be noted that I was kind of a sap before I had Sterling. I cried during campbell's soup commercials. And now that he's here, everything seems so very much more real. and dear. and fleeting. so yeah, it COULD be said, that i get a tiny little bit teary eyed a little bit more. i'm also paranoid. i get that from my dad. and i'm always quick to jump to the absolute worst possibility. i can admit this. >>

mark is out of town.  obviously.
i look at my phone and realize i've missed two calls from him. 28 minutes ago.

i call.
i text.
i call again and i leave a message

i make a cup of tea.
he's gone to bed
he's had a long day
i check the clock- it's 9pm
9pm? he can't be asleep. 
maybe he's taking a shower. or a bath. 
why wouldn't he answer at 9pm?
should i call the hotel?
wait, i don't know where he is staying.
where is he?
i call again.
at this point i start to worry outright.
what if something has happened to him? 

<<i should note this progression took over an hour. i am not entirely crazy and yes, there have been several unfortunate experiences in my lifetime that have justified the sort of thinking that follows next, and NO this is not normal behavior from me>>

then i realize- i can track his iPhone!!!! there is an app for this!!!!!

i can track his iPhone and it'll tell me where he is and then i won't worry and i'll know what hotel he's at, and if i'm worried i can call. it is all ok. i'm just overreacting because i watched this show. relief!

so i track his iPhone.
and see this.

a cemetery?!??
what the hell is he doing in a cemtery??

i check the location on satellite. it's by an apartment complex. there are no hotels nearby.
at which point, i jump to the logical conclusion
he's been robbed. 
or worse! 
thieves have taken his phone to these skeeving apartments
those bastards

and then--
this is evidence of a crime!

i notice that word at the bottom "action"
it gleamed like a light in the night. i clicked it (because clearly i'm past the point of no return)
there are three options-  "play sound" "lost mode" and "erase iPhone"

<<i'm pretty certain Apple didn't MEAN to give your paranoid crime show watching wife the power to wipe your iPhone from afar. but really, WHY IS THAT EVEN AN OPTION?>>

i consider carefully.
i played a sound.
(three times to make a point)

RING!!!!
omg! it's him. or them? someone is calling me. 

"What did you do to my phone?!" -- Mark (sounding a little accusatory)

"What are you doing in a cemetery!?"(he's clearly not robbed, so now i'm annoyed. why is he in a cemetery?)

"why would i be in a cemetery? I'm in a hotel! I was asleep and then this weird noise started in the room and freaked me out and i hunted it down and it was my phone, which was on silent. with lots of missed calls from you. "

I text him the photo above. At which point, he starts LAUGHING.
"You thought i was in the cemetery?"

"Robbed. clearly. possibly dead. I was going to wipe your phone."

"YOU WERE WHAT! (and then he stopped). I love you Moses. But you're an idiot"


Big thanks to the Track my iPhone app.
He was across the highway

8 ½ months. the terror

We toured the hospital. Attended a 6 hour birthing class. And a two hour breast feeding class. We put the nursery together. Filled the drawers.
Almost 34 weeks. 5-7 to go.
All this nesting is supposed to calm me. Prepare me for what's to come.

This is the exact moment that I have a complete breakdown. I'm scared shitless. Absolutely petrified. Watching four births did not make me feel more comfortable. I started hyperventilating.

Three days later, I'm still hyperventilating. Learning to recognize the stages of a 12-18 hour tour through various levels of agony?  Not helpful. I'm all too aware that this entire process will cumulate with me shitting myself while a room full of complete strangers stare as my naked nether regions are literally ripped or cut apart in a bloody display.
It's a scene right out of an old english operating theatre.

It's a modern day horror movie. This is what should be taught in high school. Make kids watch a vaginal delivery and I guarantee teen pregnancies would be down.

You'd think after 6000 years someone would have figured out how to make this better. You've read Brave New World? Remember the incubators? Where the hell are the incubators? Where are the technological advances to this process? Why I am still carrying a child to term just like cave women did?

There's no good way out. Let's drop the cloak and dagger act and examine the facts.
Vaginal delivery? You're torn apart naturally OR you're cut apart and THEN (to add insult to injury) the skin of your most delicate parts, your vagina is stretched to a breaking point jokingly referred to as the ring of fire. You can't even use toilet paper for days after because you're nursing a bloody gaping wound.
C-section? Doctor takes a scalpel to your stomach, slices away- let's not even talk about the recovery.
Epidural? You're not even allowed to get an epidural until you're already halfway dilated and are at your agony threshold. Localized pain killers? Extremely frowned upon because of the transfer to the baby, "Nice job mom, took care of yourself and the baby right up until the delivery when you took a load of drugs."
We haven't even touched on the possible complications that can arise just by starting the labor process. They range from bad to tragic for me and the baby. That's truly the stuff of nightmares, and has been the subject of my dreams of late.

I've got a lot of strong opinions right now. They stem from the fact that I've got a basketball strapped to my stomach. I can't take it off and courtesy of the enlightening courses I'm taking, I feel like I'm staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

So spare me the speech about the "beautiful natural process." And don't make the assumption that me hating pregnancy and the very idea of delivery means I'll hate my child. That's a dumb assumption that's far too prevalent. That's akin to assuming that you'll hate or wreck your new car because you hate having to make the payments. Just because I wanted a child does not mean I wanted to have my body distorted beyond recognition and endure 10 months of discomfort, sickness, pain, fatigue, sleep loss, etc.

In fact, let's talk about that "beautiful natural process."Let's talk about the glowing mother and the special bond developed between mother and child. The beautiful bump.
I'm not glowing. Like so many other women, I'm a recovered anorexic who finally found peace with herself through exercise and strength. I've watched several years worth of hard worn victories over my body slip away in a matter of months as I lose the capability to run, workout, even walk without pain. It's a complete loss of self confidence and pride.
And the bond? Here's my experience. Kicks can hurt. These movements aren't gentle or relaxing. My organs are literally being punched and kicked with no protective layer of skin or muscle to shield them, and sometimes the shock and pain is enough to bring me to my knees. It's not really conducive to warm fuzzy feelings.

If you haven't been pregnant, you aren't allowed to judge me for being less than thrilled. You can either sympathize or keep your opinions to yourself. Or risk being punched in the throat.

If you have given birth? Think back on it. Realize that the pain has faded from your memory and that telling me it's not going to be that bad is just BS. Remember the forgotten leg cramps in the night, the painful months as your hips separate and your genital muscles rip and swell, the constant feeling that you're suffocating as you struggle to take a deep breath into your compressed lungs, or the all day sickness and nausea that accompanies you for months at a time.

Lastly, if you were one of the few women who didn't go through agony then realize your experience was a miracle and that telling anyone to expect the same is akin to me telling you that you absolutely WILL be an astronaut in this lifetime. Is it possible? Maybe. But let's be real,  you won't ever be an astronaut. NASA's funding is cut and we aren't planning a lot of space travel right now.

Here's the thing. I'm allowed to be scared. We're not talking about some difficult task here. I'm talking about pain. Outright agony.  I shouldn't be embarrassed or ashamed to say I'm afraid. I shouldn't be judged for feeling this way. I don't want to be coddled. I just want an alternative that's removed from the horror genre. I want some decency.

This Old House- Gascoine Style

there's been a lot going on lately; too much seems to have been shrouded in sadness.

so i'm taking the moment to update you all (and remind myself) of the good things that i shouldn't be overlooking.

REMODELING!

i'm not certain how many of you out there are Do It Yourself-er's. i'm also aware that levels of DIY range; while i think nothing of taking a sledge hammer to a wall, or a shower- some people consider repainting their houses to be more trouble than it's worth.

so let me start by saying that when Mark and I consider renovations, we mean renovations. we'll tear it down, to the studs, and build it again. fortunately for our wallets, Mark was licensed as an electrician in Europe, and American laws are a lot more lax. he also apprenticed as a carpenter before he went to university. 

in light of this, i'm not certain how much i really bring to the relationship! but i will say that i've got endurance for the crap jobs- like bagging and removing 30 trash bags of tile, 100 bags of ivy/leaves, a dumpster full of the fragmented remains of a kitchen, etc. i'm unstoppable at finding a bargain, and i've never met someone who is better at drywall. 

anyway- here's a series of before and after shots to capture what we've been up to the last 18 months in Texas. in case you're wondering, the only hired labor was for the installation of the counters in the kitchen.

ENJOY!

The Front Entryway- BEFORE

AFTER- paint & wraparound curtain track

Guest bedroom- BEFORE- the room was MUCH darker than it looks- dark brown on ceiling

AFTER - added dog door (we can replace with the real door when we leave), paint, updated lighting

Hallway bathroom BEFORE (it was DARK turquoise, even the ceiling!)          

AFTER-paint, new vanity, lighting, and fixtures (begone vile gold fixtures!)     

Kitchen from dining- BEFORE - taking out the tile hurt the most!

AFTER- new everything    

Kitchen- BEFORE from living room 

Kitchen AFTER          

Kitchen BEFORE from nook

 Kitchen AFTER                            

Upstairs bedroom BEFORE   - with brown ceilings again 

AFTER- paint & too much baby stuff 

Sunken living room- BEFORE   

AFTER- hardwood floors, paint,   

 molding, windows. Also, the living room in the back is now painted as well.

Below is another shot to show off the old green concrete floors

BEFORE  

AFTER

Backyard- BEFORE         

AFTER- ivy removed  from trees & walls,  gate installed, all surfaces pressure washed, trees and branches trimmed all around the house. New pool pump, new filter. 

There's a couple other rooms that have been painted and work on, but they aren't quite finished, so I'll save them for another post.

grief

grief. it's such an overwhelming emotion. it ranges the gambit; outright heartbreak, fear, anger, guilt. it appears to be the penultimate "bad" emotion.
it's beyond my rational mind. it's primal. it's consuming me.
i'm hoping that writing will help ease the tears. to tell someone how i feel rather than trying to rise above it, to be strong, to put her memory in a box. I need to verbalize this.

we are no longer one girl with two dogs. we lost the ever affectionate Kora Chops this weekend in an accident- a sting from a nasty texan insect.

Kora was my best friend. I know, it's sad. It's lame. She was a dog.
Kora was my companion. My constant companion. She was afraid of abandonment, and had to be physically touching me whenever I was home; resting her head on my knee or foot. She slept curled against my legs every night.
My husband travels often, 3-5 days a week.
I live in Texas; of the five couples we know in the state, the closest live 60 miles away. We do not keep in contact.
I have worked from home for the last three years, I do not attend any outside associations or clubs.

In the last three years, I've spent approximately 18 hours a day with her physically touching me, by my side. She was my saving grace, we walked, played and kept each other company over the years. If I was sad, she licked my tears and would clamber into my lap. When excited, we dashed around the house excited together.  If I was ignoring her, she'd sneeze at me. Over the past five months, she's curled against me and placed her head on my growing belly, seeming to understand the changes that were coming.

Now she's gone. The house seems so quiet. There is no jingle from her collar, no claws against the floor. No snuffing or signs of her tearing around the house. It feels like a nightmare. Like I'm sleep walking through a haze of pain and confusion.
I look around constantly for her. I see her toys, food bowls, dog beds; I expect her to be there. Out of instinct I reach for her. I find myself sitting, listening intently, not even realizing that I'm listening for her. I look for her in the windows when I'm outside. I start in the night without her familiar weight against my leg. When I return home, I open the garage door slowly so as not to hit her, before I realize she's not there waiting for my return.

I feel hollow. I feel empty. I feel lost. I do not know how to fill my days now. I do not know how to cope when Mark is away and the house is silent. I do not know how long I can continue in Texas, so far removed from everyone. I am heartbroken.

I feel angry. I feel as though I've been robbed. This wasn't supposed to happen.  She had fully recovered from such a horrible illness, she was so strong. I can't comprehend this to be truth.

I fear. I worry about Hercules, who has been hiding outside since this happened, that he will also be stung. I fear the unknown, the unexpected, the worst possible outcome. I'm terrified at the thought of Mark away from me and what could happen to him. I worry drastically over the baby in my stomach- that I will be unable to protect him from similar fates.

I feel so guilty. If only I had fed her immediately when I woke up instead of letting her run outside. If only we'd gone for a walk around the block that morning. If only I'd laid in bed five minutes longer. If only I hadn't let the pet sitters board her. If only we hadn't gone on vacation weeks ago. The butterfly effect-if only I hadn't lost her.

This is my grief. I cannot control it. The waves continue to wash over me. Hopefully the tides will subside in time.

they are liars

the evening before our big two week vacation- we discovered i'm pregnant! 

exactly three minutes of big eyes and speechless excitement were immediately followed by outright terror and questions.

-will a 9 hour flight be a problem?

-when do we need to go to the dr?

-how far along am i?

-do i need to stop taking my tumor medicine?

and then the realizations came crashing down

-not a single drink in the pubs!

-how will we keep the secret from family?

-we have NO IDEA what the do's and don't are

so we did what any couple who just spent a fortune on their one vacation of the year would do.
we got on the plane and headed to England.

England. land of un-pasteurized cheeses, uncured meats, bizarre locally caught fish, and local favorites like black pudding. likewise, we left a climate of 90 degrees for one around 30 degrees.  

have i mentioned we knew nothing at this point? 

i don't know what your experience with pregnancy is- but here's two tips in case you are considering it.

1- EVERYONE feels obligated to give you advice. DO NOT LISTEN TO THEM.

2-DO NOT TRUST THE INTERNET. 

that said- all of our extremely limited knowledge during this time period was gleaned during our limited moments to connect to the internet. 

can you imagine where this is going?

Spotting? yeah. that happens. according to actual doctor's, it's even normal. 

according to various internet diagnosis'- including one from the National Health Service- i was experiencing an ectopic pregnancy of twins and needed to go to the doctor IMMEDIATELY.

Serious cold due to the much lowered immune system and drastically different environment? 

Makes sense. In America, you take some cold medicine, anything from the tylenol line, problem solved. But in England? Slightly different story.

imagine if you will....

My throat is swollen and raw due to mucus sliding down it, i can't stop blowing my nose. I'm a picture of the best kind of miserable. We ask a clerk in the pharmacy what I can take for a cold while pregnant. 

He directs me to paracetamol.

What? that's for fever and mild aches.

I'm SICK. I explain I need something for the cold and head towards the "cold/flu" section.

At which point he starts SHOUTING after me, "YOU CAN'T TAKE COLD MEDICINE! IT'S DANGEROUS FOR THE BABY, YOU'LL HARM IT"

Across the shop. 

I can't even describe the looks i got, and the comments regarding the Starbucks cup in my hand. 

the "english" internet sites i had access to confirmed the clerks belief that no medicines were safe and left me terrified.  (interesting fact, that other countries have their country id on their sites, but not the US. like .uk for England, and .de for germany)

i took nothing. 

instead, i had a nasty cold for the entire vacation. 

i suffered seven mile walks through fields and pastures in the rain, touring castles and the freezing cold tunnels in the white cliffs of dover, countless hours with friends and family NOT drinking in pubs, and was vaguely miserable whenever in between bouts of morning sickness.

fortunately i finally returned to America and was assured that i could treat the cold. and i did. and i stopped being quite so miserable.
damn you clerk and english websites! Damn you! You are liars!

If there's one thing i've learned so far, it's that those women who say that pregnancy is a wonderful experience, that they loved it, that they felt such a connection with their baby-

they are also liars.

or possibly just forgetful. perhaps repressing the memories? 

evicting the tuna

I've spent the last 6 months evicting a tuna.
Let me tell you, that little sucker is one big pain in the ass. Add in the fact that most laws are in favor of the tenant, and well, it's a miracle I've made any progress.

As you might have realized, the tuna is an unwelcome guest. It first made it's appearance about 9 months ago. It was the typical rowdy annoying houseguest that felt the need to get too up close and too personal while systematically destroying everything it came in contact with.

How can a tuna be this disruptive you might ask?

It's simple really, because the tuna is really a tumor, it's just that Mark's accent makes it sound like a tuna. Which makes it more bearable considering it's located in my brain. At the base of my pituitary gland. It's not cancerous. I repeat. It's not cancerous. It's treatable. It's BEING treated. But goddamn is it a disruptive son of a bitch.

And then there's Google. Google is just about the worst thing in the world sometimes.
The tuna has a real name. It's very long and I can't spell it. When the doctor told me the name, I committed the first 18 letters to memory and figured I'd be able to find it online later. While this may seem a rookie mistake to those in the medical know, I was unaware of my gaff.

What I didn't count on? Another disease that is a side effect of full blown AIDS sharing the same first 18 letters as my condition. Google, in it's infinite wisdom, decided this must be my search topic and sent me there.
Which led me to believe, obviously, that I also had AIDS. I actually fainted at first. Why, I kept wondering, why would they only tell me I had a brain tumor? Was it some sort of law that you had to tell people in person? Fortunately, just before I lost the will to live, my iPhone managed to autocomplete the CORRECT syndrome.

SUCH a relief. I mean, kind of. I still had a brain tuna. But I didn't have AIDS anymore. All in all, that was both a good day and a bad day.

For the record-
I really thought it was Texas. I did. I believed it with my whole heart, which is likely the most telling testament about how deeply I loathe this part of the country!
I thought the humidity, hideous skin reactions, terrible allergies, the blinding headaches, the weird weight gains, the absolutely crazy mood swings, the constant dehydration (dehydrated??? me?? after a decade in the desert i was dehydrated HERE? in a swamp???) i thought it was all me adjusting to this swamp.

Nope, it was just the tuna.
And a thyroid problem (courtesy of the tuna)
I haven't a clue what that means. The thyroid thing. The tuna bit was obvious. I mean, once I stopped blaming Texas.

aka: the saga of Harry

aka: the cat who lived.

"Oh you have cats? I thought my eyes were itching a little," stated our host last night.
Mark nods while I stammer, "No. Not really. Well kind of. It's a yard cat."
"Sarah tried to kill it" Mark states to Eric.
Great. Now it's my turn to explain.

Mark moved here fourteen months ago. He left behind nearly all of his possessions. But more importantly, he left his cat. A pure black shorted haired cat who acts like a dog. Named Barney.
Mark loves that cat.  Kora and Hercules simply can't compete (though they don't lack for trying).

On a dark and stormy night two weeks ago, the abandoned cat pack outside (don't ask) grew in rank by one. No longer a kitten. Not quite a full grown cat.
A pure black short haired cat. A Barney kitten.

It presented itself on the front steps and proceeded to yawol at the top of its lungs. I felt sorry for it, but more distressed as Hercules and Kora tried to launch themselves through the floor to ceiling windows by the door. *Kora once jumped through a 9' wide by 53" window. It was incredibly expensive and I've been wary ever since.

Mark's heart melted immediately. He was out, chasing the Barney kitten with warm milk and turkey.
"Can we keep it?" he asked, "It's horrible outside. Don't make me leave it there."

I'm not going to revisit, but the next SEVERAL conversations about what I started lovingly referring to as "that damn cat" painted me firmly into the evil stepmother of animals category.

Seven days ago. Compromise. The garage door is raised about 6". The cat comes in and is swaddled in a king size blanket in the corner. It's given food and water. It stays the night.

Morning. I check on the cat. It yawols unrelentingly at me. Seriously, it won't shut up and it's got food and water and it's buried in the back of the garage. My head hurts and it's freezing in the garage. Fine I figure. But i'm closing the garage. No use everyone freezing. I hit the button.

At which point, the unthinkable happens. With literal catlike reflexes the cat bounds towards the lowering door. It was like watching some terrible tennis match, my head turned just in time to see two legs and a tail crushed under the door and wriggling.

I FREAKED OUT.

Frantically I'm hitting the button, which first squished it again and then raised the door. At which point it's off like a cat out of hell and I, in pj's and no socks in 30 degree rainy weather, I am after it. I'm positive I've broken it's back, it's positive I tried to kill it. It's 7am. For the record, the neighbors think I'm nuts.
I lose it in the bushes.
I reflect.

Mark is going to KILL me.
He loves it. Already it's more loved than myself, and on my first true interaction with it, I've maimed and possibly killed it, and definitely lost it.

"You did this on purpose! You knew I loved it! You're a sadist, a Hilter of kittens, a Kitler!" -he screamed at me while rushing past to search for his wounded kitten.

Fast forward to me, tears streaming, on the bridge. At which point, the cat prances out from under the bridge. I blink at it. It yawls loudly at me. It crawls in my lap and glares at me.
We have, at this early stage already defined our relationship.

I begin to squeeze it (gently dammit! looking for damaged organs)
It bites me. I glare at it.

This appears to be as good as it gets.

*For the record, the cat is fine. It lived through two solid days of me picking it up every five minutes to check for damage- which resulted in me getting bitten a few more times. Apparently, cats don't like being poked.  I've named it Harry, the cat who lived. 

ROLO!

it would have been embarrassing had it occurred by itself. fortunately for me, it didn't.

"He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn't occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.”― Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere

the scene: my parents huge christmas party
i've had a couple drinks. i won't lie. 
my best friends are there. we're all camped out in the theatre room. we're catching up, sharing stories. drinking. laughing. you know. like friends do.

me: John 3:16 is a Bible verse right?
Serenity: how do you not know this?
me: well that's what i thought. 
Serenity: you call yourself a southerner
me: it's printed on the the bottom of Forever 21's bags
Jennifer: what? you're kidding?
me: serious. saw it this morning. at least, i think i did
Jennifer: funny. considering they sell slutty clothes and preach Jesus
Serenity: sounds typical. 
Mark: you think?
me: i think so. i'll check, the bag is in Ashley's bedroom

at which point i hop up from my spot on the couch. i fail to register the horror on my friend's faces and i prance upstairs. i grab the bag, and stop by the kitchen for a snack on my way. 

mom: oh my god! did you....
--this was said loudly, across a crowded room. the unfinished question hangs in the air--
me: huh?
--i look up from my plate--
Ashley (or any one of the teenagers now looking at me in horror): what is on you? oh god!

at which point i realize everyone in this room is now gesturing (with horror) to my butt.  i twist to look down at my rear. which i realize is covered with brown...."stuff" it's liquid-y, it's a couple shades of brown. 
it looks nasty and warrants all of the attention i'm receiving. 

me: what the?
mom: you might want to go upstairs
me: the hell is on me?
mom: sarah, you might want to go change
me: omg. 

then i leave. 
and change clothes. 
and discover there's melted chocolate and caramel ALL OVER my pants.  

now let's rewind. 
the night before, my dear sweet husband finished off a bag of rolo's while we were watching tv. he was sitting on the couch. the couch i was sitting on at the party. 

i 
was 
sabotaged. 
by my own husband. 
at a party. 

fortunately for us all, it takes more than that to embarrass me. especially when i still needed to address the Forever21 thing.

we sold out of Jack Daniels

it's been a shitty week. it's been a number 7 week.

as in Jack. Jack Daniels.

it's friday night and we've just bought coke.  we're looking for the Jack. 

because jack and coke is a special soul soothing drink. it really does have magical healing powers if consumed in exactly the right amounts. (drink it in the wrong amounts and you'll find yourself with only one shoe puking on a cactus in a strangers yard. you have been warned)

"we don't sell HARD LIQUOR here ma'am" says the clerk in an extremely snotty voice. for the record, she's standing in front of a wall of xmas wines. a literal wall. of wines. yet i'm out of line wondering where the liquor is.

Mark pulls me along before I can respond.

We drive to the liquor store- for the record, it's called BIG DADDY'S LIQUOR BEER WINE

it's at this point that Mark discovers he doesn't have his wallet. so he can't come in for fear of risking the, "i'm not selling this to the two of you if both of you don't have ID" line. 

yeah. it's happened to us. repeatedly. we're both over 30. 

anyway, we want our drinks. we want to relax and watch british crime dramas. we want to unwind. dammit- we're earned it!!

i enter. i run through the aisles- wines, wines, beer, fruity shit, gin.....i'm getting closer. i see the "whiskey" aisle. i slow to search for the familiar bottle and...... i turned the corner, and i'm at tequila. 

what? that can't be right. 

I circle back for a slower pass. Jameson, Bushmills, Glenfiddich, Highland Park, Chivas, Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, Wild Turkey, Canadian Mist......and tequila. 

i'm perplexed. i circle again. and again. i'm getting frantic. this is the only liquor store around and  i simply can't find the Jack. i need the jack. i need to leave, Mark is waiting on me. we need to get home. it's been a long week. i stop between the Old Parr and the Bushmills. which is where i'm standing when a clerk approached me and asks, "can i help you?"

"where's the Jack?"I ask immediately.

"umm" at this point he STEPS BACK AWAY FROM ME. "we sold out of Jack Daniels. you're the third person to ask. please don't yell at me. there's a big game."

What? I have no words. They have a bottle of Johnnie walker blue on the shelf and no Jack Daniels. JOHNNIE WALKER BLUE. but no Jack. No Gentleman Jack. Nothing in the Jack line. not even a mini bottle.This is madness and I simply cannot comprehend. 

I consider leaving empty-handed. yet i know that alcohol is required to deal with the week's events. required. it's been a shit week. i'm not leaving this store, the only liquor store, without alcohol. 

"You could try Jameson" the clerk offers sheepishly. I hide my disgust. I sigh. i pick the closest bottle, defeated. (It's Old Parr btw, i do not recommend it).

I pay. i leave. 

back in car, Mark starts driving us home.

"Jesus, that took forever"- Mark

"they didn't have Jack"- Sarah

"what?"- Mark

"seriously. sold out. big game or something?"- Sarah

"sold out? well what's that then?"- Mark indicates the brown bag i'm clutching

"Old Parr" -Sarah

"What?"-Mark

"Old Parr. I don't know. i gave up, we needed whiskey, there was no alternative"-Sarah

"why did you buy it?"-Mark

"we needed it. i feel like a junkie, but we need drinks tonight and i didn't know what else to do"-Sarah

"you're an idiot"-Mark

"WHAT? i did this for us! would you rather i bought nothing?"-Sarah

"yes. why would you buy that?"-Mark

"you said we must have drinks! what was i supposed to do? why are you so impossible?" Sarah

"Why wouldn't you go to another store?"- Mark

"I swear, we're been six months here and you've learned nothing. there are no other stores! this was it, our only option and i did the best i could!"

Mark turns the car into a driveway- "No? what's this?"

we're sitting in front of the Bottle Shop. He then gestures across the road.
I can read the letters "Randol Mill Beverage" on the sign.
"Six months we've been here Sarah"

It would appear that there are several liquor stores by our house. (we're the purple dot)

at home in an alien land

i've been silent. i admit it. this year has been a whirlwind. there was an immigration. there was the purchase of a new (read: additional) house. there was a crash course in how to be a landlord. there was a 1200 mile Grapes of Wraith-esque move. there was a very itchy welcome to Texas party. there were fleas. there was the great pool incident of 2012. there was a narrow escape from induction into the Stepford wives community. there was the death of a car, and the subsequent replacement. there was unpacking. there was settling. there was a wedding! there was laughter. there was a second wedding 6 days and 2500 miles away. there was work. there was exhaustion.

there is the ever present struggle to become at home in an alien land.

it's been six months in texas. 11 months in the US together. Mark appears to be adjusting to the US. I still don't quite have the hang of Texas.

Sarah: i want to go by that place, the extra/surplus/stuff-you-need-and-can't-afford-place

Mark: the bathtub place?

Sarah: no, the richland hills place. north-ish. i think.

Mark: oh. that place. i think it's closed on Sunday

Sarah: that's retarded. what kind of big DIY store is closed Sunday? it's one of the two weekdays allotted to DIY. that would be counter to all profitability

Mark: I don't think they consider themselves DIY

Sarah: they don't offer install services, and they sell items to be installed. therefore, they must assume you are DIY. therefor DIY. come on. let's go

Mark: fair. but they're still closed.

Sarah: they can't be closed. we covered this.

Mark: It's Sunday. This is Texas, self appointed God country. Closed.

Sarah: Lies.

Mark: Look it up. We'll go, but if it's closed you're in trouble.

<after some internet searching>

Sarah: that the fuck? why would they be closed? when else but Sunday would God want you to work on your house? he certainly can't be smiling on those fuckers sitting around watching football and drinking beer!

Mark: you realize the first time we went there was a Sunday. It was closed. you knew this.

Sarah: No! it was after 6. that's why it was closed. not sunday related at all

Mark: that was the second time dear.

wedding fun!

i know why the caged bird sings.

well, i don't. what i do know is why the bride goes crazy around her wedding day. even a self professed non-singing bird that lives in a huge cage and doesn't care about things like embossed napkins.
for me, it's a combo of things, but i bet most of you could relate to a couple of them.

1.) i don't craft. i'm not a hot glue gun wizard. i detest shopping. i've never in my life gotten my hair styled and makeup done. i can't ice a cake. since i am (surprisingly) not a botanist, i can't tell you what kind of flowers i prefer. i couldn't care less about table top decoration. simply put, I couldn't be further from Martha Stewart.

2.) i care desperately about the photos. they are, after all, the only thing you get to keep after the event. so inadvertently, i care desperately about how everything looks.

3.) i'm trying to stay on budget here. i don't know any real person, who in this economy, with a mortgage (or my unfortunate case- two mortgages), insurance, car payments, and other obnoxious "adult" things; that really wants to spend a large sum of money on anything. much less a wedding.  this is compounded by the fact that i really am a miser. whenever i think about that big number, i get nauseous.  it would pay for all three of the bathroom remodels that are desperately needed in the house.
(seriously- the corner whirlpool in the master bathroom is actually a unique water feature for the office ceiling. ask us how we found out!)

4.) i want me to look good. i'm a girl. this fact alone is cause enough to turn me into a nervous wreck.

-as a photographer (and former wedding photographer at that) i'm hardwired to want the best possible props, background, etc for my wedding.
-as a realist, i want the cheapest solution i can get because i'd desperately love a refrigerator that doesn't leak like a sieve while making ice.

do you see the dilemma?

THESE THINGS CANNOT COEXIST!

i'm vastly aware of how my own domestic shortcomings will be financially impacting my bottom line.

caged financially. singing out of a desire to make it as perfect as possible.

frankly, i don't know how any bride-to-be isn't pulling her hair out. i mean, there isn't a good solution. either i win the lottery, or i become a hot glue gun wizard. both are about as likely as Hercules having puppies.
in the face of such impossible odds and in pursuit of the perfect backdrop...

i've suffered third degree burns on every finger. glued myself to a paper cutter. narrowly avoided Kora ingesting a purple star shaped tack. created hercules a collar out of craft paper. suffered an emotional breakdown in Michael's. stabbed myself (blood was involved) with tacks, pins and florist wire. soldiered on for an entire day with (god bless her) Ashlee Jacobs creating the exact same shape. over and over until our fingers were raw and the table was covered in crazy glue. and experienced Office Space level frustrations with my printer.

fortunately for my appendages, the day is nearly upon us!

toilet paper embargo

i blog. i blog to report a strange and lengthy trade embargo in our house. on toilet paper. to be more exact, an embargo to any and all toilet paper that might possibly make it's way into the hall bathroom.

somehow, regardless of the fact that there actually IS toilet paper in the house, the hallway bathroom seems to be suffering from a trade embargo. I know i'm under strict orders not to replenish it. (and frankly, why should i considering I'm positive i stocked it last). the trouble is that Mark also believes himself to have last stocked this bathroom.

incidentally, this happens to be the closest bathroom to the living room. which translates to the closest to the Olympics. because let's face it- Mark and I are sitting here each night. we're watching the Olympics.

*now before you tell me we're clearly being childish- know that the LAST showdown  was only settled when i finally caved and stocked. so now i've got to stick to my guns. otherwise i'm stuck as hallway bathroom toilet stocker for life. those are the rules.

the point here is that the bathroom has been bereft of adequate supplies for two days now. both mark and i have openly ignored this fact and refused to rectify the situation. citing work "I can't, i have a conference call," inability "it's too hot to walk upstairs. i'll melt" to-my favorite- outright refusal "i would but it's your turn"
the "situation" has now manifested into open avoidance of this room because the user will ultimately find themselves "stuck"
stuck is not a good place to be. stuck means you are at the mercy of the other individual in the house. another individual who, as luck would have it, is watching something awesome on tv. who has no interest in leaving the couch for fear they'll "miss it" (because we're pretending this coverage is live)

i just found myself stuck. again. for a second time. (this is likely because i am incredibly forgetful in regards to temporary avoidance areas. it's a problem i recently discovered)
conversation followed as such-
sarah: oh no
mark: what?
sarah: i forgot
mark: well.....you're stuck
sarah: please?
mark: nope. otherwise how will you learn?
sarah: seriously? come on!
mark: can't. i'm watching this. she's getting gold
sarah: please?
mark: i'm going to leave you in there for an hour. let you reflect on the situation
sarah: what? that's not fair!
sarah: (frantic now) i'll use your gym towel. i swear! please?
mark: fine fine.
-at which point i'm saved when he comes in with the worlds tiniest role of toilet paper. which means i'll be tricked into thinking there's enough paper tomorrow. and there won't be

this won't end well.

you want to bathe socially?

this conversation JUST happened. frankly, i'm impressed they stayed on the phone that long; though, by that point we both had something to prove!

overly bubbly unknown female on phone: hi there and thank you for calling The Pamper House- this is Kelly! how can i help you?
Sarah: hi there Kelly. I wanted to have a spa day with my fiance and I had a couple questions.
Kelly: your fiance?
Sarah: Yes. It's his birthday weekend and I had some questions.
Kelly: Like a guy? A male?
Sarah: Yes Kelly, my fiance is a guy.
Kelly: Ok, that's a strange present.
Sarah: I don't take your meaning- but could you answer a couple questions?
Kelly: Yes ma'am. What can I help you with today?
Sarah: First, do you offer couples massages, and second, are the wet areas for men and women separate or together?
Kelly: What?
Sarah: First, do you offer couples massages?
Kelly: You want to massage him?
Sarah: No! I want us both to get massages, but I wondered if you offered them together, in the same room? You know- a couples massage.
Kelly: No. (sounding decidedly confused) No ma'am. We don't do anything like that.
Sarah: Oh darn it. (I said that- the Texas hick thing is wearing off on me- or more likely, bringing out my inner hick). Well a girl can hope. So what about the wet areas?
Kelly: Wet areas?
Sarah: Yeah, are they separate? Or joint? Because I don't want to spend the day there is they are separate.
Kelly: The day here? I don't understand ma'am.
Sarah: Well not all day, but a couple hours. You know, you're working at a "day spa."
Kelly: We don't have any wet areas.

silence from me.....
silence continues.....

Kelly: Ma'am? Are you there?
Sarah: How are there no wet areas?
Kelly: Well there are bathrooms. And wet-ish areas for the rubs and wraps. But those are completely private.
Sarah: But the spas? They're wet aren't they?
Kelly: We are a spa ma'am. But we have no wet areas.
Sarah: How can that be?
Kelly: Ma'am, I'm going to get my manager.

waiting........

Manager: Hi there, Kelly tells me you had some questions for you and your fiance??
Sarah: Hi I was wondering about your wet areas.
Manager: EXCUSE ME?!!
Sarah: Wet areas. The hot and cold tubs, the saunas and steam rooms. Are they separate for men and women?
Manager: We don't have anything like that here.
Sarah: What? I thought this was a spa.
Manager: This is a spa, but we don't offer anything like that.
Sarah: You don't offer any wet areas? None at all?
Manager: That's correct miss.
Sarah: But you call yourself a spa? I'm sorry, I'm finding this confusing.
Manager: Miss, we offer a wide range of facials, manicures, eyelash and eyebrow tinting, even belly button candling.
Sarah: Belly button candling? You offer belly button candling and you don't have a hot tub?
Manager: Why on earth would we have a hot tub?
Sarah: Because you're a spa! The very definition is built on the idea of social bathing. You know- healing waters and all that jazz? You can't call yourself a spa and then ignore the very meaning of the word! That's like opening a pizza shop, only selling sushi, and justifying it by saying that the sushi is also food. It doesn't work that way- you can't just change the meaning of a word to make yourself sound posh or trendy.
Manager: You want to bathe socially with your fiance? I'm sorry, we are not that type of establishment.

AND SHE HUNG UP

I called seven other "spas" in town. None of them had "wet areas" either. In short, they were Salons that offered massages.

In the meantime, I'm left pining for our last spa day together at Themae Bath Spa in Bath, England. You know, where they speak English correctly, where spas have water in them, and they only offer 2, 4 or all day packages!

inconceivable!

let's start at the beginning shall we? because, it's all retarded, and long and apparently extremely funny- considering my sister was literally in stitches when i poured out the saga of my last week to her

Alright, facts first: I knew about the mosquitos here. Let's get that part straight. I know that I am the human equivalent of a delicious chocolate cake to the entire insect world. I always have been. I accepted long ago that only a near fatal dousing of insect repellant each and every time I exit the house will prevent me from being covered. It will not prevent them from biting, but it will lessen it. 

So when I began my epic battle with the yard, I took precautions. 

The goal: De-strangle my trees (about ten) and the rock walls from the english ivy. (English ivy is like kudzu for those who haven't dealt with it before)

I suited up. Bright pink galoshes. Weedeater. Safety glasses. Big thick blue rubber gloves. Application of entire bottle of lethal bug spray. I hacked. I pulled. I ripped that shit down. I freed an entire tree and the majority of the rock walls. 

I was triumphant! I showed that yard who's boss! Or so I thought. But it appears, that my yard doesn't play fair. The next morning, an unmistakeable huge patch of poison oak, or poison sumac, or poison ivy has appeared on my leg. 

I spend the day plotting to fire bomb the yard in retaliation, and scratching. And getting yelled at by Mark for scratching. 

Next morning. Nearly ONE HUNDRED bright red dots. All around the poison oak and around the back of my knee and all over the back of the other leg and up my arms and just everywhere. It itches like, well, I can't actually imagine anything else bad enough to compare it to. So take my word for it, it was bad. B-A-D. Like christening on Christmas bad. And while I must admit it was well played by the yard for tapping into my serious susceptibility to the stuff, I'm a complete mess. I look like a plague victim.

Fast forward eight hours. Around 5pm, I find a FLEA! And suddenly, it all clicks into place. I've laid it out below so you can follow along:

• I treated the dogs when we got here- one month treatment
• We didn't know the house had fleas from the evil cats the previous owners left inside
• The medicine wore off last week, and the dogs got infested
• I noticed the dogs scratching, and treated them the same day I attacked the yard
• That night Kora slept curled by my legs, against the back of my legs

Here's what I didn't know. If you treat your animals, and there's an infestation- the fleas will jump species to survive. When the dogs became toxic so they jumped to the humans.

Let's insert Carolyne's question now: "Wait, so is Mark covered too?"

Oh, my friends! I'm SO glad you asked. 

Mark has not a single spot. No poison oak. No flea bites. Not even a mosquito bite. And he hasn't been using bug spray. 

So, frantically itching that night, I happen to read online that having high quantities of yeast makes you undesirable to bugs. Which is when it suddenly makes sense; see, Mark loves this stuff called MARMITE. It's yeast extract. I can't compare it to anything else because it just tastes weird. It's unlike any other taste out there. So when those hungry fleas realized the dogs were toxic, they looked around, and they saw a yucky marmite man, and a human chocolate cake. And who doesn't like cake?

Anyway, he's been eating marmite on toast and had mentioned he thought it might help with the bug bites earlier. But I'd disregarded it, because not being desirable to bugs wasn't my goal. My goal was to not get poison oak. And poison oak doesn't care what I taste like. 

Next morning, Mark's on a conference call. I'm itching like crazy, everywhere, there's even one in my ear. So I take the plunge, I'm having marmite. I make toast. I get the jar out.

It should be mentioned here that this stuff is VERY potent. It's like horseradish or wasabi. You take it in extremely small quantities. It should also be noted that I have never had marmite on toast before, nor seen it made.

I open the jar. I slather my toast in it. I figured it was like jam, and applied it as such. But then, just in case, I WALKED INTO THE OFFICE AND ASKED MARK, "IS THIS ENOUGH?"

He looks up. He's on the phone. He looks at the marmite saturated piece of toast in my hand. And he says, "IT'S FINE"

Let's be clear. I've placed a two month allotment of a wasabi-like substance on a single piece of toast and he just okayed it for me to ingest.

So I begin. My eyes water. I start to gag. It's the single most vile piece of toast ever. But I soldier on, because I have to. Because I cannot be the only thing in the entire house that is edible to flea. At this point, Mark's call ends. And he looks over at me, watches me gag, and says, "Oh my god, that's way too much!"

I contain the puking feeling. I swallow. I look at him. At which point the following conversation happens:

Sarah: I ASKED you if it was ok! You told me it was fine!

Mark: I was on the phone. 

Sarah: But you answered! 

Mark: Yeah, but I don't listen when I'm on the phone. Because I'm ON THE PHONE

Sarah: Then say, not now, I'm on the phone. But don't answer me! That's unbelievable. What if I'd asked you if I should drive a nail in my head?

Mark: That's retarded. You didn't ask that.

Sarah: How do you know? You just said you don't listen. I can't believe you.

Mark: You probably needed that much though. 

Sarah: That doesn't make it better. I nearly died just now.

Mark: I was helping you.

Sarah: You're impossible. 

Oh- and for those who are wondering. The house has been bombed. The house has been vacuumed. The dogs were contact sprayed. Then they were shampooed. Throughly. Which no one was pleased over. Then they were re-treated. Then I spot treated my car. The couch. The beds. The closets. And all dog beds. Just for good measure. Today, I think I don't have any new bites AND the dogs aren't itching like crazy. Win. Win. Except for the yard and the marmite bit. That part still sucks.

they can run 40 mph?

I have a new terror. It blows the cajun eater out of the water. Literally. Well, technically, I think it would drag them into the water. But let's not get bogged down in semantics. The fact remains that I've found something new, and much more rational to be afraid of. (Which makes it worse by the way).

ALLIGATORS!!!!

They're here. They're real. And the associated facts are making me oh so glad that there isn't a body of water near me that I can't see the bottom of. Though I'm now paranoid about the stupidly deep storm drains here. I mean, I get it- I've experienced the crazy rain that occurs here and makes them necessary, but that doesn't stop me from thinking of IT and that crazy clown every time I pass. Or an alligator. In fact, I'm now afraid to walk past them for fear a alligator with clown arms will reach out and grab my leg. 

So I guess I'm afraid of two things now. Alligators and storm drains. 

It's been established in other blogs that the internet is a terrible source of too much information that can make a paranoid person like myself riddled with silly fears all the time. However, for once, it has proved helpful. Fun fact? Alligator eyes glow in the dark. Well, if you shine a light on them, they will glow. Red for adults, green for the kiddos. So, flashlight up people. It's important! Because these prehistoric leftovers from a previous ice age can run! Well, sprint. But sprint crazy fast- which is much faster than even a motivated and fit individual like myself can muster. They can get up to 40 mph in a straight line. 

Let's think about that fact shall we? That means, that if you were being chased by an alligator and got in your car, you'd need to break the speed limit just to outrun them. Because the speed limit in a park/swamp recreational area is going to be less than 40. But more importantly, could you even outrun them to your car? I couldn't. Which makes that straight line bit important. Our strategy here is to zip and then zag. Because it'll be the only thing that lets you outdistance it! 

More importantly, the fastest animal is a cheetah, well, fastest mammal. They can run at 70mph. So alligators are half as agile as cheetahs. Insane! Granted, they lose in a long distance competition, but it's of no matter if they've overtaken their prey in the first 20 feet!

*This sign found in at the Great Trinity Forest in Dallas

Since I know you're itching for some more fun facts- here you go-

• Each year airplanes in America collide with an average of one alligator a year.....on runways.
• Alligators are only present in two countries- China and the US. 
• The Chinese alligator is endangered and rarely exceeds 7 feet
• the US alligator has reached lengths of 19 feet. Meaning some can leap nearly ten feet. If they weren't so grumpy we should enter them in the Olympics!

the stepford wives

we've unpacked. we've de-swamped the pool. we've replaced approximately one million light bulbs. we confirmed the pups could swim (even Hercules). we installed cameras and a security system. we've cut down the low limbs on the trees. we are officially settling in.
it's exhausting by the way. just in case you were considering moving; i recommend it about as highly as a root canal. or a bar fight.
in the hopes of embracing the "weather" i have been talking the dogs on daily walks around the neighborhood. hercules hasn't yet found it in his heart to forgive me for these excursions. (weather is my kindly reference to the humidity, the rain, the lighting storms, and the texas sized mosquitos). along the way, i've inadvertently learned a lot about my neighbors.
they are extremely nice. i need to stress that first.
that said-
i think i've met them all. they've run out of their houses, stopped their cars in the middle of the road, stopped by our house or actually walked along with us.
this seems a bit mental to me. after five years in a very friendly neighborhood in las vegas i was proud of the fact that i knew the names of six of my neighbors. i considered it a supreme breakthrough when some of them purchased christmas presents for the pups, and the fact that i was welcomed into their homes for easter?? well, it was almost unheard of.
already here i know nearly everyone. I've heard the latest gossip- including how the guy down the lane traded down to his maserati (it's yellow, i've seen it). i have cell phone numbers. and home numbers. we've been invited to box seats for the Rangers games. we've been asked to speak as a guest at the local school. we've received bottles of wine and plates of cookies welcoming us to the neighborhood.

it's as if i'm posed to become a stepford wife.
seriously. it's more than a bit surreal.
i've been invited to join the ladies book club. the monthly breakfast's. the pilates classes. all for the "wives"
i've been asked repeatedly, "are you a stay at home mom?"
Mark has repeatedly been asked to go golfing with the "men" though his disdain for chasing a tiny ball around a field with a stick seems to have effectively stifled further requests.

the crazy thing? i'm excited- domestic skills be damned!
who cares that just this morning i burned the ever loving piss out of my finger with a glue gun? or that my lemon pound cake cemented half of itself to the pan yesterday? the fact that i can't ice a cupcake to save my life- it's of no matter!
because i'm a social person at heart, and i'm bursting at the opportunity to become a stepford wife!

This was a well thought out bad idea

It's been too long. No really. You have missed so much ridiculousness in the life of me!

I haven't forgotten you though- each and every time I've found myself in an "oh so blog worthy" situation, I have thought,  "Jesus, I need to write about this."
Alas....

The pups, myself and my lovely gentleman have moved to Arlington, TX. Let's recap some of the highlights leading up to this.

This was our grand plan. Mark and I agreed to rent a 24' truck and pull the car on a trailer. Dogs will be drugged and in the cab with us. We will each take two (5) hours shifts. We will drive straight through without stopping. It sounds miserable but doable.

Here's the problems with this plan:
-24' trucks aren't available for one way
-Dogs won't fit in the cab

Ok. We're flexible. We're hip, we are young, we are embracing this move and rolling with the punches. So now I'll drive too. We'll put the pups in the car, we'll get a 20' and stack it to the ceiling. It's all good.
Right?
Morning of the pack (which, for reasons that will soon become clear, is referred to as 'Pack Number One'). About four feet in, the pad of my left pointer finger is violently separated from my finger. Seriously, it HURT. Tears were shed, an emergency room visit was threatened. Mark actually yelled at me at this point when I tried to clean the wound with the cleanest available rag, which was, well...not clean. But hey, we're young, we're working through this. I suck it up and we carry on. We pack that freaking truck. To the brim. And discover- there's no way we're fitting all the stuff. Not even close. We need a bigger truck.


(side rant here)
UHaul advertises "mom's attic=extra space" Trust me, that exact wording was written on the back of the truck I followed for 1,200 miles. Extra means additional right? So if you rent a 20' truck you assume it'll be 20' and that the mom's attic would be EXTRA space. This is untrue. Your 20' truck is actually about 16.5' long. So bear that in mind, and if there's ANY doubt, go bigger. 

Alright, there's tears from me. Mark and I are exhausted. We've just spent 8 hours packing and the only solution seems to be unpacking everything, getting a bigger truck and doing it again. Here's when Demetrius comes into the plan. Essentially, I am an evil bitch to my best friend (he will attest to this), and somehow, he and two guys appear the next morning. We unload. We get a bigger truck, we re-load everything. It's a disaster and perfect at the same time.

At this point, the vet calls me back.
Kora is really bad on car rides. She's very hyper. She also has epilepsy.
The vet informs me that sedating her could trigger an episode. There's nothing to be done.

Mark and I are exhausted, every muscle aches, my finger still throbs. And I've just signed on to drive over a thousand miles with a completely lucid SAINT BERNARD and a BULL MASTIFF in the car. Likewise, Mark is piloting a very very heavy 26' truck. But we're optimistic and we recognize that arguing or dwelling on the facts isn't helping anything.

So we start driving. It should be mentioned that both dogs fit comfortably in the "puppy palace" that was created in the backseat. However, for 21 of the 24 hours in the car, the dogs insisted on riding separately. So, one in the passenger seat, one in the back. They changed places often. To do this, the dog in the back would get annoyed and simply move to the passenger seat.  Meaning both dogs were in the front, a struggle would ensue. And the first dog would relent and move to the back.

During the fourth hour the first battle for the front seat began. Hercules lost, was forced to give up his seat and retreat. However, as he moved to the back, his massive rear end bumped into my shifter.

My car, in addition to being rather sporty- has a manumatic or tiptonic shifter. Meaning, if you bump the shifter to the left, then it shifts into manual drive. In his retreat, Hercules bumped it three times in about two seconds.
All of which occurred in a Mercedes traveling at 75 mph. Which is now in second gear.

Imagine if you will, the pandemonium that occurred as the car attempted the slow down. Two dogs and myself are slammed forward as I attempt to comprehend what has happened.

Fortunately I had my wits about me and was able to correct the problem before the transmission dropped out of the car! The other twenty hours of the trip? I'll write about those later!

I don't mean to alarm you

I've been enjoying a full time live in mail order husband to be. Mark survived a week of Southern food and my family- each of whom are as unique as myself. My father actually likes him. Having received their seal of approval, I brought him home. We've now enjoyed just over two weeks of togetherness.
All of which brought us up to last Friday.
Which started innocently enough; a barrage of emails, morning coffee. Oatmeal.
And then...
Puke. Kora Chops (the affectionate name for my adorable St. Bernard mix) puked no less than four times in the front room. Five minutes later, she snuck upstairs to puke all over the hallway.
Needless to say, she managed to dust the front half of the house in puke.
Having emptied her stomach, she then went outside. Explosive diarrhea. Which is disgusting to discuss, but excused by the fact that she's a dog.
Mark and I assume the poor pup just ate something bad. The rest of the day Kora was subdued and not willing to eat, but that's understandable right?
Fast forward to Sunday night. Kora is still refusing to eat; having eaten nearly nothing in three days.
I begin to Google. Truly, too much information, is a terrible terrible thing. Within twenty minutes I've discovered twelve diseases that she can have, and four new disorders.
Insert panic. I start to hyperventilate.

Knowing my tendencies to blow things out of proportion; I call the vet. I figure that they can assuage my fears and make an appointment for the morning. It's after hours, but I get the girl on call. I describe the events.
Her words, EXACTLY: "I don't mean to alarm you, but it sounds like your dog has Parvo."
Sarah: "What?"
Vet: "Yeah. Sounds exactly like it. I'm looking through your files right now, and it appears you've never had either of your dogs vaccinated"
Sarah: "What??? They're shelter dogs. You can't get them without having them vaccinated"
Vet: "Yes but you haven't kept them up to date"
Sarah: "I bring them in all the time. How can this be?"
Vet: "I'm not certain. But my advice for the night is to separate your dogs, and bring them both in tomorrow morning to be tested for certain."

I make an appointment. I promise to bring them in. I hang up. I reflect that the conversation did not have the desired effect.
I google.

For those that don't know, Parvo is essentially a death sentence for dogs. If caught in the first 24 hours it's treatable, if not, your dog is a goner. Quickly, miserably. It's terrible.
With each new website I move further past hyperventilating, straight into full blown panic. Stricken with complete guilt. I tear apart the office looking for their vaccinations papers. I find nothing. I start to cry. I'm in bed, rocking my puppy. Huge tears running down my face. I cannot speak for the sobbing. Mark tries to comfort me, but nothing works as I hug my baby girl close to me.
Somehow, I make it to morning. I leash both dogs. I drive to the vet. The girl at the desk asks me what I'm bringing them in for.
"Parvo" I whisper, "She told me they have parvo."

Needless to say, those aren't words to be spoken lightly in an animal hospital. The entire front desk is alarmed, they spring into action to quarantine the diseased animals. They round the desk, and encounter my dogs. Who are wagging happily at them.
"What? These dogs don't have parvo" states the front desk lady. They're appalled at the diagnosis I was given. From my disheveled appearance they can tell it's been a long long terrible night for me.

Fast forward through a barrage of tests, blood samples, updating all Hercules vaccinations (he was almost due on a couple), new ear medicine for Hercules, two shots for Kora and two sets of medicine. It's a three ring circus and I'm texting Mark frantically to keep him updated.
At which point I receive the message back, "That's nice, tho I don't know why you're telling me"
Suddenly, I'm livid. I've been a pent up ball of nerves for 24 hours and the idea that Mark isn't sick with worry over the dogs??
I'm halfway through a "WTF is wrong with you that you don't car about the fate of our dogs...." message, when I realize. I've been texting Demetrius. At which point Mark starts texting frantically because he hasn't received an update. Because he IS worried sick.
Feeling decided retarded, I return, to the front desk.
The bill is $800!
Seriously. $800. I start to make a fuss. I mean, seriously, this is almost highway robbery! But Mark is still texting, still worried sick. Kora is going mad over a puppy in the corner that's barked at her. Hercules thinks he's getting a biscuit. So I pay, and start pulling them towards the door.
I somehow manage to shove two unwilling dogs in the back of a Mercedes coupe. I drive home as my phone continues to ring.

"No Parvo!" I practically scream as I enter the door. "She's going to be fine!"
"Oh, and there's this" I remark as I hand him the bill.

"Oh my god! $800? You were only gone for an hour! What did you do? Did you take them shopping?"
He turns to Kora, "Did mommy buy you a pretty new dress??"

And all is well again.

can you buy me some Nair while you're out?

Sarah: I have to have this. It's awesome.
Mark: You ARE grocery shopping right?
Sarah: Yes, it's amazing.
Mark: Is Darth Vadar shopping for turnips?
Sarah: This is undoubtably cooler than that. Much cooler.
Mark: Fine. Tell me. What could possibly be cooler than Darth Vadar pondering produce?
Sarah: I'm not certain I follow the train of thought that makes that cool. But I can't tell you. I have to show you. Give me a second, I'll send a picture.

....moments pass as the intrawebs whirl and deliver the below photo to England....

Mark: What the?
Sarah: Isn't it awesome? Isn't it the epitome of cool? I must have this.
Mark: That's a funny turkey.
Sarah: It's a CAKE. A Turkey Cake!!! It's a Thanksgiving cake shaped to look like a...
Mark: OH MY GOD! A Turcake. We must own it. Can we have it for Thanksgiving? I will give thanks to it.
Sarah: It's brilliant. You can go into the store for turkey. Pick up a cake. Leave happy. Win win.
Mark: You're buying this right?
Sarah: Demetrius will kill me.
(*For those who don't know, Demetrius is one of my best friends, my personal trainer, AND at this point, dieting for the Olympia).
Mark: Maybe you could buy it for him. A present. He couldn't be angry then.
Sarah: Hmmm. It could work. A "happy almost Olympia" Turcake. Who wouldn't want one? He couldn't be upset.
Mark: Unless he's already upset.
Sarah: Shit. He IS already upset. Umm.... I can't buy this. I'm leaving. Turcake-less.

(Sarah leaves store)
Sarah: What the? Demetrius just sent a text reading, "Can you buy me some Nair while you're out"
Mark: What is Nair?
Sarah: I'm not certain telling you will help. It will just lead to more questions. Besides, I support the "no more waxing" stance so I can't complain.
Mark: You're not actually going back are you? If so get the Turcake.
Sarah: I am. But I can't get the Turcake. He will be angry. I already got chips. He's going to give me "the look."

(Sarah buys Nair and actually leaves)
Mark: I still think you should bring him the cake. It needs to be purchased. Look, if he's in a bad mood when you get there, I command you to return to the store.
Sarah: I can do this. He's already annoyed, so I'll ask him if he's angry. When he says yes, I head back, I buy the Turcake, I bring it to him. He's happy. It's brilliant. Nothing can go wrong.
Mark: Yes. This is brilliant. The Turcake will be ours. His. But in our house. So technically ours.

(Sarah enters house)
Sarah: D. You in a bad mood?
Demetrius: I'm doing alright.
Mark: (on phone) WHAT? You said he was pissed!
Sarah: (to Mark) HE WAS! I swear.
Mark: You deceived me to not buy the Turcake. You are anti Turcake. Why do you hate the Turcake?
Sarah: D, I thought you were upset.
Demetrius: Nope, I'm over it. Not worth it.
Sarah: This isn't what I wanted. Now I have no Turcake prospect.
Demetrius: Did you get the Nair?
Mark: I can't believe you lied to me.
Sarah: I can't speak to you right now.

NEXT MORNING
I am standing in the shower. Holding a half empty bottle of Nair in my hand. I am instinctively filled with the desire to use this Nair. To burn (or melt, I'm not sure exactly how that stuff works) all the hairs off my body. I open the bottle and the shower is filled with a foul eye watering smell. Which leads me to the conclusion, clearly, I should have just gotten the Turcake.