Even people raised in barns know better...

Let's assume for a moment you are hosting a teacher workshop at a local, history museum. The museum has given you the space for free.

The museum has a strict policy against having anything taped, tacked or otherwise adhered to the walls. For the sake of argument, let's make the museum an historic site and the building itself a work of art.

But you are busy with the business of teaching teachers, and have something "very important" that you really need to hang up. You remember the rule about not taping anything to the walls, but the museum never said anything about the murals.

So, yeah, you hang your "very important" poster board to the nearly 80 year old, priceless work of art in the room using masking tape. And then you seem confused when the museum director completely freaks the f*ck out.

I mean, what's the big deal, right?

(I SWEAR, WHAT IS WRONG WITH SOME PEOPLE?!)

The Ordeal...

So, as Melissa pointed out, after declaring to the internet last week that, yes, I’m knocked up, I promptly left the state of Texas. That is just the latest example of how I roll when faced with making a voluntary, if not awkward, public announcement.

Speaking of: since it doesn’t have known a gender yet, I’ve started referring to it as The Fetus. As in “The Fetus doesn’t like the smell of garlic or fish, and hates the heat” or “Trevor told me The Fetus has ears now and reacts to light, but I don’t have to start watching my language yet because it won’t speak English for at least another year”. Once I know the gender, I promise I will use more endearing and motherly pronouns like him/her and/or he/she. In the meantime, I’m all about being technical.

(Mainly because I really dislike referring to it as "it" and accidentally called it a "thing" a couple of weeks ago which horrified my coworker. Trevor wants me to call it "baby" but, since I am not showing yet, that just seems weird to me. I’m not sure it reaches baby status until it can survive outside of the womb. And, really, Trevor is just lucky that I don't refer to it as "The Parasite".)

Anyhoo, I went to Martha’s Vineyard to visit friends on Wednesday and came back last night. I’ll eventually get around to posting pictures, but the point of today’s post is to document yesterday’s Travel Ordeal.

I awoke yesterday morning to a 6:30 AM automated phone call from American Airlines informing me that my 2:45 PM flight from Boston Logan to DFW had been cancelled. Apparently, the plane had a “mechanical failure” (a.k.a. it was broken), so even though the flight was completely full, we were grounded. But because I had splurged for the $30 trip insurance, I had already been rescheduled for a 5:30 flight to New York’s JFK with an 8 PM connection back to Dallas the same afternoon.

Apparently, had I not purchased the trip insurance, I would have been put on another flight home. Just not yesterday. $30 is a lot cheaper than any hotel in Boston, so I am thinking I won.

The weather in NYC was calling for thunderstorms, and I had a feeling that flying through NYC was destined for failure. So, I called American Airlines and opted for the direct flight from Boston to Dallas that left at 8 PM. It would get in at the same time as the JFK flight, but without the risk of weather delays and/or cancellations.

The problem was that I already had a ticket for the 9:30 AM ferry from Vineyard Haven back to Woods Hole, and the 10:35 bus from the ferry back to Logan. So, I arrived at the airport at 12:45, and had…well, a LOT of time to kill.

Other than the obvious boredom, it really wasn’t that bad since it allowed me the extra time to do things like opt out of the security body scanner. Not that I really care so much about someone seeing me sans clothing because, hey, it is their eyes. But because there were all these “Danger! Radiation!” signs all over it. Feeling concerned for The Fetus, I asked what effect, if any, the radiation would have on my unborn child. The TSA person just looked at me and said, “Well, there is no evidence to suggest it will do any harm to the baby. But, then again, there is no evidence to suggest it won’t. It just hasn’t been around all that long.” So, yeah. I opted out.

Maybe I do have a maternal instinct?

The resulting pat down wasn’t that bad, either. I had been carrying a heavy bag over my shoulder, and when she ran the backs of her hands down my upper back, it was almost like a massage (a little to the left, please?). True, she got a little friendly with the bathing suit areas, but - dude - if it keeps my plane from falling out of the sky, I’m all for it. And, honestly, it wasn’t THAT bad. The TSA agent explained everything she was doing and where she was going to put her hands and whatnot. It was as professional as a pat down can be. Maybe I just have a high tolerance level when something is done in the name of safety or maybe (now that I’ve been through it) I just don’t understand what all the fuss is about.

But enough about that.

The afternoon at Logan was spent trying to fly standby on the 3:15 and 4:35 flights to Dallas and failing both times. Apparently, everyone that had been on the completely full 2:45 flight was trying to do the same thing as I was, and – statistically – the deck was stacked against every last one of us.

I did almost get on the 4:35 flight. They called the first four standby names, and issued them seats. I was number five.

Just my luck.

The 8 PM flight I was confirmed on STILL had a list of over twenty standby passengers. So, I was extremely happy that I had a seat, even if said seat was in the very back of the plane and in the middle (I have a preference for aisle seats - especially now that The Fetus mandates that I pee approximately every 15 to 20 minutes). Of course, my middle seat was in between two very friendly and sweet, but larger individuals. And we all know I’m not petite (I think the word used to describe me recently was “wide”), so I was instantly claustrophobic. This was exacerbated by the fact that I couldn’t use either arm rest because they were resting on the thighs of my neighboring passengers.

I spent the next five hours chanting, “Stay calm, breathe, stay calm, breathe, stay calm, breathe” in my head.

Then, when we started to taxi to the runway to take off, all the power (lights, AC, engines, etc.) shut down unexpectedly. The captain came over the PA system and said:

“Ladies and gentlemen. We just lost power. This is an exceptionally rare problem on this type of aircraft. In fact, it has only happened to me once in my twenty-five year career. But don’t worry. The last time this happened, I still made it to my destination safely.”

WTF?!

The cabin was instantly filled with nervous laughter.

It took about half an hour for the ground crew to successfully jump the plane. Yes, they had to JUMP. THE. PLANE. Nothing about the situation made me feel confident about our four hour flight back to Dallas. Mainly because I am not sure how well a 757 glides back to Earth if it loses power at 37,000 feet.

We did take off, though, and other than the EXTREMELY turbulent ride (which had me VERY aware of the location of my air sick bag in the seat back pocket in front of me), the flight was uneventful. Of course, the jumping of the plane delayed our arrival by nearly an hour, so we showed up in Dallas closer to midnight than eleven.

Disembarking took FOR-EV-ER. Remind me never to voluntarily sit in the back of a plane again. It was awful. It took all my energy not to start screaming. Apparently, five hours is the limit of my “stay calm, breathe” mantra. I was literally starting to panic. There were too many people and not enough oxygen. And it was hot. I broke out in a sweat, and honestly believe I was THAT close to losing it.

Finally, though, I got off the plane and made it to the baggage claim. Where my bag was NOT. Because, really? Why would it be there? After watching the carrousel travel in circles long enough to feel confident that, no, my bag wasn’t going to magically appear, I headed to the baggage service desk. Where I learned that my bag had better luck flying standby than I did. It made the 3:15 and had been waiting patiently at Terminal C, Gate 31 for six hours.

Problem was that my flight had arrived at Terminal A, Gate 29.

So, after nearly 16 hours of traveling and airport delays, I got to go on a wild goose hunt for my bag. Luckily, my sister and her fiancé were nice enough to pick me up and drive me around DFW to find my luggage.

C31 was all but deserted when we arrived. There was one official looking guy standing near the baggage carrosel, but he made it very clear that he didn’t know anything. So, Amy and I hiked to the nearest FUNCTIONING baggage claim six gates away where a flight had just arrived. Of course, the baggage service desk employee at C25 promptly walked us BACK to C31, and unlocked a cabinet less than 15 feet from where “official looking guy” was still standing. But, at that point, I was just glad to have my bag and be done with the entire ordeal.

Adam and Amy drove me home and I showered and collapsed into bed around 1:45 AM. I don’t think I have been that level of exhausted in years. My bed felt wonderful.

And that folks was my Travel Ordeal. I am still not fully recovered. The experience was almost enough to make me want to avoid air travel for the foreseeable future. Or at least airports.

The Fetus feels the same way.

A public service announcement of sorts...

Things NOT to say to a friend or family member when she tells you that she is pregnant:

1. Uh-oh.


2. No you are not.


3. Well, that sure complicates family matters.


4. It’s your life.


5. Is this a wanted pregnancy?


6. Sometimes big girls like you never show at all during their entire pregnancy, you know.


7. I wouldn’t call you fat. You’re more…wide.


8. I’m just…well, shocked. I thought you two would wait awhile before having kids.


9. Once it is here, you can’t put it back.


10. Are you sure you are ready?


11. But you PROMISED me that you wouldn’t get pregnant! You lied!


12. Oh, no. [Deep breath out] You are kidding, right?


13. OMG! Was it an accident? Did your birth control fail?


14. You know they have stuff to prevent that, right?


15. That sucks. I’m sorry.

All this might explain why I almost cried when I had to tell my boss that I am expecting.

To be clear, though, I didn’t cry. I just looked like I might at any moment.

Me: “…I am about twelve weeks along.”

Boss: “Congratulations! That is wonderful news!

Me: “I have every intention of returning to work, and I can do stuff from home while I am on leave.”

Boss: “I’m not worried! Do you know if it is a boy or girl, yet?”

Me: “Wait. You aren’t angry?”

Boss: “Why would I be angry?”

Me: [Holding back tears] “ I don’t know! I just thought you might be!”

Ever since I started telling people, I’ve sort of felt like I needed to shout, “I’M PREGNANT!” before jumping behind a brick wall or some other king of defensive structure. It is not that no one has reacted positively to the news. It is just I’ve had a lot of BAD reactions. And, well, I might be a tad bit hormonal.

So, if you feel slighted because I didn't tell you in person, please take into consideration that I am a little gun shy thanks to the 15 reactions posted above. And THOSE were from close friends, family and coworkers. Pregnancy is scary enough without feeling like a fifteen year old teenage pregnancy statistic. Especially considering I am almost 31 and nothing about about this pregnancy was a surprise.

This also might explain my sudden fascination and NEED to watch The Secret Life of the American Teenager. Or not. And I cannot believe I just admitted that I am voluntarily watching that garbage publicly. Again with the hormones. I am apparently in desperate NEED of someone to relate to. Since no one else I know seems to be pregnant at the moment, I am finding comfort in the plight of a knocked up, fictional high schooler.

Just a little pathetic.

Anyway, I am currently somewhere around the thirteen week mark and due sometime on or near Christmas. Which, of course, means that Spot or Dot is already predestined to hate me because I have doomed it to a lifelong struggle of birthday presents wrapped up in Christmas paper.

Trevor just hopes it comes before New Years because of the tax break. We have priorities in Casa de G-Wink, you know.

The End.

I'd say she's back, but honestly she never left...

So, you may or may not remember THIS POST documenting the Christmas when someone mysteriously left Sarah Palin standing in my father’s front yard.

Well, in case you were wondering, Sarah never left. She’s been living with my dad for the last two and a half years. She refuses to move out and has turned into a bit of a family joke (thanks to her uncanny ability to show up in the most bizarre locations).

I think she’s stayed in almost every room in the house at one point or another. She usually gravitates towards standing awkwardly in a corner, and giving people a start when they walk into a room expecting it to be empty. Most recently, Sarah has been hanging out in the glass shower in the powder bath off the den. Guests walk in there, turn on the light and see Sarah standing there smiling.

It is all very creepy.

Last night, though, Sarah crossed the line. When my dad went to bed, Sarah was already there…waiting for him.


She "claimed" she only wanted to wish him a Happy Father's Day.

To quote SVU, I think Sarah is escalating. A protection order may be next.

Technically, it isn't even summer yet...

Blah.

Because we all know I heart Conan...

Plus, according to "The Conan Doctrine", I now have a PhD and
Trevor is in a white collar prison. Winning!

For a full transcript, click HERE.

In other news, Gypsy is now a bobble head...

Oh, Gypsy, Gypsy. Where do I begin with Gypsy?

Gypsy has been at the vet since Friday morning thanks to four things that happened Thursday night:

1. Gypsy figured out how to get her ear out of the bandage.


2. Gypsy had a difficult time breathing.


3. Gypsy became lethargic and stopped coming when called.


4. Gypsy’s head started to swell.

Basically, Gypsy was a disaster.

Had I been able to take her to the vet immediately, I would have considered it. But none of her symptoms were causing her too much distress, and we were hoping to avoid an emergency vet bill on top of already mounting medical tab. In hindsight, the problem breathing was the most cause for concern, but at the time I honestly thought it was more due to the head bandage than anything else.

So, we waited.

I didn’t sleep well that night.

The next morning, I loaded Gypsy into the car, and we returned to the doctor. For the fourth time in six days.

Initially, the vet also thought that the difficulty breathing was being caused by the head bandage, but Gypsy continued to have problems even after the wrap was removed. And the bandage was hiding the degree of the swelling, which – according to the vet – was surprisingly extensive.

At first, it was assumed that the difficulty breathing and the swelling was caused by an insect bite or bee sting. But no puncture marks could be found after a thorough examination. After ruling out several other possibilities, it was determined that Gypsy was having an allergic reaction to her post surgery antibiotic.

Because, you know, why not?

Due to the extensive swelling and labored breathing, the vet wanted to keep Gypsy until Saturday or Sunday so they could administer shots of antihistamine every four to six hours, along with an injectable steroid. Gypsy’s mood and activity level increased within hours of the first treatment, and she has continued to improve since.

Yesterday, when the vet called to report in, I thought I would be able to pick Gypsy up and bring her home. The swelling had gone down considerably, but – strangely – the right side of her head and face was still swollen. The vet wanted to try her on a different antibiotic, but – because of the adverse reaction of the other medication – she wanted to keep Gypsy at least another 48 hours to monitor her progress and ensure she tolerated her new meds well.

This, of course, means that I won’t get my baby back until Tuesday at the earliest.

I am in withdrawal from a general lack of Gypsyness. All the dog toys are in the toy basket and I haven’t been stealthily licked in four days. It has all been very tragic for yours truly. Plus, I've been worried sick.

Gypsy, by all accounts, seems to be enjoying her stay in the vet’s hospital wing. I took her bed, kibble and favorite toy up on Friday, and she has been spending time trying to convince the vet techs and doctors to play with her (apparently with a lot of success). She is also so sweet (and looks so pathetic) that everyone has fallen in love with her, and she’s been allowed to hang out with the front desk staff from time to time during the day. I guess it is possible she won’t ever want to leave. Sounds like she’s got it made.

You know she’s milking it for all it is worth...

Remembering Piper...

As mentioned on Wednesday, the family said goodbye to Piper on Tuesday evening.

Piper adopted us during the summer of 2002. I was 21 years old, had just finished my B.A. at Syracuse University and returned to Dallas for the summer to work and save money before embarking on graduate school in the fall.

I also met and started dating Trevor that same summer. On our first "official" date, Trevor took me after dinner to meet his brother "Walter" and his brand new pug puppy named "Spencer". Or so I thought. As it turned out, his brother's name is "Spencer" and the dog was "Walter". I had everything backwards, and it took several more dates before I could say with certainty which human was which was canine.

I actually didn't get to meet Trevor’s brother that evening, but I did get to meet the pug along with Trevor's mother. Trevor's mom wasn't expecting us and was wearing a bath robe. It was all very strange and awkward. I still rib Trevor about how he took me to meet his mother on our first date.

(Secretly, I hope he did it because he knew I was a keeper.)

It was also the fabulous summer where Kelly spent almost as much time at my mother’s house as I did. And there were days when all we did was swim in the pool, layout in the sun, watch movies and eat left over Mattitos. I had turned my mother’s dining table into my own personal scrapbooking room, as I attempted to preserve the past as I simultaneously relished in the last few weeks of my carefree youth. It was a glorious time.

Walter and Alley circa 2006(ish).

As the summer wore on, Trevor would bring Walter over to visit, and everyone would just ooh and ahh over that tiny little, funny looking puppy. Walter, at the time, was working on the whole housebreaking thing, and Trevor and I would take the little guy outside often to use the potty. On one such occasion, we were in the front yard when this large, yellow lab came bounding across the neighbor’s lawn toward us. She had no collar on (although you could see where one used to sit on her neck), but was friendly. Thinking she must have gotten out of someone’s backyard, we took her inside with us for safe keeping.

At first, we thought the dog was 3-5 years old, because she was overweight and not in very good shape. However, after a quick trip to the vet to scan for a chip, it was determined that the lab was only about a year to a year and a half in age. No chip was found, though, so we returned home and proceeded to call around to the local shelters to see if anyone had reported a missing Labrador retriever.

No one had.

We also called the local animal control in the area. They offered to come and pick her up, but told us that they could only keep a dog for three days before having to euthanize. Thinking it might take a while to locate the owners, we made the decision to keep the dog in the interim so she wouldn’t be at risk of being put down before her owners could be located.

A week went by. Then two. No one came forward to claim the dog, responded to any of the flyers in the neighborhood or called from one of the shelters. And, after awhile, the big, yellow dog just became ours.

My mom named her “Piper”. And the rest, as they say, is history.

It is just so strange to look back on the last nine years of Piper’s life with our family. I can still see her bounding up to us in the front yard that evening. I remember the day she figured out swimming was fun, and the first time she took a leap of faith and jumped into my mother’s pool to retrieve a ball. She was always such a great “people” dog. So friendly, and never met a human she didn’t like (especially if she could convince them to throw the ball for her).

A The first picture taken of Trevor and I back in 2002 2003.
Why we chose a house being torn down as the background, I will never know.

I never really thought about it before, but in many ways that silly, big dog represented the beginning of Trevor and me. Not that we ever were her official owners or anything. Piper was always my mother’s dog. But Trevor and I were two of the ones that found her. We had just started dating and had no idea that our relationship that summer would last. If you had told me then that nine years later we would be married and living in Dallas, I would have said you were crazy. And, yet, here we are.

I guess our pets will always symbolize a certain time or period in our life, and having them around is almost like a tangible connection to that past. They represent a particular time, and when they leave us it is impossible not to recall all those situations and events in which they were present.

For me, Piper stands for the summer of 2002. When I think of her I am reminded of a simpler time full of flip flops, cheese dip, bathing suites, playing catch, swimming pools, new love and great friends. This seems fitting since Piper’s favorite season was always the time of the year when everyone was outside and she could go swimming and play fetch all day and late into the evening.


If I had a do-over, though, I’d love to go back to Memorial Day Monday and throw that silly ball into the pool just one last time.

I hope there are a lot of tennis balls in heaven.

Indestructible squeaky toys, too.

We will miss you, Pipey Wipey!

Saying goodbye to Piper...

Memorial Day Monday

It has not been a good week to be a dog.

On Friday, my mom’s dog, Piper, had to be rushed to the Emergency Vet. She had been fine on Memorial Day, and spent most of the afternoon swimming in the pool and playing fetch. The subsequent days found her a little slow and tired, but my mom figured it was because she played so hard over the holiday weekend and her ten year old body needed some time to recover.

Then she stopped eating.

By 4 AM on Friday morning, Piper was so weak she could barely stand. And the decision was made to take her to the emergency clinic in Mansfield.


At first, the doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. They did tests to rule out cancer/tumors, organ failure, etc. Nothing seemed to fit. That is, until her blood work came back and her red blood count was hovering around 11 (normal levels are in the upper 30s). The diagnosis: Immune Mediated Hemolytic Anemia (IMHA).

IMHA is basically when the immune system starts to attack the body’s red blood cells. The only way to counteract the disease is to suppress the body’s immune system. But before that could happen, the vet needed to immediately transfuse Piper’s blood to get her red blood count back up. The first transfusion took place on Friday, and Piper’s blood count made it all the way to 21 and held steady for a little more than 24 hours.


We went out to see her on Saturday after the Skeet Shoot For Charity, and were hoping to see at least a hint of good, ole’ playful Piper. Sadly, we were disappointed. She was so weak, she could barely stand. And badly jaundiced on the insides of her ears, gums and whites of her eyes. We didn’t even get a tail thump. Later that evening, we learned that her red blood levels had dropped back to 17.

Sunday, we were encouraged. Despite her levels dropping back to 15, Piper felt well enough to try to eat. We took this as a sign that she was fighting.

They tried another transfusion Monday, and Piper’s red blood cell levels jumped all the way up to 31. Things were really starting to look up, but then, yesterday, Piper suffered a stroke around 8 PM. My mom was called, and rushed to the vet around 9:30. Piper was near death and in a lot of pain. Not wanting her to suffer, Piper was humanely euthanized around 10 last night. She had a tennis ball by her side.

What a difference a week can make.

Good girl, Piper. Good girl.

***

In other news, Gypsy is still sporting the head bandage. She spent yesterday at the vet undergoing a series of tests. The protein levels in her blood are very low, and no one understands why. There is also something wrong with her urine, and they’ve requested an additional test of “first morning pee”. Originally, I was supposed to collect it with a soup ladle (the vet’s suggested method). But then the vet requested that Gypsy spend yet another day at the vet tomorrow, so the plan is now to feed her, not let her outside and take her to the vet “fully loaded” first thing tomorrow.

And, yes. Gypsy (to quote Phil) still looks like she, “got halfway through putting on their mummy costume and then ran full speed through a throw pillow.” Her bandage has to be changed every 48 to 72 hours, and has to be so tight around her neck/lower jaw that the poor thing sounds like a bulldog when she breathes. At night, if by some miracle Trevor isn't snoring, Gypsy IS.

So, yeah. It has been a bad week.

You think you are having a bad day? Gypsy is having a bad spring...

Lopsided.

We knew it was a possibility, but things were going really well. Gypsy's ear had healed up, and - although slightly deformed - was no longer infected or filling up with fluid.

Well, that is, until yesterday.

By this morning, it was swollen. I wasn't overly concerned at first, but it had nearly doubled in size in the time it took me to pick Trevor up from the airport and go to lunch. And the inside of her ear flap had turned a red, angry color. So, since my vet is open on Sundays, I decided to go ahead and make her an appointment for this afternoon. I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Plus, Trevor was exhausted and I figured it would give him an opportunity to nap before the Mavs game tonight.

Well, the vet was much more concerned than I was. How quickly her ear had filled up was worrisome in itself, but coupled with something else (something that I almost failed to mention) sent her quickly into alarm mode.

See, at approximately two in the morning on Saturday, Gypsy threw up. That in itself isn't that big of a deal (nor is the fact that she has continued to periodically throw up since), but the way she threw up that first time was. When Gypsy gets sick normally, there are several grunt, grunt, grunt noises that signal what is about to happen. She is also always standing up. However, when she threw up on Saturday morning, it was sudden and a bit more Exorcist-like. There was no warning. She wasn't standing up. Gypsy was sleeping in her bed when it occurred, and seemed just as surprised about it as I did. And something else: she literally vomited on herself.

Apparently, that is all very rare.

The vet was concerned because, other than the fact that dogs don't normally throw up that way, it is possible that all Gypsy's symptoms together may be indicative of a far larger problem. Her ear flap swelled back up approximately at same time the vomiting began, as did the early signs of (yet another) an impending ear infection. Individually, none are cause for alarm, but together they suggest that Gypsy is so highly allergic to something that it is causing her body to - literally - attack itself. The vet is the most concerned about Gypsy's esophagus, stomach and thyroid.

It was decided that the vet would immediately drain Gypsy's ear surgically. It had filled back up so quickly, that she was in a fair amount of pain and discomfort. Surgery was the only thing that would relieve that, and keep it from continuing to get worse.

While she was out, I also agreed to let the vet scope her throat, take abdominal and esophageal x-rays and repeat the blood work from Gypsy's annual appointment in March. All this will tell us the extent of any internal damage.

The good news is that the initial x-rays do not suggest anything alarming. The screens have been sent off to an expert, though, and the official results will be back in a few days. As will her blood work. Keep your fingers crossed for some good news. Gypsy could really use some right about now.

In the meantime, Gypsy's left ear has been drained, stitched back together and is now tightly bound to her head so it can heal. This was a slightly different procedure than the one done the first time, and there is no drain. To avoid infection, though, it has to stay bandaged for the foreseeable future. Gypsy goes back in on Tuesday to have the flap cleaned and rebandaged.

For the time being, though, Gypsy looks like a pathetic one-eared flower:

My poor baby.

Hola!

Guess who is home all safe and sound just in time for Game III of the NBA Finals?!

Alley is very happy.
She was pretty sure Trevor had fallen victim to a rabid octopus.

Skeet shoot for charity...

Amy

Adam

Photographic evidence that I participated. Still don't believe me? I have a very tender bruise on my shoulder which corroborates my story.

Don't mess with the armed girl in the Chanel sunglasses...

Reloading...

Grammy Pammy takes aim.

Station 8

Keeping score.

Hot and loud, but at least the scenery was nice.

Finally got one with a clay pigeon in it. Not sure if this one survived or not.

This was right before Grammy Pammy threw in the towel because she was developing a lump on the side on her face from the kick back. Wimp. ;P

The Judge.

All in all, it was a fun day, which is surprising because I am really not a big fan of guns or other loud things that have a tendency to go "bang". I guess I'll do anything for charity. Within reason, of course.

Adam was the team's high scorer with 58/100 pigeons "killed". The Judge came in a close second. Amy was third with a score of about 45/100. Grammy Pammy shot a 25 (but she skipped at least ten shots because of her sore cheek). I shot 100 times, and had a personal best (which isn't hard to do considering I've never shot skeet before) of 10/100. I prefer to let the pigeons fly like man intended. They are prettier that way.

Dragonfly...

Lola...

Scared of being thrown in the pool again? Hang with St. Francis. He will protect you (maaaaybe):

From this angle, Lola kind of looks like St. Francis' very own standard sized poodle.

At least they both cover his ears...

Trevor mocks me from abroad for nagging him about his hat:

Normal.

Mockery.

If someone would just throw me a (freakin') bone, I'd be completely fine...

Thanks to my blog’s Live Traffic Feed (complements of Feedjit) I am well aware of the FIVE visits my site has had in the last twenty four hours from Arequipa, Peru. While it is possible that my blog is the cat’s meow in South America, it is more likely that Trevor has been spying on me. I say “spying” because it is not like the boy is commenting, emailing, Facebooking or making any effort to otherwise communicate with me.

Well, I take that back. He DID Facebook me. Once. On Tuesday. The message? “How are u doing? Things are going good here. heading to the orphanage to watercolor with the kids.”

For those keeping track, that is a total of eighteen words. Nineteen if you count the subject line which read, “Hola!”

Meanwhile, I Facebooked Trevor back a total of 272 words, and then updated my blog with another 705 words about how I was doing and whatnot. That is a total of 977 words! 958 MORE words than Trevor has written me!

(Wow. That last paragraph makes me sound whiney, neurotic, pathetic, somewhat obsessed and more than a little wordy.)

(All of which is more or less true.)

But I digress…

Last Saturday, I drove Trevor to the church to meet the other mission team members before they all piled into a van and headed to the airport. While in route, Trevor turned to me and said, “Oh, and will you pick me up at DFW next Sunday?”

Me: “Sure. What is your flight number?”

Trevor: “I don’t know off the top of my head. I will email it to you.”

We then proceeded to arrive at the church, and I had to ask – nay, BEG - Trevor to kiss me goodbye before he hopped in the van for the airport. He was so eager to go, he nearly closed the door in my face.

All this might have something to do with why I am refusing to miss him publically.

As for the flight information? Well, as of TODAY, I have only received one meager attempt at correspondence from my husband on Tuesday, which (again) read: “How are u doing? Things are going good here. heading to the orphanage to watercolor with the kids.” Please note that none of that has any bearing on air travel. Unless it is written in code. If so, Trevor should already know that I am not that observant or clever.

Granted, I was able to ascertain his return flight information by emailing one of the other mission team spouses. But then she wanted to know why Trevor didn’t give it to me, and I had to explain to her that he probably thought he DID…psychically.

We had a good giggle.

(And I cried a little on the inside.)

Meanwhile, this same mission team spouse has been forwarding her husband’s emails around to the rest of the “Prayer Team”. There have been several emails from him to her, containing MULTIPLE paragraphs, each more detailed than the last, with loads of information about the trip, what they have been doing each day, etc. To say I was jealous is a complete understatement.

This same mission team member also has time to upload photos of the group to Photobucket and – here’s the kicker – he just happens to be Trevor’s roommate in Peru. So, if HE has time to send his wife paragraphs and photographs, why doesn’t Trevor?

See: JEALOUS! I didn’t lie!

The worst is that I am fairly sure Trevor hasn’t missed an opportunity to follow the Mavericks in the NBA Finals on the internet. And he obviously has had time to check my blog FIVE FLIPPING TIMES in the last twenty four hours. So, why, why, WHY hasn’t he written me anything else? People keep asking me how he is doing, and all I have to share is that he went to watercolor with the kids sometime on Tuesday. As far as I know, he is STILL watercoloring. I know nothing else!

Next year, if Trevor returns to Peru, I’ve already decided that I am not going to blog, Facebook or otherwise communicate with my husband. Except, of course, for one random wall post midweek that says something to the effect of:

“How are you? I am fine. Gotta’ go to work now.”

HRMPH!

On Game Two of the NBA finals...

Apparently, for the Mavs to win, I need to give up and go to bed about halfway through the fourth quarter.

The same thing happened when they played OKC. They won that game, too.

I am sensing a trend.

Of course, the most amazing part of this whole thing is that I am watching the game at all. Maybe Trevor has rubbed off on me? [Shakes head]

Uh-oh, Trevor! Uh-oh!

Trevor is the one on the right leaning on the shovel in the photo.

Dear Trevor,

You are wearing a not-wife approved hat in the picture above. Where is the one you bought in Lampasas? The one with the wide brim that will protect your ears and the back of your neck from the sun? Don't forget what happened in 2010! I had about all I could take of Nicholas Sparks last summer!

Just because you can't see me doesn't mean that your roomie has stopped uploading trip pics to photobucket site or that I have ceased to pay attention. You aren't the only one with the power of the internet, you know! I'm watching you, too!

Love,
Person who worries about you and your oh-so fair skin