Completely true story

This morning I burned my toast and set the smoke detector off. My first thought was, "I gotta tell Ed the smoke alarm works!"

It may be the most interesting thing that happens to me today.

Meet Jamie in St. Louis

Jamie, Ben and I met the first day of freshman year in high school. We were inseparable and teachers teased us about how we were going to get on when we went to separate colleges. That wasn't a problem, Jamie had car and I was only three hours away. We didn't see Ben much in that time, but apparently absence makes the heart grow fonder; when we were old enough to get married, Jamie and Ben married each other.

So when Ben learned that he needed major surgery and would be in the hospital for up to a week, I booked myself a ticket to go stay with Jamie at their perfect home in St. Louis. While Ben was in the hospital I jabbered away, feeling sure that I was distracting both of them and doing my good deed of the day. Then Ben came home, with holes in his neck from the IV and strict instructions to be calm while he healed. And like most sick people, he was grumpy. But I have two younger siblings and a know-it-all attitude, so when he told Jamie "you're going to the store and you're going to buy me jelly." I yelled, "Say please, now!" He ignored me like my siblings do. But Jamie sighed. I thought maybe I should change my ticket and stay a few more days and be Mary Sunshine in the house with a grumpy sick person.

Because it would have been such a favor to let Jamie listen to her grumpy husband and bratty friend snipe at each other all day. Even though I think I'm funny when I snipe...especially since I think I'm funny. Hi-LAR-ious, actually. I crack myself up and you can join in or not.

I came home. You're welcome, Feig!

Rain, rain, go away...

We arrived here two and a half months ago and I still don't have a job. But I've found that complaining is a very effective way to deal with it and makes me popular at parties.

The Song of the Count

My grandfather, who lived an absolutely admirable life for 91 years, passed away last Friday. He's already very much missed, but my siblings and I found ourselves celebrating the man more than mourning him. All week people told stories about him as a cocky young pilot, as the commander of a base, as a strict and loving father, a doting grandfather and great-grandfather, an elder in his church, a volunteer in his community, and as a very, very dry wit. These stories made us want to be like him and honor him in our own lives.

And because anytime you get me and Ed together with my brother, sister, and their spouses we laugh a lot, the fact that this was playing on iPhones most of the week caused a few ruckuses. Grandfather modeled good behavior all the time, and I doubt he would have laughed at something so off-color in front of his grandkids, but I think that young man who wrote down his own anecdotes about going to see dancing girls would have gotten a kick out of the one bleeped word in a real Sesame Street skit. I know he would have loved to see us fall out of our chairs laughing.

That Girl

This is my bright yellow, daisy-embroidered yoga mat bag. I needed one with a strap so I could wear it when I scoot to Pilates; it goes well with my white jacket and white helmet with red stripes.

I didn't realize that people in class were paying attention until Tuesday; it was raining so I drove my car. Two people in my Pilates class asked where the scooter was - as one older lady said, "it's such a cute little scooter for such a cute little woman!"

I knew I should have gotten that stupid Harley.

Compensating

Since I can't run with my asthma acting up, I've been going for long walks in the morning. Yesterday there were dozens of baby ducklings all over the river, toodling after their mothers. They were so cute and fuzzy I just about scooped them up to come home and keep me company; I could give them adorable names and they'd think I was their mama and follow me around.

But I'm thinking getting allergy shots and keeping Gigolo is a better idea than realizing that Fluffy MacSnuggles and Mr. PaddlePuddle pooped on the carpet again.

My first Texas-sized breakdown

Friday I finally had my appointment with the allergist, which I'd been looking forward to since we brought Gigolo inside. Because when I say I'm allergic I don't mean he makes me sneeze, I mean he gives me asthma. Not-breathing asthma. And I didn't write about it online because Mama Sly's been known to read what I write, and as soon as I said "can't breathe" she'd have shown up at the front door and worried at me. And Mama Sly's got enough to worry about - have you met my brother? He's a complete reprobate. (Hi Dave, smooches!)

Kidding, he's a good guy. But not worrying my mom was a good plan.

So I went to the allergist and told him that I knew I was allergic but brought the cat inside anyways, and he looked at me in genuine bewilderment. "Why did you do that?"

me: "He was hurt!"

him: "You're not allergic to dogs, why didn't you adopt a dog?"

me: "There were no hurt dogs wandering around."

Then he just looked at me with these confused eyes, magnified by his glasses, until I blushed and looked away.

He decided to do allergy testing to make sure he knew what exactly was going on. When they do allergy testing they inject you with a histamine to see what a positive allergic reaction looks like. Then they prick you with 50 different types of typical allergens and see what you react to. My histamine control was about the size of a dime and bright red. Certain grasses, trees, and mold swelled to the size of a quarter, overlapped their neighboring allergens and made me want to tear my skin off they itched so badly. The cat prick only swelled to the size of a dime and turned bright red. I thought this was a good sign.

Until the allergist sat me down. And said that just because I'm insanely allergic to other things doesn't mean I'm not very, very allergic to the cat. That if I was his wife or daughter he'd tell me to get rid of it. That the cat was making me sick. That he'd help me no matter what I decided to do, but that for someone like me to bring a cat into the house was ridiculous, especially with all my other allergies attacking my system.

I held in my tears until I was in the car, and held in the sobs until I was home. I didn't tell Ed I was hysterical, just that the allergist said to get rid of the cat, and he came straight home.

He's worried about my mental health if my only friend in San Antonio gets taken away.

Tattling

Today was Gigolo's two week checkup, which also means it's his two week anniversary of housecat-edness. And argh, sometimes I miss that needy, hurting, CALM AND QUIET cat we first brought into the house. The one who would curl up and sit next to me for hours. This new, healthy, playful version of Gigolo runs through the house at all hours chasing his toy mouse, slipping on the wood floors and slamming into walls, wrestling with anyone who comes near, and the damn cat's bit me about once a day for the last week. He never breaks the skin, but playful biting is still a no-go. Ask Chris Brown.

Then he hops up next to me and purrs for an hour until I forgive him. Then he rolls on his back in wrestling stance, gets that look in his eye, and bites me again. I run and tell Ed on him, but Ed just tells us we need to learn to get along.