Clock Radio

What is it about happy songs that makes them so disturbing to wake up to in the morning? Maybe I'm a weirdo, but I'm more comfortable waking up to Mushroomhead than I am waking up to The Beatles, even though under normal circumstances I like both bands. When I awoke this morning, R.E.M.'s Shiny Happy People was on. I rolled over and glared in the general direction of the clock radio.

"Shiny happy people holding haaaaaaands!"
"Shiny happy people--"
"NOPE."

It certainly doesn't help that our clock radio is set to both blare music at you first thing in the morning and buzz obnoxiously. Or that the reception on it is so poor that it generally picks up two or three songs from different stations simultaneously. So it's really just buzzing and NOISE. Which you would think would surely wake a person up for good, but no, not really. I get up and hit snooze at least five or six times. Every day.

Except today. That one song came through with crystal clarity and it alone was quite enough to make certain I'd not be falling back asleep. I tried, mind you. However ultimately I just laid there wondering why anyone would play that so early in the morning until the alarm went off again. Then I got up.

It was like in Groundhog Day when Bill Murray keeps waking up to Cher's I Got You Babe. You just have to make it stop. You can't turn it off fast enough. Even once it's gone you're left in a general state of, "Why did that just happen to me?" The sanctity of your morning has just been violated and there's really no fixing it. That song will be in the back of your mind for the remainder of the day.

There's no escape.

Comic Con, Cats, And Toast

I'm one of the rare few that can say, "I've never had a nightmare." I have, however, had bad dreams. Not in any sort of scary way, mostly in the aggravating way. Dreams where I actually wake up momentarily annoyed or angry. This does not happen very often, just on occasion.

It helps that I'm a lucid dreamer, so when things are going awry in dreamland, I simply say to myself, "I'm not dealing with this bullcrap," and wake myself up. But it's still obnoxious at times to have a bad dream, especially when you're not having a great deal of success sleeping in the first place. Waking up to end the annoyance means laying there for who knows how long to fall asleep again.

Take the other night, for example. Normally it takes me about three minutes to fall asleep. Hurray narcolepsy! I sleep straight on through until morning like a gd champ. Sometimes even longer if I'm not woken up by an outside source (Neelix, Aaron, alarm clock). On this night, for whatever reason, me and sleep were like pickles and whipped cream -- we just didn't go together very well. It took me more than an hour to finally fall asleep and then once I had, I was awake again just about once an hour, every hour all night.

It's not like I was just waking up out of the blue. No, it was just a bunch of little things that I'd normally either sleep through or recover from easily. Such as baby moving around like a hyperactive Olympian, having to pee, cat on my face, etc. Taking fifteen or more minutes every disturbance to fall back asleep. So when the bad dream happened, I tried really hard to just suffer through it.

Just what constitutes a bad dream? Comic con. I've never been to a convention before, so I was super stoked to be there with all my rad friends. Unfortunately, I was far too pregnant to keep up with them as they walked, so I fell behind until eventually I was wandering the convention floor all alone. This was the initial source of my discontent in the dream. Then, I had to talk to and deal with thousands of strangers (read: fan boys), making the aggravation expand exponentially.

I'm not sure which bothered me the most... the spoiled first experience at a con, being ditched by my friends, or having to talk to all those frothing fan boys, but the three combined served well to absolutely spoil my mood.

Eventually it got to the point where I had no choice but to wake myself up, because it was just too annoying. I didn't account for what time it was back in reality though, so I had no way of knowing that my difficulties were only going to get worse. Transforming my dream aggravation to real aggravation.

By then it was almost time to feed the cats, or more aptly, the cats thought it was almost time to feed them. They eat on a schedule, 8:00AM and 8:00PM. Otherwise Neelix will eat himself to death like a goldfish. For some reason, in the mornings especially, Neelix loses all concept of time and starts begging for food at 6:00AM. Typically I can roll over and ignore him long enough that he'll give up. Not the case this time, I wasn't asleep enough to ignore being poked in the face 1000x times by his giant paw. So I basically existed in a twilight state, being woken any time I neared actual sleep by pestering cats for two hours until it was actually time for them to eat.

Then, I got up to feed them and laid back down hoping to sneak in at least another hour or two before everyone else in the world was awake. Only by this point baby was convinced it was work-out time again, since I'd basically been up for two hours, and I couldn't fall asleep because he wouldn't hold still long enough for me to get comfy. Baby moving is always cool, even when it's uncomfortable, but it was goodbye to sleep for certain.

I wound up just getting out of bed and begrudgingly eating toast. Fortunately I wound up catching a nap at like 11:00AM.

There Is A Ninja Inside of Me II

Three weeks.

As you heard in the last installment of Ninja Baby 2012, we went from "maybe baby" to "5 months along" in a week, according to my primary care physician. Okay, halfway through, that's still plenty of time for preparation. Then from "five months along" to "more like seven months along" the week after that, according to our midwife. Alright, a little less time to prepare than we'd like, but we'll manage. And then from "seven months along" to "you're due next month" a week or so after that, according to the ultrasound technician. Holy crap.

I'm like a turtle on its back!

With gestation like that, I might be an alien of some kind. Not that that would make me any weirder, really.

So obviously, we've had our first ultrasound now, which was super amazing. Getting to see the baby for the first time, moving around and stuff. Really cool. Of course, being my offspring, it rolled over as soon as the technician started the ultrasound, making the woman's job more difficult for her. Not that I minded, since it also meant the whole process would take longer, letting Aaron and I see our baby longer! The baby was very active on film, making faces, kicking me, and then pulling his foot up to his face to use like a pillow.

We also found out what we'd be having! Are you ready? Just in case you're not, I'll put a picture here of the baby making adorable kissy faces. If you'd rather be surprised in September, then stop reading here (and probably avoid looking at our baby registry, it's got spoilers).

omg!

Are you still here?

...

Then that must mean you really want to know whether we are having a boy or a girl.

Then know you shall:

At the end of September, Aaron and I will be welcoming a baby boy into the world!

We met with the midwife again on the 8th, but she didn't have all of the results back yet so we won't meet with the actual MD until the 22nd. I really like our midwife though, she'd very warm and friendly. My bloodwork and such came back good. No gestational diabetes or anything, however I was a little anemic so they've added additional iron supplements to my prenatal vitamins. We've another ultrasound scheduled for the 15th!

Baby shower (for local friends and family) forthcoming, online registry (for those of you too far away) to come soon. I want to say thanks for all the support and assistance you guys have reached out with. Finding out you are pregnant and basically due any time is a lot to take in!

There Is A Ninja In Me

Back in May Aaron and I noticed that, due to eating poorly and lack of exercise, we were putting on a little weight. Nothing out of control mind you, just a few pounds. It's not like we were eating nothing but deep-fried butter and laying on the sofa all day. We resolved to pick our exercise routines back up.

In June we noticed that my weight gain was not normal... Aaron could now see the end of my belly button (which had always been a bottomless void before) and my abdomen was firm, not soft like fatty tissue. My period was also a day late, not unusual but strange enough in combination with those other two things for us to venture out for a home pregnancy test. Just in case.

I had absolutely no signs or symptoms of a pregnancy and had been taking birth control religiously for years. I immediately suspected something else was amiss. Like a cyst, a tumor, or something gross like worms. So imagine our surprise when three minutes had passed and the test seemed kinda-sorta positive! Now we were baffled, excited, and understandably a little nervous. It wasn't a bad time for a baby, it was simply unexpected.

Way to be conclusive there, middle line.

I called the doctor to set up an appointment to confirm but couldn't get in until the following week, so we went ahead to L.A. for our planned trip to visit family. During that week I went from "maybe baby bump" to "almost assuredly pregnant." So much so we had to take a trip to the mall to buy me new clothes because my extra small shirts which normally left plenty of room were now definitely several sizes too small for me. By the time we got home, the message I had left for my doctor was going to seem absurd!

We would have to explain to her, that all of this change had seriously happened in seven days. Which was something she found pretty amusing. She felt around, listened for the baby's heartbeat with her stethoscope, and then did another test just to confirm. It was now officially official: I am pregnant. Up until that day we assumed I was two months along, maybe three, since I had been having normal periods up until June, which had been abnormally light. However the doctor suspected I may be as many as five months along. What? I'm such a freak of nature. She prescribed a prenatal vitamin to add to my already existing vitamin cocktail and had us set up an appointment with an OBGYN in a week's time.

Of course her staff was awful and I had to call my insurance to arrange this myself, otherwise I'd probably still be waiting for approval... but I digress on that.

I was scheduled to meet with a midwife who, after taking my extensive medical history, decided I should consult with the actual MD instead. Since she, "deals with normal low risk pregnancies" and I was anything but. She at least got us started though, doing another physical exam which concluded I may be even further along than my original doctor estimated. As many as seven months! Seven months and not a single instance of hormonal moodiness or morning sickness. Not a single sign or symptom.

We also got to hear the baby's heartbeat for the first time though, which was amazing! The midwife seemed to think everything sounded and felt good, so she had us set up an appointment with the MD in two week's time. We'll be seeing him on the 8th of August. I can only imagine how huge I'll be by then, because in the week since I saw my primary care physician to the day I saw the midwife I have doubled in size!

This happened in a single week!

In the meanwhile I'm being ruled by a tiny person who controls me from the inside like a Gundam/mech/Gear (pick your nerdiness), left curious as to whether this person might be a boy or a girl. Naps, orange juice intake, and what I eat are all up to it. And let me tell you, this baby is kicking and moving around like a champ. When it's time for orange juice -- if I don't get up quickly enough, sometimes I think the baby might walk me there itself. I don't know where this ninja has been hiding for seven months, but it's definitely here now!

Not much time to prepare, but we're pretty thrilled!

Hiatal Insomnia

Anyone who's been reading this blog long enough knows that, amongst other things, I suffer from a Hiatal Hernia. Essentially my stomach moves up and down through my diaphragm like a spry Olympic gymnast competing for the gold. Or something. Which is, extremely uncomfortable. It doesn't move all of the time, just sometimes, but the distribution is never quite right. There's always some stomach resting above the diaphragm where it should not be. Like so:

Grey's gd Anatomy right there.

Even when my stomach is holding still, I still experience discomfort in the form of nagging nausea and heart burn. I'm currently on medication to help diminish these symptoms, but one day they'll eventually have to fix it surgically. The worst part about all of this though, as someone who loves food, is that sometimes my stomach is so strangely divided that I can simultaneously feel totally full after two bites AND yet be starving -- as I wait for food from my "top stomach" to fall into my "bottom stomach." 

That's not really what this blog is about though. Now that you're all sufficiently aware of what a Hiatal Hernia is, I can continue.

Usually when my stomach does move, it's maybe once during a 24 hour time period and then it chills out. For some reason last night it kept sliding up and down constantly. I wasn't even doing anything strenuous. I was merely laying in bed trying to sleep. It moved so much that it actually started producing sounds like a bad DJ. Sounds that Aaron could hear beside me. I guess the best way to describe them would be... someone quietly rubbing an under-inflated balloon. Or maybe a drunken underwater cricket.

Repeat this sequence forever.

Up until that point it was just misery because, as I said, when my stomach decides to change position inside of my body -- that hurts. However once it started squeaking at me, I really couldn't help but find it kind of funny. Much to my dismay this went on practically all night, alternating between ow and giggling, so I didn't get much sleep. I'm pretty sure it continued even after I finally managed to doze off. It went on for so long that my stomach is sore today. Which is just... all kinds of special.

Gummi Bear Juice

I was going to write a blog about Aloe Vera juice, but you know what? This is all that needs to be said:

I don't know why this photo looks like I took it in the shower.

It tastes like someone threw a bucket of Gummi Bears into their Jack LaLanne Power Juicer. Delicious!

Booka's Tale

Talking with Booka.

In the late spring of 2001 my mother and I were driving home from Kent. At the main (nonresidential) intersection of the tiny city we live in we encountered a litter of puppies running for their lives across five lanes of busy traffic. No one was stopping for them. No one was even bothering to slow down. Like where ever they needed to be was more important than what was going on right in front of them.

My mom and I stopped, holding up traffic behind us, and corralled the puppies into the back seat of her car. Our living arrangements were tight at the time and we didn't have time or space to actively raise a litter of puppies. In our modest three bedroom abode lived four people and three cats already. We didn't have a fenced in yard. The means to provide for them all just wasn't there.

Unsure of what to do, but not wanting to condemn them to the pound, we drove to a nearby family-run pet store to tell the owner of our dilemma. En route, one of the puppies wiggled her way from the back seat into my lap where she promptly laid down and hid her face in the palm of my hand. The puppies were unharmed, but terrified. Someone had not only abandoned them, but had probably thrown them from a moving vehicle.

Arms full of puppies, we entered the local pet store. The owner was very understanding of the situation and eager to help. He agreed to keep the puppies on site, see they were taken care of and house broken, and sell them to people in the market for a family dog once they were old enough and had been to a vet. It was more than we could've hoped for, really. He could have just as easily turned us away. These weren't purebred champion stock dogs or anything he could make good money off of selling. They were quite obviously just mutts.

I'd only ever had one dog in my life, truly. A German Shepherd I had grown up with as a baby and lost tragically around the age of thirteen to bone cancer. Her loss was still fresh in our minds even so many years later and we were not interested in 'replacing' her. Yet here I was, holding this last puppy, unwilling to put her down. My mother turned to look at me like maybe I'd lost a little bit of my mind, but still I refused to put this puppy down. In the short drive over, with her face nuzzled into my palm I had absolutely fallen in love. Putting her down to a fate unknown would break my heart. So I began pleading.

My mother was more adamant about not being ready for another dog than I would have liked, and though I understood completely, I could not give up. I promised to take care of her, all by myself if I had to. It was only a couple of years until I'd be 18, and I swore to her that as soon as I moved out I'd take her with me. I'd do chores, homework, whatever. I swore all kinds of things. Finally, not wholly convinced but willing to give it a shot, my mom relented and we drove for home with a puppy in my lap.

She was a cute thing, half Golden Retriever and Half German Shepherd by the look of her, with long, soft black and brown fur. Normally it takes some time to name a new pet. You need to get to know them a little. But I could think of only one name for her, due to her little brown face and fuzzy body: Booka. No one could argue with me about this. Upon sight of her, they immediately understood and accepted as fact that this animal's name was Booka. As if it had always been so.

Booka. And that was that.

Everything was going splendidly until we walked into the house and my mother's husband-to-be saw what I had in my arms. "NO!" he boomed, "Not in this house!" But by this point, we had no where else to take her, so we managed to argue with reason she should be allowed to stay at least until we could find her a new home. I was devastated and angry. Who the hell was this guy, this newcomer, to tell us what could and couldn't stay in our house? And why were we listening?

He was angry and mostly without reason, threatening that he would throw her out the second he heard any noise from her whatsoever. The cats had reacted better to the dog's presence than he had. So I sat up, diligently, all night with this puppy in my bedroom to prevent her from making any noise. I fed her promptly, kept her entertained until sleepy, then watched over her as she slept. Just in case. The moment she woke I snuck her outside to go to the bathroom, so she wouldn't have to whine to tell me. This went on for days. I was thoroughly exhausted. The tiny dog sleeping in my lap, on my bed reminded me what I was fighting for and I stuck it out.

My mother's husband-to-be put ads in the newspaper to be rid of Booka. There was mild interest but ultimately only one person came to see her. We'd spoken to him briefly over the phone about it, at least ensuring that she would be going to a mature home where she would not immediately be carted off to the pound for growing to a size unexpected or barking at rabbits.

I was very upset the day the guy came for her, but I'd been assured it was for the best and so I was doing my best to be understanding. I was with her in my room, as usual, when the man arrived. He was speaking with my mother and her husband-to-be when I came out to meet him. All seemed to be going well until the man mentioned wanting to modify the dog. Have her ears clipped and the like. I was over joyed. This, for everyone, was a deal breaker. The man was sent away empty-handed.

My mother's husband-to-be gave up trying to find her a new home. Booka was staying. I couldn't have been happier. I saved up money to have her taken to the vet. She needed her shots and to be spayed. I saved up for those too. I chipped in for dog food. I walked her since we didn't have a yard. She was my responsibility. I met her needs to the best of my teenage ability.

At no time did I expect her, as a puppy, to repay my effort. She was happy and healthy and that was good enough for me. Yet one night, she was presented that opportunity. It was shortly after September 11th, very late in the night. I had just come home from a concert and decided to take Booka out since I had woken her up coming home.

While outside, I heard a ruckus from our shed. My brother had a lot of questionable friends, so I expected to find one of them trying to break in for a place to sleep. It had happened before. I looped Booka's leash over the hand rail at the bottom of the stairs and went to investigate. What I found however was a crazy guy with a knife at my ribs (because honestly if you're willing to stab another human being you're insane). I was crippled with fear, certain that this guy was about to stab me in my own yard and no one would even know what had happened until morning.

Then Booka, impatient and curious as puppies are, started protesting her tether. The sound made the guy think twice, buying me precious time to not immediately get stabbed. He probably mistook her noise as someone coming. This was Ohio, most people in Ohio have guns. He backed away, though the knife was still pointed at me and then booked it when headlights from my brother's car hit the end of our driveway.

I have very little doubt that the only reason I did not get stabbed is because of that little dog. Because in those few minutes before my brother arrived, there was nothing else to stop him. As if I needed a reason to love this animal any more. We were inseparable after that. If I was outside, Booka was with me. If I was inside, Booka was right beside me.

We moved out of that house shortly after that incident, to a place with a nice big, forested yard. Booka loved it. In the morning we'd get up really early to watch the birds and the deer parade through, undoubtedly while eating pancakes.

A shared love of syrup.

After a time, my mother and her husband-to-be got a second dog, from the Animal Protective League. An Aussie/German Shepherd mix we named Ruby due to her bright pink nose. She and Booka became fast friends. Ruby was, for want of another word, neurotic. Probably due to whatever circumstance she had been in prior to the animal shelter. Booka kept her calm. Such a part of the family did she become that when my mother and her husband-to-be finally got married, Booka was a bride's maid. Which she showed her appreciation for by following my mom around sitting on the train of her expensive wedding dress.

When it came time for me to actually move out, my mother didn't want me to take Booka with me. Understandably, though I didn't like it. Removing her from the household would devastate Ruby, who could not remember a time before having Booka as a constant. Regrettably, when I moved out, I left her behind. I did not move far however, and would visit every weekend, making both Booka and my childhood cat Odin's week.

Every Sunday afternoon, without fail, the two of them would move to my mother's large picture window at the front of her house and wait for me to arrive. No matter what. Over the years she got a little slower with age and gray hairs started to crop up along her face, but she would always be a puppy in my heart. I could see her no other way.

Eventually I moved out of state and could not visit but a couple times per year. During that time I think I missed my dog and my cat more than anything else from Ohio (family aside). When making my decision to finally move back home again, she was a deciding factor. When I met the love of my life and was faced with moving out of state again, she remained a deciding factor. I wanted more than anything to take her with me, but could not. I did not have the space or the means to get a dog that size (she had grown quite large!) 3000 miles, and her reason for not going with me the first time was still in effect. Ruby needed her. The guilt of removing her from her 'pack' and the yard she loved so very much wasn't something I could bear selfishly.

So I made due with what I could. Visiting when able and a surplus of photographs sent by my mother to update me about her well-being. Last November I nearly flew back East when I was notified that someone had shot Booka while she was out sitting in the yard.

Who does something like this?

My mother insists it must have been an accident, as people are fond of hunting in Ohio. But I fail to see how a hunter could have possibly mistaken a dog her size and coloration as anything but in the middle of autumn where the ground is clear and there are no leaves on the trees to obstruct your view. While furthermore she was in someone's nice open yard midday. Perhaps I'm just something of a pessimist when it comes to people, but I'm confident some jerk just decided to shoot whatever animals they could find nearby and trusting, relaxed Booka was a perfect target.

Thankfully it was not a mortal wound. The bullet had gone in through her flank and stopped just short of her spine. Recovery was slow, both physically and emotionally. This big fluffy dog that never knew fear beyond that of thunderstorms, was now scared of the unknown. She did recover though and fully. Police never found out who shot her or why.

I was so close to just blowing through my savings to have Booka brought to me. To a place where I could keep her safe. It was an illogical impulse, but one I had none-the-less. There was nothing anyone could have done to spare her that bullet, aside from predict the future and jump in front of it first.

Everything returned to normal and was great again until April 15th, this year. My birthday. On April 16th I received a voicemail from my mother sounding concerned telling me to call her.  She had waited to call until after my celebrations, which should have spoken volumes as to the severity of her call. Though it's something I am grateful for.

My mother's voice has a typical Irish-mom sort of ring to it where she often sounds far more serious than she needs to, so I kind of thought maybe I was over reacting when I got that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then I called her and realized quickly it was legit. I could hear the sorrow in her voice in her hello and knew whatever she was about to tell me was going to break my heart. Booka had suffered a severe stroke and was too far gone by the time they'd gotten her to the emergency vet to be saved. She had died on my birthday.

The stubborn Irish part of me refused to acknowledge my grief over the phone. My mother was upset and it was my duty as her daughter to be strong for her. So I was. Immediately afterward though I basically hung up and shriveled up on the bed in a mess of weepy tears. This lasted all night. So complete was my sadness that it had the ability to make other people sad just by proximity. I am still sad. There are days where I can be nothing but, despite best efforts to be productive.

R.I.P

I'm sure it will pass, as all things do. Time makes it easier. In the meanwhile I just need to distract myself and work around it. This entry is in memory of Booka, who was a good dog. No, a great dog.