I'd Like to Buy a Bowel?

Let's see if I can actually write each day of the week! Wouldn't that be somethin!

The reason for my absence has been mostly because we have been playing nursemaids to a one Miss Georgia B*** (yes, she has my last name and no, I didn’t ask them to give it to her. It was actually weird when I called the vet’s and they asked for her last name…I suggested mine and sure enough, they pulled Georgia B***’s file. Odd, like finding out you have a child)

Anyway, this all began after an innocent day when I arrived home from work. Georgia had vomited on the couch and was shaking helplessly. I tried to console her and ushered her outside in case she had other business to do, but still she would not stop shaking…or vomiting.

As Joe arrived home I related my concern to him, but not wanting to jump to conclusions (or a hefty vet bill) we decided to wait just a little longer to see if she snapped out of it. After one more round of vomiting, we finally agreed to call the vet.

I explained her symptoms and asked if they sounded serious enough to merit a visit.

“Well, that’s up to you, but if it’s a concern, then we can see you around 7 p.m.?” the nurse said.

Not wanting to risk it, we settled on the time and before long we were sitting in the examination room, waiting for the vet’s diagnosis. When she finally came in she looked Georgia over and in only a few seconds felt a golf-ball size lump on her lower belly.

“Have you ever noticed this before?” she asked. Joe and I, both speechless, shook our heads.

“Ok, well, this concerns me a bit so let me take her with me and get some X-rays done.”

Again, we both quietly agreed, and as she and the nurse carried Georgia away, I suddenly began to freak out. All these questions came tumbling into my brain: How had we not seen that? Is it fatal? What if there’s nothing she can do? What if she needs surgery and it’s thousands of dollars?

While I was playing a torturous game of 20 Questions in my head, Joe relentlessly tried to keep me calm. One way was in trying to guess what animal the skeleton in the examination room was supposed to represent. It did help; I am still convinced it was a cat, but Joe assured me it was a dog.

After what seemed like forever, the vet finally came in and told us to follow her to the surgical rooms. She had on her computer screen an X-ray of Georgia’s bowels- or should be. I was still reeling from all the questions and fears commandeering my head that I could barely understand what she was saying. Thankfully Joe was taking it in and later managed to explain to me what was happening.

Essentially, Georgia had gotten a hernia, which had swollen so large that her intestines had somehow managed to become entangled, preventing her poop to move through her. She suggested we try some antibiotics for the night and then the next day we were to bring her back for a follow-up. If the medicines were working and she improved, then she would be fine. However, if things began to look dour, surgery might be necessary.

That night, while petting Georgia and pleading with her to get better, I felt the weight of fear really engulf me. Though she was just a dog, there was so much more. She had been given up on and left in the SPCA, hoping someone would take her. She was still so young, barely out of her puppy years yet. And she was good, despite her occasionally chewing or jumping; she was a good dog.

It was then, as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, with tears in my eyes, I made the decision that no matter what the cost, no matter the recovery, we would do it. We rescued her before- we would do it again.

Mother Hood and Her Merry Sisters

To put it simply, my mother and her sisters are Robin Hood and the merry (wo)men. Not totally in that "steal from the rich“, but more because they have ways of getting around obstacles set in place that are inherently unjust.

I had always noticed their capers- getting a refund on an expired receipt, or getting the discounted price on an item no longer on sale, etc.

But I have never been more amazed at their undermining than I was on a recent visit to the beach.

I should also mention that my mother and her sisters are glorified sun-goddesses and their temple is the beach. As long as I can remember, summer time excursions to the shore (which wasn’t really too much of an excursion since none of them live further than a few miles away from a coastline) were so commonplace we all practically lived on the beach. And being residents of these beach towns, my mother and aunts were able to enjoy these beaches with little frustration.

Until, that is, “King Join” (as in “join-our-membership-in-order-to-use-what-is-rightfully-yours’) came along.

More and more rules were established by local governments to restrict beach access, causing frustration from the tax-payers who resided there. My mother and her sisters were no exception. But rather than petition and plead to those who would not bother listening, Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters took action into their own hands. Their weapons? A loophole and a fishing pole.

They discovered that, by carrying a fishing pole with them when they went to the beach, they were allowed access free of charge. Somehow, somewhere, there was a loophole in the regulations that allowed free access to those who came to fish. And since no one bothered to ask why a group of middle-aged women wearing Ann Taylor sarongs were carrying designer beach bags and NOT tackle boxes instead, they were waved on and a new precedent was set.

From then on as word spread of this tactic, the townspeople, with fishing poles in hand, were once again able to reclaim what belonged to them, thanks to the Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters.

Let Them Feel Quakes

There I was, sitting at my desk, feeling the sharp glint of the computer screen piercing my eyes like a toothpick in fresh baked brownies and trying to ignore the dull ache in my hand veins that was perpetually growing- all in all, it was a pretty normal day. So normal. Too normal.

I was about to turn my head to see who was messing with the blinds next to me, when it suddenly got even louder. Before I even had the chance to comment, my computer screen began to shiver and my cubicle started vibrating.

I quickly glanced over to my coworkers and we all began exchanging looks and questions.

“Do you feel that?”

“What the hell…?”

“Is that an earthquake?”

As quickly as we had asked the questions, the rumbling stopped dead. It was then that I decided to spring to my feet and held a pose like Marcel Marceau holding an imaginary giant ball.

“Shouldn’t we head for a doorway?” I squeaked.

Though we had no idea for sure, we felt fairly certain we were in no immediate danger of the building collapsing. Still, everyone was still tense and nervous, waiting for a second round of shaking.

I looked out the window and noticed a small collection of people milling about outside the building. Even farther away I saw an even bigger crowd of people who had moved a considerable distance away from their offices.

My fellow fremps began frantically calling their loved ones. Ironically, of all days, my phone had slipped away from me and was being held by the kind Samaritan who had found it. As I discovered from my coworkers’ several attempts, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The cell service was immediately clogged so calls weren’t able to get through.

Instead I hit the Refresh button on my computer every 5 seconds trying to see if there was a report up about what happened. On about the 11th time we finally began getting some details.

An earthquake had hit the east coast, an incredible rarity, centered in Virginia and spread upwards towards New England and downwards well past the Mason Dixon line. It was pretty crazy. And certainly scary. But it was actually kinda cool in a messed up way, too. Here I was, thinking that I was going to have just another Tuesday, hoping the time would pass quickly, when something that may never happen again in my lifetime was suddenly foisted into my lap. Life is truly unexpected that way; and that’s pretty cool. I just hope the next time something like that happens I react in a way that is just as cool- rather than impersonating a dead French striped shirt-wearing mime from the 1940s.

The Shift Continues...

...So we made it to Joe's parents' house, and though we had a great weekend, my mind and stomach were in knots, fearing the moment we would have to, once again, get behind the wheel.

When Sunday finally rolled in we gathered up our things (or most of them for me anyway- I was so concerned with the drive I blindly packed and ended up leaving a decent chunk of my toiletries behind- sorry again about that Mr. and Mrs. G!) and headed for our first stop to visit Joe's grandmother.

The drive was fine for a little while, although trying to keep up with Joe was a chore since my car had so little acceleration it felt like I was towing a Boston Whaler behind me.

We arrived at Joe's grandmother's for a visit, and because they could sense my frustration, Dylan and Joe agreed that Dylan would take over driving my car so I could just relax in the passenger seat. I tried to, but even with Dylan's smooth confident handling, I still became a wreck.

We left Joe's grandma's just in time to hit a wall of torrential rain. After I had nearly nibbled my fingertips to the bone and we had gotten clear of the storm, we had a brief respite. I was actually beginning to enjoy the ride when all of a sudden the jerking and surging that we had experienced on the way up returned, and with a vengeance. It continued for the remainder of the drive, and while we wondered if it was safe to continue driving suddenly the “check engine” light lit up.

Once again my anxiety returned, waiting for the car to veer into a guardrail or start smoking. Dylan, being more reasonable, phoned his friend who works on cars to ask him about our situation.

“Yeah, dude, her car is doing this massive acceleration and up shifting-thing, and then it downshifts just as violently, especially when I take my foot off the gas. And the check engine light just went on. Should we be concerned?” he asked, calmly.

Essentially his friend explained that as long as the car was still running, and since we were getting close to home, we ought to just keep going.

With Dylan managing the steering wheel like an expert cowboy on a fussy mustang, and me fretting like an old Southern belle stereotype, we finally managed to roll into Maryland and, at last, right in front of our house.

Sure, I was still freaking out about what the cost would be to repair whatever the hell was wrong with my car (later on I was informed it had something to do with the throttle control and a bad part that was telling the car to accelerate and decelerate a lot faster than it was supposed to), but I was so grateful we had made it home safe I was thanking the car gods all night. And Dylan, too.

Losing my Shift

I hate cars, sometimes. They're expensive. They can kill people. They cost money for EVERYTHING. They give you cramps in your back and butt after a while.

The worst is when you are faced with all of those problems at one time. Like I was on a recent trip to visit Joe's family.

I was excited to get up there- I rarely get the chance to visit with my work schedule, especially in the summer. The one thing I was sorta dreading was the drive.

Now, I have never made claims to be a good solid confident driver. In fact, I often grip the steering wheel like a mountain climber grasps the rock- for dear life.

But, it's a pretty and steady drive, and watching Joe do it so many times, I was certain I would be fine. And since our friend Dylan was going to drive up with me, I felt even better.

The first couple of hours were fine- smooth sailing except for a patch of heavy traffic. Once we passed that, though, the drive was flying by. Until we hit hour 4.

It was nighttime by then, and as Dylan and I quietly conversed, I suddenly noticed my car doing this harsh acceleration and then immediate deceleration. It scared me a few times, but I was trying to not let my fear show to Dylan. But he didn't need to see my face to know something was wrong.

"Wow, is that you doing that or the car?" he asked, innocently.

I then explained how I had had that problem for some time now, but that when I had taken it to the shop they didn't seem to notice it. They had given me a new battery which had helped- up until this moment.


Freaked, but determined to get to Joe's parents' house, we kept going. We finally got to the local roads, and as soon as I rolled to the first stop light, my car stalled. Thankfully she started right back up again, but Dylan and I still exchanged looks (and prayers) that we would make it to the house.


Happily, we did- but the car drama didn't end there...

I'm a Loser, Baby...

How very neglectful of me, blog, to have not paid you a visit in almost a week and a half. But summer fun does take up the time I take writing. Plus, I need those summer adventures so I have something worth writing about. Something like this past weekend...

You know, I love gambling. Well, I should be specific- I love slot machines: the anticipation of seeing the numbers or images line-up, the excitement when you hit a bonus, and the suspense as you wait to see your winnings. I love it.

I also HATE gambling- when I'm losing.

I'm a bit of a sore gambling loser. When I'm playing back and forth, winning back what I lost, the novelty is enjoyable. However, when my luck turns, and I suddenly see my amount dropping lower and lower, my mood does the same. But I'll explain with more detail-

This past Saturday a few friends and I all traveled up to Atlantic City for the night, in celebration of another friend's birthday.

The drive was smooth with the accompaniment of good friends, good music, and good conversation. We arrived and even managed to all have a drink in the SandBar and jump in the ocean before hitting the casino. My mood was as high and bright as the sun in the sky. But oh, it would not last.

We ate dinner and finally began trolling the casino floor. While some split off to hit the tables, I walked around looking for a slot machine that enticed me. I settled on one and began playing. I was doing pretty well at first; won back, and then some, of my original cash. I quickly cashed my ticket, put back my original amount and played with the extra....until that suddenly ran out.

Trying to shrug it off, I could hear the voice that so many gamblers must hear- "eh, I'll win it back," and decided to dip back into my wallet. Almost in the blink of an eye I saw my money dwindling. With every spin I kept expecting to see a sudden jump, a life saver to bring me back. Instead, I watched in horror as my credits disintegrated. I was crestfallen; and it wasn't even 8 p.m. yet.

I looked around at my friends all earning back even more than what they put in. The happier they got, I'm not proud to admit, the grumpier I became. Determined to be a winner also, I broke one of my biggest cardinal rules- I went to the casino ATM. I told myself I just needed a little more in order to win back my losses. Of course, that didn't happen, and I found myself in an even bigger financial hole.

I was in such a rage I stomped outside to the boardwalk, with poor Joe trailing behind me to calm me down. We sat on the beach, watching the dozens of seagulls hovering around the lights of the boardwalk, and breathed in the cool ocean air.

"Don't be so upset," he said, softly. "So that money is gone- so what. Don't let it ruin your time while we are here."

He was right, of course, and I had no right to be mad at him or my friends. I was mad at myself- for my stupidity, weakness, and greed. I also remembered that there were plenty of times I walked out of a casino with cash in my pocket, but that can't ALWAYS be the case. Because sometimes when you are a loser you appreciate more when you ARE a winner.

A/C Hater

There is a battle being waged, and I don't mean overseas. It is happening right in Towson, right on Willow Ave. The battle is between one Joseph Granato and one Kristen Bott. The reason? Air conditioning versus the electric fan.

My sleeping pattern is as follows- on my side, hand under one pillow with the other clutching another pillow. In the summer, I like to have just a portion of the comforter covering me. I love the gentle breeze of a summer night, but since the nights have been just as stagnantly hot as the days, those breezes have to come in the form of our electric fan placed in the window.

Joe, however, requires the constant blast of the A/C on him as well. And there in lies the source of our disagreement.

One of my truly amazing characteristics is my ability to be cold, even in the deathly hollows of summer. I really realized this a few weeks ago, when the war between A/C and fan began.

A few weeks ago while trying to go to sleep, I noticed I was unconsciously pulling the covers over my entire body. I realized I was actually getting chilly from the onslaught of A/C and fan. I mentioned it to Joe the next night.

"But how can you be cold? It's over 80 degrees!" he said, astonished.

"I know, but its just that the constant blast of cold air and the fan is too much. Why don't we just use one or the other?" I said.

He tried to explain that the air won't kick on unless the temp reaches a certain high, but I was still unconvinced. As a means to make a peace treaty, Joe turned off the A/C for the night.

He informed me the next morning how he had woken up several times in the middle of the night, unable to breathe and needing water. He told me this, because I had slept pretty much through the night. I did notice the heat more, and struggled a bit to get to sleep, but once I did I was out.

To be fair, we put the A/C back on the next night, swapping out the fan.

I have to admit that I did stay cooler, but the dry cold air did bother my nose and throat a bit.

So now we are back to trying sneaky tactics. I will often flip the A/C off for a while only to have Joe somehow flip it back on. It's like an I Love Lucy gag. Who will win the battle tonight? We'll have to see.