Monthly Archives: June 2011



This weekend was the 2nd annual Brothers’ weekend at a cabin up north. Last year was pretty eventful:

  • The Beast had half of her whiskers melted by her oldest uncle when he tried to light the grill, dropped the match underneath the deck, and then tried to light the grill again, without turning the propane off. Feta was standing a wee bit too close. We kept an eye on her this year.
  • The Husband was thrown overboard by his youngest brother. He had on his prescription sunglasses and they ended up at the bottom of the lake.

I wasn’t too sure what to expect now, but we made a few preparatory steps to prevent any repeat mishaps. The Husband’s had lasik since last summer and we knew we needed to keep a close eye on Feta around this group. We thought we’d be made in the shade, drinking delicious Skittles vodka that the pyromaniac oldest brother made and eating s’mores.

The oldest and 3rd oldest brother had the two boats at the launch, so they were in need of some help from The Husband. He took The Beast to drive one boat over to the cabin, where I was to stand on the dock so they knew they were at the right place.

I drive to the cabin. Almost hit a deer in the driveway. In the middle of the afternoon. They’re out at that time in the day?

I had gotten the key from the cabin owner earlier in the week. We rented this place last year, so I was pretty confident that everything, as far as the cabin went, would be the same.

Try the front door: key doesn’t work.

Try the back basement door: key doesn’t work.

Try the two screen doors to get onto the porch and be able to try the side door.



By this point, we’d been in the car for a while. And I had to pee. I sat on the porch steps and contemplated my options:

  1. Pee in my pants. Nope, not an option. Gross.
  2. Pee in the yard. Also not an option. Too many neighbors around outside.
  3. Wade into the lake in my jeans and pee in there. Not this one either. These were my only long pants. I needed to protect myself from mosquitoes. Not that they ended up helping anyway. Those jerks love the taste of my Irish blood.

Just when all my options seemed to have disappeared. I remembered that there was a sliding door on the back deck. All I had to do was climb from where I was (stairs of the porch) to the back deck. And not pee my pants.


Well, maybe not.

I’m not the most athletic or flexible person. It was going to be quite the feat.

To help illustrate, I made a diagram in Excel. Be impressed.

Not drawn to scale. Obviously. And don’t mind the grid-lines, either.

So here I sit. What else is there for me to do?

I straddled the gap, praying that I don’t fall.

Note: flipflops are not the proper cabin scaling footwear. This was discovered once I was already hovering 15 feet over concrete.

I tripped onto the deck and have to regain my composure, positive that no one will believe this.

I walked over to the sliding doors.


And locked.

At this point, I almost just peed right there on the deck, but then I look to my right and see my definite last chance: the screen door going from the back deck to the screened-in porch.

Deep breath.

It’s open!

And the key works in the side door!

I rushed and have never felt so relieved in my life.

I came out of the cabin with just enough time to see The Husband pulling the boat up to the dock, with The Beast doing her best Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet impression.

Great way to start a relaxing weekend.




This weekend we decided to mosey on into a nearby city to enjoy their summer festival. We really just wanted to go see the dog agility performances, since that’s where we took The Beast to “obedience” school. And to eat cheese curds. (How did I never know about cheese curds until I moved to MN? They’re delisc!)

The park was packed with people, especially families wanting their kids to learn how to fish. Way too many people for my liking. But The Beast was the show of the festival.

Seriously. We were walking and person after person after person with missing teeth asked, “Oh, can I pet your dog? She’s so pretty!”

Who? This cat dog?

*Note my awesome smurf-ness. I love being able to wear pajamas scrubs to work. And what’s up with my left eye. That’s funky. I don’t like it.

**Also Note: I’m not 12. I swear.

That’s a bit better.

Some people weren’t as forward, but we could hear them: “Man! Look at that dog! That’s a cool dog!” Not to sound braggy, but a lot of people, no matter where we go, compliment us on our four-legged kid. She’s kinda the coolest.

But what they don’t realize by just looking at her is that she’s no ordinary dog:

She burps in your face.

She stands on your hair while you lie in bed so that she can lick your face without you escaping.

She’s afraid of dragonflies. That are on the other side of the window.

The jingle of her tags can put fear into anyone, knowing that a dog body-slam is in their near future.

She jumps in drained koi ponds that are now complete mud.

She will find a way to take your spot on the couch, even if you’re the only one sitting on it.

She eats (numerous) DVDs.

She’ll sass you. Always.

Going to this festival made me realize that maybe I take this furball for granted. She’s always super excited to see me when I get home. She loves to cuddle. She’ll watch the Bachelorette with me. She’ll eat food off of the floor so I don’t need to sweep.

She could have run away with the circus, but she decided to keep our lives exciting and different every day.

why abbreviations are not always acceptable



Today was starting off really well. I got to wear jeans and sandals to work and there was even going to be chocolate cake (aka my first true love). But then, I needed to get some blood work done.

You see, apparently no one has record of me getting the MMR vaccination. No one. Not the state of Michigan. Not my high school (which needed all my records for me to attend way back when). Not even my own mother. So, that’s great. I kinda need this for work, since I work in a medical-type place.

The only (and easiest, supposedly) solution was to get a titer taken to show that I have immunity to mumps, measles, and rubella. I don’t mind getting blood drawn. I have no fear of needles or blood or whatnot. The problem—-of which I have many—-is I just can’t believe that no one has any record of this vaccination. Really? My mom’s response:

“Maybe you didn’t get it.”

You don’t remember? Isn’t that something every kid gets, unless their mom is cray-cray and thinks vaccinations give you autism? Seriously, Mom?


I made an appointment yesterday to have my blood drawn this morning. The scheduler gave me directions and told me, “Oh yeah, just check in at the front desk.” Okay. Easy enough.

Nope. The lady there tells me I just need to go to the lab since I’m not seeing a provider, only having blood work. Still somewhat chipper, I go down the stairs to the lab. And that’s where I met the lab tech from hell.

You’d think that in order to work with patients you’d need some people skills. That is not the case apparently. I give her my name, which I needed to spell twice, and tell her why I am there: a titer for the MMR vaccination, to show immunity. The entire time, she is speaking quite loudly. And she’s totally giving me attitude, which I don’t quite understand why. Was it because I spelled my name, but you still spelled it wrong and I had to correct you? Sorry I tried to help you find my records in a timely fashion. Oy.

“Ma’am. There are no orders in here. You need to see a nurse first. You need to check-in upstairs.”

“I tried, but they told me to just come down to the lab and check in. I’m not supposed to be seeing anyone for this. I just need it for work.”

“Did you talk to Achmed?


eye-roll “Achmed.”



“I talked to someone at the front desk. I don’t know who it was.”

“Have a seat.” loud, ridiculously loud sigh

At this point, I’m getting a bit peeved, but whatever. Electronic records aren’t always reliable. I take a seat, maybe 15 feet away from her. The waiting room is quite full. I can hear her clearly as she says, “Yeah, I don’t know why she was sent down her, but I don’t have any orders for (says my name very loudly and clearly, making sure to emphasize how it is pronounced). She’s down her saying she needs a titer for her MMR.” And I’m talking about speaking in a definite “way too loud to be speaking in a public place voice.” The kind of voice you would glare at on the bus.

The lab tech hangs up the phone, then calls another person, this time speaking very quietly and I can’t hear her at all. Oh. So you do know how to speak appropriately? Impressive, lady. Geeze. Talk about HIPAA.

“Ma’am. You need to go back upstairs.”

Now, I’ve had enough.

#1. She called me “ma’am”. Twice.

#2. She was rude. I have no tolerance for rude people in a patient care setting. It’s not okay.

I march back up the stairs and go to the front desk. I see a nurse standing behind one of the front desk people, who happens to have a small sign on the desk, reading “Occupational Medicine”.


Occ. Med.

Not Achmed.

Okay, now I’ve lost it.

#3. This lab tech was using abbreviations that are not commonly known to people and expecting me to know. What the hell.

I tell the nurse and front desk person who I am and why I’m there. The nurse says, “What kind of titer do you need?”


“Oh, okay. I wasn’t sure. On your appointment it says ‘4 MMR’.”



“It’s supposed to be I’m coming in for a MMR titer.”

This is why short-hand texting drives me nutso. Who is running the show at this place?! 13-year-olds?

I ask, “Didn’t the lab tech person tell you this? Why did I need to tell you?”

“Well, I’ll put the orders in now.”

Way to avoid the question, nursey.

“You can head back down to the lab.”

Great. My favorite-est place in the whole world. Back to hell I went.


Those are flames next behind the devil lab tech. It looked just like this down there. Only less flames. And no visible horns. She was seated so I can not verify whether or not she had a tail.

“I’m baaaa-aaaack. The orders are supposed to be in now,” I say with a big grin. I’m gonna kill this biotch with any type weapon from the board game Clue kindness.

“Take a seat.” grumble grumble grumble 

Some people just can’t be helped.

The rest of the blood draw went without a hitch. Made the phlebotomist laugh, but not while the needle was in my arm. That’s no laughing matter.

The Beast


Feta is my furry little bundle of joy. She sits on my head when I’m laying on the couch. She howls at me and The Husband when she’s hungry or thirsty or needs to go out or wants a treat or wants to go to bed…or for any reason, really. She sasses back, but she’s a great cuddler. She’s also the comic relief of the house and loves to burp in people’s faces.

When we first got her, she was only 11 pounds. Now she’s closer to 75. She also sheds like crazy. I’m in a losing battle with dog hair and any items in our house.

There’s just one thing I can’t believe when I look back at old pictures of Feta…

Please tell me how this:

turned into this: