Well, you see what happened was…

 The oversized, green suitcase bumped along behind me on it’s wheels while I heaved my 42 pound laptop/camera case combo back pack onto my right shoulder for the eleventy billionth time and surveyed the thirty feet of concrete steps I still had to climb after conquering the steep cobblestone sidewalk leading to the Alexandria train station.

 “Goddamned middle class, white bread upbringing,” I said under my breath.  If I’d had a free hand I would have whipped out my cell phone and called my mother to register another complaint about how ill-equipped I am to navigate the real world.  My Jeep was finally parked in a garage about a quarter mile away, if you count the twists and turns that descended into the pit of hell 3 stories under ground.  When I pulled into an empty compact car parking space my gas light had already been on for twenty minutes and I was unsure of two things; whether my Jeep would be towed while I was gone and how much it would cost me to leave the garage if it was still there when I got back.  I rationed that impoundment would probably not set me back all that much more than 3 days in the parking garage under the Embassy Suites.

 I thanked a God I’m only recently suspecting might exist when a female soldier walked past me towards the train station.  I was reminded that I, too, was once Army Strong and somehow summoned the strength to lift the weight of a weekends worth of extraneous junk up the steps in front of me.

 And thus ended the easy and boring part of my journey.

 While waiting for the #80 Carolinian to Baltimore I met some really interesting people.  There was the 26 year old 5^th grade teacher who was headed to NYC for a weekend with some girlfriends and a 63 year old professor of philosophy at Georgetown University who was also headed to Baltimore to see his brother.  Both were chatty and entertaining and I couldn’t remember the last time I had the social side of my brain stimulated by conversation with intelligent strangers.

 I walked down the aisle of the second to last car looking for my friend who wants me to call him Roland, after being allowed to board.  He would also like me to tell you he was shirtless the whole weekend.  I think perhaps he is a bit confused about what it is I actually write, but I’ve grown fond of him so I have no problem humoring him this way.

 The smile on my face must have been a mile wide when I finally met the eyes of shirtless Roland about halfway through the train car.  He must have wondered whose cadaver I had stuffed in my luggage as he helped me stow it overhead.  Actually, he probably had it narrowed down to a very small number of people it might have been.  Once all belongings were attended to, but before taking our seats, I placed my hands on his face and kissed him hello.  This attracted the giggling kind of attention of other passengers and I reckon they assumed our affectionate greeting was in some way pertinent to the adventure that followed.

 The stop immediately following Alexandria was Union Station in Washington, DC, where we suffered an interminably long engine swap.  Ok, maybe suffered isn’t the right word.  Shirtless Roland and I got reacquainted with some chatting, some stolen kisses while ducked down low in our seats, some planning of the weekend ahead, and a lot of giggling of our own.  Once the train rolled out it just didn’t seem like we were on the move all that long before it stopped again.  We were still getting reacquainted when Shirtless Roland thought maybe it was a good idea to find out why we were stopped.

 The shortened version of the first hook in this comedy of errors is that it turned out we weren’t moving because we were in Baltimore and yes, the train had already started moving again before we could disembark.  We couldn’t help but laugh along with the other car passengers who looked at us like they knew exactly why we were too distracted to get off the train.  What else could we do but laugh?  We were on our way to Wilmington, Delaware. 

 We did as instructed by the train conductor and exited in Wilmington so the ticketing agent could put us on the next south bound train to Baltimore.  She pointed us to platform 3 and told us to get on the #187 that was expected to pull in fifteen minutes later.  We used the facilities and looked around the train station briefly.  It sure didn’t seem like fifteen minutes had passed, but the light for platform 3 started blinking and we heard a train coming, so we made a run for it.  We caught the train with no problem and were surprised to find ourselves alone in the train car.  A quick exploration of the rest of the cars behind us revealed not another soul.  There was nobody for several cars in front of us, either.

 Then, for some mysterious reason it occurred to shirtless Roland that this train was moving in the same direction as the last train, which meant north.  Which meant not towards Baltimore.  We both reached for our super duper smart phones and opened Google Maps.  The little dots marking our location were blinking, but their northbound movement was just slow enough that we reasoned they could possibly be wrong.  So we did what any level-headed adults who were isolated for at least 13 cars would do upon realizing they were possibly heading the wrong direction again:  We made out like teenagers.

 I became paranoid that perhaps the trains weren’t as thoroughly devoid of any security as I thought I had been observing all day, and it was quite possible there was a camera hidden somewhere in the car catching our every move.  I joked that we were going to end up on YouTube, but we didn’t stop.

 We were both startled by the opening of the door to our car and a conductor stuck his head in to tell us that all of the empty cars were closed and we should move up to one of the front two cars that were occupied.  The conductor was already on his way out of our car when Shirtless Roland looked up from his kneeling position and said, “Wait, we were just,” but was interrupted with a wink and a smile and a, “Oh, I know whatchoo was doin’.”

 We all laughed and Shirtless Roland went on to explain how we ended up on the train and verified that we were, indeed, now headed to Philly.  The conductor told us just to get off at the next stop – the 30^th St. station – and catch the next train back to Baltimore.  And you know, I bet he thought that sounded easy enough when he said it.  He left us alone and we snuggled just a minute more before collecting our bags and heading to the occupied cars just in time to feel the train start lurching to a stop.  We hurried to disembark and nobody – not even the conductor that had just spoken to us a few moments before – tried to stop us.

 We stepped off the train, and I guess, figured that we would need to cross to the opposite side of the tracks to enter the train station.  Except when the train pulled away, there was nothing on the other side of the tracks except south Philly.  We turned around to see a mobile unit that turns out to be the Glenolden train station.  And that had been closed for hours.  The train schedule posted on the window said that we had another hour to wait for the next train.  So there we stood; the only white and unarmed people for miles.  In the cold.

 You’ve probably already deduced that we survived to jump on the correct train to the 30^th Street station in Philly.  And we did manage to board the correct train and remain on it until we reached Baltimore, where we remembered to get off a little after midnight.

 Shirtless Roland checked his baggage back in Raleigh when he boarded the train 13 hours earlier.  Unfortunately, Amtrak baggage at Penn Station in Baltimore closes at 10pm, so this necessitated a trip back to the train station when they re-opened.  We taxied our way to our hotel on the Inner Harbor and by the time our heads hit our pillows we had been laughing almost non-stop for about six hours, logged more miles and crossed more state lines than any other date I’ve ever been on.  Every attempt at explaining our predicament to ticketing agents and train conductors proved that the very best stories all start with, “Well, you see what happened was….”

Everybody wants acceptance.

It is hard not to be carried away with flattery when one feels like they are being allowed – no pulled into the inner sanctum of somebody they greatly admire; or even somebody they suspect they could.

All must resist, with every fortitude that can be mustered, the urge to blindly follow their new chieftain into the bat cave simply because the invitation has been extended and allow a moment to ask themselves one very crucial question:  What the hell kind of freak has an inner sanctum?  Most likely it’s the same kind of person who has an arch enemy and believe me, that’s not a hassle you want.

Whisper a prayer  

and hazard a sip.

Let the cleansing blood

slide past your lips.

Partake of my body,

Surrender your soul.

Let it melt on your tongue

and render you whole.

Sometimes I wonder

if it’s been misconstrued.

Do you take communion

or does it take you?

How rude of me not to thank you sooner.  I’m a southern girl and was raised better than that.

I cannot tell you how appreciative I am for you giving me my own, personal concert on Tuesday night.  It was rude of those 1,799 other people to show up and crash our party, but I didn’t say anything because I wanted to be gracious.  But it didn’t matter now, did it Lenny?  You couldn’t see me (what for the spot light shining directly on you, giving you the aura of an angel) but your soul sought me out and you sent every song straight to my heart.

You started with a song that I always thought was titled “Better Days.”  I sang with you.  I felt the reassurance that no matter what today brings, There Are Better Days.  You sang it, so it is true.  But when I returned home and wanted to hear this song again, I found that I did not have it in my Lenny collection.  So I searched on YouTube, but I turned up nothing.  I Googled what I thought the lyrics are because we all know that if you seek, you will find.  Lenny, I did not find.  For years I must have misheard your lyrics and sang the wrong ones right along with you.  What, oh what are you really saying?  I would like to have this song on my iPod.  But still, it does not matter that you did not tell me There Are Better Days.  I know you would have.

And you followed up with Bring It On.  And I can.  Because I know There Are Better Days.  Two songs into the set and I was already feeling uplifted and empowered.  This was the point where I decided your concert felt like church and found a deeper, communal meaning in the two glasses of red wine I bought in the lobby before your show. 

But you were singing to my heart, Lenny, remember?  And you know how my heart loves to laugh.  You played Mr. Cab Driver for me; clearly an ode to the Washington DC cab driver I nearly met on my way to your show.  When I made an unprotected left turn directly in front of him while txting he had the nerve to nearly hit me.  The force of that collision would have surely given my new Jeep more than her first scratch.  By some divine hand, we did not meet.  I know that’s not what your song is about, I’m just saying it could very well have been the same rude cab driver of whom you sing.

Your show continued – and I won’t rehash every song in your set for you, as you know them better than I – but for 2 more hours you sang of hope and salvation, redemption and American Women.  I felt joy.  I felt light.  And light.  Both kinds.  I lifted my clapping, peace-sign-throwing hands in praise.  And then you told me a very touching story that ended with your God Mother surprising you by showing up unannounced to our show.  You invited her on stage and introduced me to the one, the only, Cicely Tyson.  Such a touching moment.  Such warm and genuine interaction between the two of you. 

And then you ended your show with Let Love Rule – the very, very extended version.  And yes, Lenny, as I was to go out into the night I needed to be reminded to Let Love Rule.  In all I do.  In all I think.  In all I say.  I’ve got to Let Love Rule.  And I sang this hymn with you, too.  It occured to me, though, that perhaps I’ve misheard some more of your lyrics.  You don’t actually say, “Love can make a midget child smile,” do you, Lenny?  I bet I’ve had that wrong for years, too.

But then the service was over.  You were gone and the lights were turned up.  I was so not ready for it to end.  I needed you to come back for just one more song.  And maybe one more after that.  My heart pleaded and despite all those other people chanting your name -  Len-ny!  Len-ny!  Len-ny! – you heard my prayers and you came back to me.  You asked me if I’m going to go your way.  In my desire not to seem too needy, I did not answer you immediately.  Big mistake, as you left the stage and did not return.  I know, because I waited.

oy

I finally left the theatre that night and marveled to myself  that your show brought me the sensation of fellowship while you were performing, and the release of a really, really good orgasm when it was over.

Most certainly, Mr. Kravitz.  I will go your way.

Warmly yours,

Serena

P.S.  Your opening act, K’naan was a most excellent choice.  Despite his troubled youth in Somalia, he’s managed to make a career of inspirational gangsta rap.  I bought his CD and have track 12 looping in my car.

All my love again,

Serena

First, let me bring half of you up to speed.

In 2004 I was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy while 22 weeks pregnant with my 3rd child.  My ejection fraction (EF) was 5% (normal is around 55%) and the cardiologist had no idea how I walked into his office that day.  He gave me the diagnosis and then sent me home with a pamphlet on end of life issues.  No kidding.

I spent the next month in the hospital with cardiologists and their fellows parading into my hospital room saying things like, “oh good, you’re still here.” And, “Wow, you’re sitting up.”  Sometimes in the late, late or early, early hours of the day some (not all) of the L&D nurses would stop in to chat (because I was their only patient not in labor and able to carry on a conversation, I think) and tell me what was in my chart – what the doctors had talked about behind my back.  My cardiologists were very blunt with me – I would be transplanted.  Arrangements were made.  The delivery of my 12 week early daughter went without a hitch, though every possible contingency was planned for.

When delivery and the unbearable lightness of just being proved not to be too much for me to handle, I was eventually discharged from the hospital and  put in the care of one of the best cardiologists in  his field.  He immediately told me that I should expect to live no more than 5 years, 12 with transplant.  Each visit – first every month, then every three months, then twice a year – brought continued assertion that I would be transplanted.  The years came and went and my EF raised and fell and raised again, but the news didn’t change.  When I hit my 5 year mark in March of this year, the prognosis did not improve; sure, the new medications have bought you time, but they won’t buy you eternity.  The end is still the same, we just got worse at predicting the timing.

And I guess you can only hear this so many times before you believe it.  Resistance is futile.  I studied – learned all I could about transplant.  Actually, I learned enough to know that I do not want one.  It seemed to me that I’d be trading one disease for another.  The new disease promised a slow and painful death due to rejection or infection or cancer.  The one I already had would make me very sleepy and one day I just wouldn’t wake up.  Which would you choose?  So I continued to see my cardiologist – the chief of cardiac transplantation at Duke University, but my goal was always to lengthen the amount of time I had between the present and the inevitable – not to actually go through with a transplant.

And let me tell you, this took a toll on my marriage.  My husband viewed this as giving up.  He believes that if I cared about our family – about him – I would fight with every weapon in the arsenal, including transplantation.  That I would want to be here as long as possible, no matter the price.  And once the idea that I didn’t care entered his mind, it ate at him like Kierstie Alley at a midnight buffet.  Every thing I said or did, every plan I made was viewed through the eyes of contempt.  He resents me for giving up.  And from his perspective, why wouldn’t he?  After he spent so long caring for me, for our family, worrying about whether I’d live or die, and I was willing to just go without a fight?

The fists full of pills that I swallowed daily just to maintain the status quo, pushing through the fatigue just to put dinner on the table every night, enduring the implantation of an ICD (and subsequently the traumatic experience of a malfunction that caused inappropriate shocks) – none of that counted.  I think it would have, had it been viewed in the right context.  But it wasn’t.  In his mind, I was just waiting to die.

Of course, I had no idea any of this was going through his mind.  As the seriously ill often do, I turned inward and focused on myself.  I wasn’t aware of what he was feeling and he didn’t make an attempt to tell me.  So 3 weeks ago today (after having barely just moved to a new city) when he stepped out of the shower and, while still dripping, told me that he no longer wants to be married to me, I was stunned.  I am still reeling.  While he’s had years to let this anger completely destroy our marriage – well, it’s still brand new for me.  I’ve just been dumped in the icy waters of some horrible alternate reality.

And physically I didn’t handle this very well.  My symptoms increased; shortness of breath, fatigue, chest pain, palpitations.  My general practitioner thought that it could be anxiety, but since there’s no test for that, decided it would be prudent to do an echo cardiogram and look into the next most obvious source.  We learned that my EF had again dropped – this time back to 10%.  Additionally, there was a greater area of hypertrophy.  My Duke cardiologist immediately conferred with my new cardiologist – whom he trained under – at Johns Hopkins University.  Another echo was ordered and Mr. JHU Doctor felt that the muscle of the heart wall was too thin to attempt a biopsy.  He scheduled me to come in to his clinic sooner than originally planned and said we would discuss a plan of action then.

 Today was that appointment.

 I met with my new doctor at Johns Hopkins University (Chief of Clinical Cardiology) for the first time face to face.  We didn’t discuss doom and gloom.  He took a history, did an exam and sent me for another echo.

 Having seen my echo from 3 weeks ago, he didn’t trust what he saw on today’s echo – so he did another one – this time, himself.  And then he informed me that if not for the peculiar placement of the 4 ICD wires (something I will ask more about later), he wouldn’t believe he was looking at the same heart.

 My ejection fraction, ladies and gentlemen, is now 40-44%.  Wait.  No “.”  Make that a “!”.  Actually, make that “!!!!!!!!”.

 He said he believed in miracles.  He said he’s seen similar things happen in all his years of practice – but not often.  He gave several possible medical explanations, but then said again that he believes in miracles.  Then he said exactly what I needed to hear today; We won’t be transplanting this heart.

 I cried tears of joy.  He even spilled a few tears, too, when I told him what I’ve been told for the last 5 ½ years.  To him, I am not a chart.  I am not a heart.  I am a whole patient.  And he cared what cardiomyopathy has done to me, not just my organ.

 I will be going back next week for an Angio-CT.  And then I’ll be going back in 3 months for another echo.  And then again 3 months after that.

 I know I’m not ‘normal.’  But I’m damn close.  I feel like I have been set free.  No, it’s not in time to save my marriage.  But it is just in time to save me.

Finally, and exhaustedly, we are home from Walt Disney World – a place my friend Cathe appropriately calls ‘The Happiest Damn Place On Earth.”  And after 8 trips to WDW in 7 years (and that’s with skipping 2 nonconsecutive years!) I can finally, completely agree with her.  We will be skipping additional consecutive years from here on out.

I had a very long drive home to reflect on why this visit with Mickey was different from our many others and still haven’t figured out why the Magic is gone.

Maybe it’s that the cast members are now openly grumpy (and I don’t mean the dwarf).  Where as everyone used to walk around with smiles that were convincing enough to make me believe they were truly happy that I graced them with my presence in the park that day, they now gripe and complain to each other and guests alike.  It’s their break time, or their hours have been cut, or somebody didn’t clear the ride before they went home last night.  I don’t know what this last statement means, but it might be a safety concern, so I’d stay off of the Snow White ride if I were you.

Their transportation sucks as much as it always did.  This has not once changed from visit to visit.

I’m just now seeing how low-tech the whole operation is.  I’m only a moderate technophile.  I think gadgets are cool, but they must serve a purpose.  And along those lines, I think I’m justified in suggesting that they outfit their bus drivers with Walkie Talkies, or telegraphs at least.  And in a day and age that I can get free WiFi everywhere from my local gas station to my kid’s baseball field, why in the hell must I pay $10 a day for DSL?   And it’s an additional $10 for the wire if I wish to take it home with me.  And if I did take it, I’d probably feel it was my duty to donate it to some museum of technologic artifacts.

Oh, and it was hot.  We’re usually at Disney in June, but have been in February, July, August, and October, too.  It’s never been as miserably hot as it was this time.  I had to take two vacation days from my vacation; days where I slept late and sent the LoveMonkey out into the Wide World of Disney with Tall Girl and the Short People.  I stayed behind and did fun, relaxing things, such as laundry.  There is no sarcasm here.  The laundry house was beside the pool, so I got in some quality floating time.

We broke up our trip home by stopping at Jacksonville Beach for the night.  None of us had ever been, nor will we make a huge effort to go back. 

But for all my bitching and complaining, I don’t want you to think we didn’t have a good time.  We did.  Right up until we had about 3 days of vacation left.  And then we wre all pretty much fried.

But Disney still has it’s Magical Moments.  No where else in the world can you lose your hat on a roller coaster and ever expect to see it again.  Tall Girl is greatful for how helpful the staff was in locating this for her.  And to save her the embarassment, I won’t mention on which roller coaster she lost her hat (Hint:  It rhymes with Boofy’s Garnstormer).

We did have the best food at Disney we’ve ever had.  We went expecting a couple of weeks of crappy park food, but actually ate quite well.  We’ve eaten at many of these places before without the same results, so it would seem that there has been some effort on their part to step up the quality.  If you’re visiting, I recommend Coral Reef, Cinderella’s Round Table, Teppan Ido, Tusker House, BoatWright’s, O’Hana, and Chefs de France.

And on the ride home, even though we spent the night at a beach none of us cared for – well, it was still a beach.  Sand and salt water for 16 hours was enough to make us feel the vacation was complete.

I must end this blog with a funny little story that happened at Disney.

On our 3rd day we visited Epcot – my favoritest non-water park in Orlando.  We rode Soarin’ early, and then got Fast Passes for Test Track.  We then spent the time waiting to ride Test Track in the World Showcase.  This year, I got closer than ever to finishing the Epcot Crawl.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Epcot Crawl, don’t feel bad.  It might be something LoveMonkey and I made up.  The World Showcase has 11 mock countries.  Each of them sells beers from the homeland.  For example, you can buy a Bass in England and a Spaten in Germany.  The Epcot Crawl is where you start at one end (either Canada or Mexico) and drink a beer in each country.  Maybe 11 beers on a hot, sweaty day doesn’t sound like much to you, but we’re light weights.  And also, each of the foreign beers carries more punch than the Yuengling I’m accustomed to (and that you can buy in the American Adventure part of the Showcase now – gotta love the end of the Budweiser exclusivity agreement!).

This year, for my own personal reasons having everything to do with retaining the contents of my stomach, I had to skip Italy, Japan, France and China.  But don’t worry, I picked them up on a return visit later in our vacation.

Anyway, that part of this story is only to give you an idea of just how…um…happy I was when we got to Test Track later in the day.   You must be told that I do not like Test Track because it’s a lame ride.  It’s a car (and a GM, which I’m not very fond of at the moment, to boot) that goes through a, well, test track.  You enter a car, drive through a course where they subject you to extreme cold (which is welcome on these hot days!), and extreme heat (which feels like AC on these hot days!), and a bumpy patch of road (which might be rather pleasurable if you’re sitting on the seam of your shorts in just the right way!).  Then they put you on a stretch of road approximately 300 yards long and push you up to amazing speeds of over 55 miles per hour.

Woo and hoo.  And for this we get Fast Passes.  But the kids and the LoveMonkey like it, so whatever.

But on the particular day that we rode Test Track, the universe arranged itself in an amusingly meaningless way.  The cars hold 6 people:  3 up front, 3 in the back.  LoveMonkey, Tall Girl and The Boy sat up front.  I sat with Short Girl in the back.  They assigned someone from the single rider line to sit with us to fill out the car.

Single Rider Guy sits down wearing a floppy fishing hat and sunglasses and being the friendly guy he is says, “Where are ya’ll from.”  I tell him we live in Raleigh, North Carolina.  I’ve learned that you must not take for granted that people know where Raleigh is. 

Single Rider Guy says, “Cool.  I’m from Boone.”  Single Rider Guy is taking for granted that I know where Boone is. 

“No way.  I grew up in Boone,” I tell him. 

He asks my name, and I tell him my name now, and go on to tell him who my dad was.  It struck me even then as curious that I would still try to identify myself through my dad.  But hell, he owned restaurants in a small town…I figured it was the more likely point of familiarity.  Then it occurs to me that this guy, despite his features being concealed by a floppy hat and sunglasses, could possibly be about my age.  I stop babbling about who I’m not long enough to say, “Wait, who are you?”

So it turns out that I rode Test Track with Jason Church – a guy I sort-of, kind-of knew in high school, who is now married to Emily Spinks – a girl I sort-of, kind-of knew in high school.  When we disembarked from the ride I met his father and his son.  Lovely, friendly people.

I spent the rest of the evening walking around Epcot with a sense of amazement that two people from the same small graduating class 17 years ago and 640 miles away could end up sitting side by side, and a small curiosity about how many other times it could have happened or will happen again without my even realizing it. 

 And to the annoyance of the rest of the Welsh family, I hummed It’s A Small World for the next few hours.  It’s what they get for dragging me away from the Epcot Crawl to ride Test Track.

This was a weekend to learn to roll with the punches.  We, the family, decided we were due for a camping trip, since our last one was July 4th, last year.  After our normal Saturday hectivities, we loaded up my car and ambled our way towards Holly Point, only having to turn around once because I forgot to pack ketchup.

You should know, if you don’t already, that we can walk out our back door and 2 minutes later, be right on the lake.  You should also know that we have a very strange phobia of snakes and spiders.  We assume that we have bigger, more poisonous ones in our own back yard than the camp ground has in theirs, making a 10 minute drive more desirable than a 2 minute walk (10 minutes, with gear).

And so it was after 5pm that we hit the road last night.  We found a lovely little lot to pitch our tent (#37, if you’re still looking at the map).  And I do not mean to imply that we pitched the tent.  No, it was LoveMonkey who did all the hard work.  And a fine job he did, too.  When the last spike was driven into the ground and our old tent stood proud and strong, he rode off to register us at the front gate and I began dinner preparations. 

In no time at all, the fire was roaring, the bratwurst was unwrapped, and kids and dogs alike were salivating and whining about dying of hunger.  The second – and I mean second (I cannot express to you just how coincidental the timing) – LoveMonkey backed my car down into our camp site, the sky opened up.  No warning drizzles.

We all retreated to the tent where we expected to wait out the typical, spring time, tornado-bearing thunder storm and then return to our normal camping activities.  We watched the fire turn to mud and I began calculating whether I had enough charcoal to try this again and cook breakfast in the morning.  Quickly, I decided we’d have to supplement with fast food.

The kids got antsy, the LoveMonkey got sullen.  Toby the dog stretched out on a sleeping bag and made himself right at home.  I scratched Woody’s ears and thought about what a strange dog he truly is.  I read that Weimaraners were originally bred to hunt wolves, deer, and bear.  Woody, however, did not read that book.  He’s afraid of his own shadow.  At night, there are parts of our yard that are so dark and scary to him that he won’t even look in their direction.  When he smells what other dogs have marked, he scurries away.  He’s not afraid of other animals – quite the opposite.  Just their scent.

Back in the old days, because of the rarity of big game in his region of Germany, the Weimaraner easily adapted to become a bird dog and personal hunting companion.  Woody exhibits some of these traits.  For example, he’s like Velcro to his people – won’t / can’t leave our side.  And one day when I took him to Pet Smart, he nearly broke his nose trying to nip at the parakeets flying around behind a glass cage.  His feet are webbed, making him great for retrieving water fowl.  However, he’s frightened of water.  I don’t mean he just doesn’t like to swim – he’s as phobic of water as we are of backyard snakes and spiders.  If given a water dish that is too large, he won’t go near it.

But he’s a good great dog; the best I’ve ever had.  I love him.  He is my canine soul mate, even though he was cowering in the tent, hating the outdoor life, hating the rain, and wondering what the hell his crazy humans were thinking.  Just then, it dawned on every single one of us at the same time; It’s wet in here.

Very little investigative work was required to figure out that the tent was leaking from the top and the bottom.  Wet kids, wet dogs, and wet gear were loaded quickly and haphazardly into the car.  The tent spikes were salvaged from 6 inches of gravel and 3 inches of water (it turns out, we picked a nice bowl-shaped hole to camp in), packed in a plastic bag and thrown in with the rest of the gear.

And our 15 year old tent was pitched for the second time that night; this time, in the dumpster on our way out of the camp ground.

This would be a lovely place to end the story, but oh, no!  There’s more!

When we reached the only traffic light between our house and the campground, it was out.  Dead.  Caput.  This told us all we needed to know about the comforts of returning home.  Because the electricity was out (which happens way too frequently in our neck of the woods), our garage door opener was of no use.  I jumped out of the car, waded to the front door and entered the garage from the house so I could manually open the garage door so that LoveMonkey could back in and we could unload in a relatively dry environment.  No sooner did the children and the dogs pour out of the car did they remind us that they were near starvation.  This is where our night turned around.

We dried off (in the dark) and drove to our favorite Mexican restaurant, where we hatched a plan to camp anyway.  By the time we returned home, the electricity was back on.  We moved the coffee table out of our way in the living room and rolled out dry sleeping bags right in the middle of the floor.  The kids enjoyed watching TV until they fell asleep.  LoveMonkey and I enjoyed the crazy, family adventure.

And Woody still doesn’t know what to make of the whole evening, but is very happy that he got to sleep on the couch.

This morning I made a trip to the doctor’s office and left being treated for a possibly non-existant kidney infection.  The symptoms are there, but the dip stick came back clean for infection, but positive for blood.  My doctor (whom I love dearly) went ahead and perscribed antibiotics while she sends the sample out for culture.  If I grow some bacteria, I’m covered.  If I don’t, she sends me for a CT to look for stones.

WAIT!  Did I say that?  Am I really old enough that kidney stones are now something I have to worry about?  (Let’s overlook medical conditions and how their age limits don’t seem to apply to me, here.   I can’t believe on most days that I’m <somewhere> in my 30’s, much less talking about thinks like KIDNEY STONES!)

So I uttered the words for the first time, I think ever; Man I hope I have a kidney infection!

But the idea that something I’ve put in my body – presumably over a long period of time – has turned against me and formed pebble sized monsters inside me has really got me thinking about all that I do pour into this temple of mine.  Do you have any idea what the heart meds alone must be doing to my liver (which is still testing fine, by the way)???  And I HAVE to have those.  What about all the other stuff that is just for comfort, say, like, allergy meds, a Tylenol here, an ibuprophen there?

So tonight I completely made up the fact that 4 beers is equal to two extra strength Motrins in terms of liver damage.  Which was most likely to make me feel good until I fall asleep?  Well, undoubtedly, the typos contained herein will tip you off to which I chose.

“But why are you sore?” you might ask.  Actually, if you know me, you’re probably not asking because you are all too aware that I’m going to tell you in mind-numbing detail.

But alas, I have no detail.  The answer is simple:  I’m a wuss.  I walked my short kids around the zoo yesterday.  In my defense, I was carrying a pretty heavy camera backpack stuffed with all kinds of other stuff, too.

The morning started out foggy and unfortunately, by the time Mr. Sun came out to play my camera battery (which ?I short sightedly did not charge the night before) called it a night.  My camera died on the Zebras and most regrettably, the zoo does not keep their animals in alphabetical order.

So before that 4th beer kicks in, let me show you just a little of what I shot.

First, we came upon the sea lion tank.  I’m fairly certain this is a seal, though.

Next, we stumbled upon the otters.  But not literally.  Cute alert:

And then I ran across these beasts:

This little lady is named Terry.  She is 40 years old.  Are you reading this, LoveMonkey?  This is what I’m going to look like in 6 years.

Finally, here are a couple of boring animals that I have no particular fondness for.

Much has happened in the month since I last blogged.  Most of it feels way too personal to post here, but some vagueries are still to be doled out.

I’ve learned that I can indeed look away from a train wreck, even when it’s crashing through my house.

I am learning something about my own personal limits with the hopes that my next lesson is in how not to over step them.

I am finding my voice; not just as a writer, but as a woman who feels about 5 years stunted.

Also, I think I’m developing acid reflux.  Sorry that one isn’t as deep or profound as the rest, but it’s weighing equally heavy at the moment.

Until I have something worth sharing….ciao.