I'm Cool Now

Now that I'm officially on Twitter. Ok, I admit, I'm kind of anti-Facebook, anti-Twitter, anti-telling-people-what-I'm-doing-every-minute. And while I can't make any promises about how often I'll update, I thought I'd use Twitter when I have something funny or interesting to say that doesn't warrant an entire blog post.

My first "tweet" (oh my God, this is SO LAME) was going to be about how I just peed on myself testing out this product. But I didn't want my first tweet to be about peeing on myself, so instead it's basic. You can check me out at https://twitter.com/erin_wh for what I'm sure will be my thrilling updates.

(P.S. In testing my Twitter link, I noticed my first tweet is gone. Although it says I have two updates. We'll see how long this relationship lasts.)

Poor Neglected

Oh, poor, neglected personal blog. How I've missed you! I do honestly miss updating over here, and each time I do, I vow to myself to post more frequently for my loyal (and by now non-existent) readers. Maybe this will be the month I start to keep that promise. But I make no promises.

Things have been going well over here in Erin-Alan-Marti land. No, we still haven't set a leave-California date, but we're thinking it's going to be mid-August. Then, we'll drive back home because I refuse to put little Martikins on a plane. My precious little pug is not cargo, I'm sorry. And being a snub-nosed breed, most airlines probably wouldn't fly her anyway for fear she'd overheat and keel over. Which I've no doubt she would.

Once we get back to the Midwest, we plan to stay a couple of weeks, splitting the time between Kansas and Missouri. We are so excited to be able to come home, see family and friends, and not be in the big, fat rush we're usually in when we're home for visits. We were home for a wedding in May, and Alan was there for a total of 36 hours. Plus, Martikins will be able to see her old friends, Chuck and Lucy, and I can't wait to see if they all remember each other. Judging from how Marti reacts to labs at the park, I think it'll be like no time has passed.

While we're home, Alan will be relaxing and maxing, while I'll be working from "home." Then, and most exciting, we'll be taking a trip to the Bahamas. Which we've also not planned AT ALL. Hmm. Maybe we should do that soon.

My already precious time has also taken another hit. For job numero dos, I scored six weeks of sessions with a personal trainer at a gym here. I've been getting my rear whooped by a tiny little trainer, and it's awesome. You all may not recognize me when you see me next month because I'll have veins bulging out of my arms and will be running around in circles so fast I'll be just a blur.

See...that was easy. It took but 10 minutes. Hopefully I'll be able to find 10 more minutes to get back here before August.

From California Will Come Chaos

Oh, dog-loving father-in-law. I hope you're prepared for the havoc the pug will wreak upon your calm, retired life when we pass through the Midwest this summer.


I'll make sure she comes hungry.

The Mocha That Wasn't

I've had a bit of a migraine problem as of late. In the past year, the headaches of my youth returned. Luckily, the debilitating pain didn't accompany each migraine, but I was getting frequent auras that would have me blinded for 30 minutes at a time. It's best compared to looking at a bright light and not being able to see for a moment after, only it lasts the length of a sitcom. Or I get psychedelic squiggles through my line of sight. Or I'll feel the motion of a ceiling fan over my head even though there isn't one.

I couldn't nail down the trigger for my migraines, but when I cut down on my morning coffee, they decreased dramatically. Until they didn't, and came back with a vengeance. After seeing my doctor several times, I finally nailed down the cause: good old-fashioned stress. Now that I've gotten that under control, I've been sporadically returning to coffee as a treat.

When Jenn came out to visit, she ran to the corner convenience store to get us a morning coffee. It has a full espresso bar inside, and they'll make you whatever kind of coffee treat you'd like. She made the comment that if she lived so close to this amenity, it would be a problem. It hadn't been a problem for me because I'd stopped the coffee intake, but there she went, putting thoughts in my head.

A couple of weeks ago I made it my Friday treat to stop in and get a mocha. Then yesterday I was really craving one again. I put it off and put it off, waiting for the craving to subside, but it didn't. So off I went, walking to the corner. I was almost drooling as the barista made my beverage...and it wasn't until she was about to hand it to me that she sees my debit card and says, "Machine's down...I can't take cards." She points me to the ATM. Dismayed but not fully dissuaded, I went over to get cash. And then saw it would be a $3 ATM fee. Add that to the fee Bank of America would charge me, and it was adding up to a $9 cup of coffee. Slow tear. Fast tear.

I apologized for the coffee fake-out. But there was no way I was paying that much for a coffee. Sister's saving for a down payment in New Jersey.

The Hotness

In case your air conditioner ever breaks (God forbid, you'd have my utmost sympathy), below are a few signs that will signal to you that your misery is at all comparable to mine.

Signs Your Living Quarters Are Too Hot
1) Your pug has wild eyes and looks like she may expire at any moment.

2) You must lock both yourself and your pug up in the bathroom where it is a few degrees cooler so that you both can survive.

3) You make a sandwich and your bread feels like it just came out of the oven.

4) You take a shower and your shampoo is actually hot coming out of the bottle.

5) You lock the pug in the bathroom and go to the library for the entire day Sunday.


Of course, it's freezing as I sit here at the library. I had to put on my sweatshirt.

Marti Goes Golfing

After months (maybe years) of trying to get Marti back to playing fetch, I've learned that the only ingredients that matter in the fetch recipe are the ball and Marti's mood that day. She'll usually run after the ball, but will rarely, if ever, bring it back. The dog psychologist in me tells me that it all goes back to her playing fetch with Chuck and Lucy, which was more of her actually chasing them and then barking at them while they got the ball. I think she's convinced that she'll never get to it fast enough, so why bother?

It wouldn't be that big of a deal that she doesn't want to play fetch if I a) didn't remember the hours I used to try to wear her out with fetch as a wee pup and b) if she hadn't gotten a little chubby as of late.

That's right. Marti is now on Weight Watchers.

She really doesn't look too chunky when she's up walking around, but when she lies down, there's a bit of a pug pudge going on. And when I took her to the vet and she'd hit 27 pounds, and the vet told me she could "stand to lose a couple," I knew something had to be done. So I've dialed back the food intake a bit, and we've been taking long walks at noon that have been great for both of us.

I also increased my efforts trying to get her to play fetch and I finally found something that worked. One day when I tried a brand-new tennis ball someone had left at the park, it was like Marti had rediscovered her inner puppy. She played fetch for 30 minutes straight, while I stood there with my jaw on the gross dog park ground. And when I play with the special squishy tennis ball that she's stripped naked, she'll play forever too. And apparently now that's she's taken up fetch again, golf balls aren't off limits either. She not only ran after this golf ball with gusto, but ripped into its cracked casing with the fervor of a teething puppy (see picture below).

As for her weight loss, after two weeks of checking on the digital at home, she still hovered between 26 and 27 pounds, which I took to mean she hadn't really budged. But lo and behold, when I took her to the vet a couple of days ago, she weighed in at 25.8 pounds! I was beyond proud. All of our exhausting efforts are paying off. She's still got a few pounds to go, but I'm hoping that she will eventually get it off and become a lifetime Weight Watchers member.

Potty Patrol

It's been months since I've seen poor old Silvia, so I can only assume she's finally escaped the assisted living facility and gone to the sweet by and by. But there's a new Silvia in town, and she goes by the name of Shirley.

I met Shirley recently when I was out with Marti, letting her sniff around in the mulch and the bushes by the patio of the assisted living facility. Marti is typically content to putter around for much longer than I prefer before she really gets down to business. So we're dilly-dallying around and Marti is playing with seed pods in the mulch and out of nowhere I hear:

"PICK UP YOUR DOG SHIT!"

It took me so by surprise that I didn't even know how to respond. I turned around to Shirley in her wheelchair, and said, for lack of a better defense, "But she hasn't even gone yet!"

So she repeated herself. Just to make it clear that dog poo wouldn't be tolerated. This time I said, "Don't worry, I always do!" Her reply? With utter disdain, she says accusingly, "With what??"

To which I waved at her with my black poo-pickup-bag covered hand. I was trying to be lighthearted through the accusations, but I was a little defensive, which is understandable because I live in a neighborhood where these signs once appeared:


Shirley's got her difficult side, for sure, and I know she puts the nurses through the wringer. I've heard her tapping on the windows from the patio to get their attention, saying "HELLOOO!?!" over and over again. I also hear her demands for coffee, and she doesn't exactly say please and thank you. But we've actually spoken since our first encounter, and she can be quite friendly when she's lucid. She sees me and asks Marti's name and whether she's had any puppies. On her good days, we're friendly. But I'm fairly certain I heard her curse at me again the other day. I'm pretty sure that somewhere deep inside her troubled mind she must remember a dog that used to take large dumps on her lawn.