Kenora's Facebook Page - Part Two

Kenora's Facebook Page - Part Three

Best Friends

I had to say goodbye to my best friend yesterday. To date, it has been the hardest decision I have ever made.

I woke up this morning, and my house feels so empty. I am so used to her following me everywhere I go. I miss her terribly. That is pretty much all I can write about Kenora right now because I am so emotionally drained and my eyes are practically swollen shut that they need a break from crying.

But what I do want to say is thank you to all my amazing friends who helped me get through the last three days.

Elise: Our conversation the other day meant so much to me. Thank you for your advice. I can see why your patients love you.

Janelle: Your email helped me feel less guilty about the decision I made. Your words were very comforting. I respect you so much for rescuing elderly, ill dogs. You have a heart of gold for doing what you do.

Randi: Thank you for the card and wine. I was very touched by your message in the card.

Lauren and Marty: Thanks for coming by unannounced and getting me drunk last night. I appreciate your support but my head says a big f-you to you both this morning... but in a good way.

Cam: Thanks for our conversations, and thanks for pointing out that horrible things happen in threes. I guess we won't count your diagnosis as being the first crappy thing that happened to me, otherwise, losing Kenora is just starting the cycle all over again. I love you so much, and I am so happy you have beaten all odds. I am so blessed you are still in my life.

Ann: Thanks for checking in on me. I love and miss you, Sis.

Shawna: Thanks for crying with me and always being there. Kenora loved you so much, as do I. I will treasure the cards the girls made for me.

Terie: You always come through for me. You took the best care of Kenora whenever I was out of town, and I will never forget all that you have done for me.

Sue: Thanks for loving Kenora like she was your own. She loved you so much. I wouldn't have been able to have done this without your help.

Sally: As usual, you were there, crying with me and holding my hand through it all. You were the only one that made Kenora so excited, she would pee.

Dad and Marg: Thanks for your love and support. I love the flowers.

Dr Martin of Brodie Animal Hospital: Thank you so much for coming to my home so that I wouldn't have to take Kenora to the vet (a place she so despised going). You helped my dog die with more dignity than what we afford our human loved ones. You made it so peaceful, and I will never be able to express my gratitude.

Terie, Sue and Sally: Thanks for being there with me when I said my final goodbyes. Thanks for crying with me, and thanks for not mentioning what an ugly crier I am. Oh, and thanks for talking me out of keeping Kenora after she passed so I could cuddle her one last night. You're right, that would have been creepy.

Thanks to everyone else for all the messages of love and condolences.

But most of all, thanks to Kenora for teaching me responsibility and the meaning of unconditional love. I will miss you more than you will ever know, and no other dog will ever replace you. You gave me the best fifteen years of my life. Life will be a huge adjustment without you in it, love bug.

The Patient I Failed - L&D Version.

I knew the second she rolled onto our unit that the broad wasn't in labor. Heck, I'd seen corpses in more pain than what she "appeared" to be in.

This wasn't my first rodeo, so her well-rehearsed "hee, hee, hees" and "hoo, hoo, hoos" didn't have me fooled for second. I was all too familiar with her type... the kind of dame who dresses up for labor like it's some sort of beauty pageant or cakewalk— makeup meticulously applied, hair lacquered into place with so much hairspray that it would require an act of God to dishevel it, and perfume so pungent, its scent would haunt our halls for a fortnight to come.

Her husband pushed her wheelchair as if he were racing to a finish line that was way out of reach, but, really, it wasn't out of reach at all; they had been assigned to room 252, which was only a few feet away.

I sighed at the despicable sight of them, these labor wannabes, and I was disappointed that they were about to waste my valuable time. Concealing my disdain, I introduced myself and politely instructed her to change into a gown.

It wasn't until I was tucking her into bed that I noticed she seemed despondent, detached if you will. As I applied the monitors, I could see, from the corner of my eye, a lone tear roll down her cheek as it etched a trail of smudged makeup in its path.

It was at this precise moment that something inside me shifted—an awakening of sorts, per se. I could feel it as it relentlessly surged through my veins, its presence reminding me that it was during moments like this that I must suppress my ego and channel my natural calling.

Without further hesitation, I pulled up a chair and sat next to her bed, for I knew that in order to gain her trust, I had to bring myself down to her level. I grabbed her perfectly manicured hand in mine and looked deep into her eyes.

"I know. I get it," I said, hoping to convey a sense of commonality between us—anything to bring her to the safe place she so desperately needed to be.

"You can speak freely," I gently encouraged. "I am here to help."

Her husband sat on the other side of the room, his head buried in his hands. I realized that this was his pain, too, so I beckoned him to her bedside, hoping that this small gesture would emancipate him from his painful solitude.

I waited patiently for her to speak, knowing that if I pushed too hard, she would withdraw.

When she finally broke her silence, I braced myself, even though I was already aware of the confession she was about to impart. I had heard this exact confession countless times before, and let me tell ya, it never gets any easier.

She inhaled deeply. I inhaled deeply. Her husband inhaled deeply. It was like an orgy of oxygen-deprived souls.

She exhaled slowly, and riding on the air that escaped her lungs were the six words she was so terrified to say.

"I've..." she hesitated, fighting back the tears.

"I've lost...  my...  mucous... plug!"

(Okay, five words, but in all fairness, I didn't know she was going to use the contraction "I've." Ironically, it was the only contraction she had during her entire "labor" check.)

These words pierced my heart like an army of a thousand swords. As I fought back my own tears, I squeezed her hand. Stay strong, I thought, you must be a pillar of strength for your patient. 

Being the extremely level-headed but empathetic and compassionate person I am, I frequently find it difficult to separate "the nurse" in me from the human of raw emotions that is my heart and soul.

She began sobbing. I began sobbing. Her husband began sobbing. It was like a ménage à trois of guttural catharsis.

After we were done crying and I had composed myself, the nurse in me overtook the human in me.

I grabbed a pencil and notepad and got down to business.

"Listen," I spoke with purpose, "I, myself, am no stranger to loss. Now, granted, I have never lost a mucous plug, but I have lost family members, and let me tell you, grief is like a beast of burden; it burdens you like, well... a beast. So I totally understand what you are going through."

She listened attentively, hanging on my every word.

"I don't want to seem insensitive, but I need to ask you some very difficult questions."

As painful as it was for her, she seemed willing to cooperate.

The following is a transcript of our discussion:

Me: What were you doing when you lost said mucous plug?

Her: We were watching T.V..

Me: What were you watching?

Her: Um, I don't know, it might have been Glee.

Me: Listen, I need you to focus. It's important you try to remember because we've noticed a pattern as to when these mucous plugs go missing... it tends to happen during really shitty programming.

Her: Let me think... yes, it was definitely Glee.

Me: Okay, that makes total sense. Now, was there anyone with whom your mucous plug may have been angry, someone worthy of a grudge? An obstetrician who was too rough during a cervical exam, perhaps? Or someone who may have talked you into a little somethin', somethin', if you know what I mean? *This question was indirectly directed in the indirect direction of her husband.*

She exchanged a look with her husband, who sat quietly with a sheepish look on his face, his complexion turning a deep shade of crimson red. I immediately knew the answer and felt it futile to pursue the matter any further. I scribbled in my notepad, Horny husband angered mucous plug through act of  self-serving and unnecessary intercourse. 

Me: Did said plug leave a note?

Her: No.

Me: And there's been no contact with the plug since it went missing?

Her: None.

Me: Did you alert the police?

The look on her face indicated she had not. This wasn't good, as I knew that time was of the essence.

Me: Look, I'm going to be totally honest with you: statistically, if a mucous plug isn't found within two minutes of its disappearance, the case usually goes unsolved. Those two minutes are the most crucial minutes in these cases.

I didn't have the heart to tell her about the stack of charts in medical records that had long become cold case files, never to be opened again.

Me: I'm sorry, I don't know what else to tell you, except, mark my words, I will put up the good fight; I will continue to search for your mucous plug, leaving no peripad unturned.

Given that my patient was not in labor, I discharged her home later that night. As we said our farewells, I assured her that we would soon meet again—under happier circumstances—when they would return for the birth of their child.

In the weeks that followed, I searched diligently for their lost mucous plug, even going as far as petitioning my local congressman to pass a bill that would mandate a nationwide alert when mucous plugs go missing. The bill for Code Cream-Colored-Gob-of-Goo-With-the-Consistency-of-Snot is still in its infancy period but should hopefully be passed sometime early next spring.

I have made it my personal mission to ensure that the search of a missing mucous plug does not end with the birth of the baby it so vigilantly protected in utero. To raise awareness of this issue, I have taken it a step further:

Fellow Americans, I implore you to get involved. As you begin your day around the breakfast table with your family, please pay close attention to the picture on the milk carton. You never know, you might be instrumental in reuniting a family with their long lost mucous plug.

Thank you,
CS

My Dog Has A Facebook Page. Who Knew?

Well, Since You Asked...

Some of you may have noticed *this* circulating on facebook...

It warrants serious consideration. However, when it comes down to it, the answer is pretty simple...

Oh, how I long for a man with classic good looks.

Santa is a Murderer

Unlike most children, I was probably the only kid in the world who wasn't at all disappointed to find out that Santa did not exist. In fact, if anything, I was a little relieved.

I never truly understood how, on one hand, our parents could ingrain the fear of God into us for talking to strangers, and yet, on the other, they'd force us to sit on some old man's lap while he promised us toys in exchange for telling him if we'd been good little boys or girls. Hmmm? Just how extensive is the background check on someone applying for the position of Mall-Santa? I think this warrants serious consideration because, let's face it, "Mall-Santa" would be a pedophile's dream job.

It wasn't my aversion to the obligatory Santa-photo that made me despise him. My deep-seated hatred for this old man developed at the age of five, when I learned a very unfortunate lesson: that which Santa giveth, he can easily taketh away. 

Terrace, B.C. 

I became privy to this lesson while my family and I were living in a remote area of northwestern British Columbia. Our modest house was enveloped by thick forest and was bordered by mountainous terrain. We were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and had it not been for Rudolph's shiny, luminous nose, I doubt Santa would have ever stood a chance in hell of finding us. This was, after all, long before Google Maps and GPS even existed. 

In the week preceding Christmas, my parents surprised my siblings and me with the best gift ever imaginable: a horse.  Of course, it was understood that this horse was a gift from Santa, even though it came one week early. 

This is how I remember her...

In keeping with the festive spirit, we named this majestic beauty "Holly." She was white with grey spots and was enormous compared to the four little children who danced excitedly around her shiny, black hooves. 

This is probably a more accurate
 representation of what she looked like.

Looking back, I am willing to bet that my parents purchased Holly on a whim. You didn't have to be a financial adviser to see that Holly wasn't their wisest investment. First of all, our property, though remote and rustic, was not conducive to raising anything larger than chickens and rabbits. And secondly, aside from a chicken coop, we had nothing capable of providing safe haven for Holly. Yep, I can pretty much guarantee that Holly was a few gallops away from the glue factory, and had it not been for my parents and the modest fee they paid for her, we would have probably made her acquaintance on an arts and crafts table instead of meeting her for the first time in our front yard.  

My dad, whose vocation was to construct things, set out to build Holly a stable. What started off as a "small project" for my father, the construction worker of yore, ended up taking a whole week of back-breaking labor. As fate should have it, Holly's stable was finally completed on Christmas Eve. 

Fat fucking sack of murder!!

We all watched with eager anticipation as Dad lead Holly into her own little home for the first time. Had it not been for our excitement about Santa's visit that night, we would have all slept more peacefully knowing that Holly was safe and sound in her stable, especially since large snowflakes were beginning to fall from the ominous winter sky...

and these large snowflakes continued to fall while my parents wrestled us into bed... 

they fell while my parents hurried to wrap the last of the gifts...

and they fell...

and fell...

and fell...

..until we all awoke on Christmas morn to what looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Outside our window was a pristine winter wonderland. Everything was buried under a thick blanket of snow, and nothing could be identified if you hadn't made a mental note of where it stood the night before.

Needless to say—visually—it was the picture-perfect Christmas morning. In reality, however, it was far from perfect. In fact, it would soon unravel to be the worst Christmas ever experienced by a child living in a developed nation. 

While we were busy unwrapping our gifts, Dad went out to check on Holly. Shortly after, he returned and summoned my mother into the kitchen. A great deal of time had passed before they both came out to the living room, each of them sporting a somber look.

"Ahem," my dad cleared his throat in a manner that suggested he was about to have a breakdown. 

"Kids, we have something we need to tell you," said he, the man who went on to build tall skyscrapers for a living. 

This announcement didn't have enough punch to distract us from our gifts. 

"Ummm, kids...it appears as though Holly has gone to Heaven." All eight eyeballs were now fixed firmly upon him.

This evoked a battery of questions from four very confused children...

"Why? Didn't she like living with us?"...."Is she coming back?"...."Where's Heaven? Can we go see her?"..."Didn't she like her stable?"

And then came the one question that I am sure they were hoping to avoid...

"What happened? How did she die?" Of course, this question came from my older sister, Andrea, who actually understood that in order to get into Heaven, you first must die.  

In unison the rest of us asked, "She's dead???? How did she die???"  Again, the question they were trying so desperately to avoid. 

"Well," answered my father, hoping that my mom would chime in to answer; she did not. "Unfortunately, kids, the snow storm made it very difficult for Santa to land his sleigh."  

We all listened attentively, our eyes welling up with tears. 

"Santa misjudged his landing, and instead of landing on the house, he accidently landed on Holly's stable. The stable could not handle the weight of Santa and his reindeer, and it collapsed, killing Holly." And with that, the flood gates opened with a vengeance. 

This tragic event pretty much ruined the rest of the day. We'd each have moments— between consoling one another—when we'd play with our new toys, but it was difficult to appreciate a gift that was given to you by the man who had just flattened your horse. 

Thankfully, I only had a few more years of believing in Santa. But with the knowledge that he did not exist, so came the knowledge that my parents had lied about the details of Holly's death.

Dad helped build the Calgary Tower

For years I had to deal with the fact that our horse's stable—the one which my father had so carefully crafted—had really collapsed under the weight of the snow. This may not seem like a big deal, but later in life, when we would drive around Calgary, and my father would proudly point out all the high-rises he had played a huge part in building, I had no other choice but to pray that these buildings were built on sounder foundations than the one on which he had built Holly's stable. 

It has taken me a long time, but I have since forgiven my parents. As for Santa? That murdering dirt-bag is dead to me. 

Snow people make great friends. They melt.

Pinterest for Men

Totally using this on my girlfriend
the next time we have a fight!

Downloading this on my Kindle
tonight!

Must have this!

Hope this comes in a set!

Condom Christmas Wreath that screams,
"Hey, I'm a playa!"
Dude, totally making this!

Table centerpiece for game day.
Beer can with meatball flowers.
So easy to DIY!

Making this tonight!

Dude! Totally gonna use this as my
Christmas Card.

Giving Credit Where Credit's due. <--- Click on link. 

From Austin to Boston: Part Four - Better Late than Never

Part One, Part Two, and Part Three. 

Okay, I admit it... I suck. Whenever I find myself in a situation where someone expects something of me, I totally flake, which is why I will never be a real writer.

Yes, I know, this installment is way past due, but I blame Sally. She kept hounding me to post part four. The pressure, quite frankly, has been unbearable. I keep having these stress dreams in which I have to go back to finish high school because it is discovered that, due to some clerical error, I never really had the credits to graduate. Oh, and then there are the dreams where I keep losing my teeth. People, it is absolutely maddening, I tell ya. I have no earthly clue how Dickens or Hemingway ever did it. Well, granted, they both had an affinity for the drinky-drink, so maybe I kinda understand.

That said, I must apologize to all three of my readers. Sally, Terie, and googlebot: please forgive me. I give you part four... mostly in bullet format because I'm a lazy shit like that.

• We spend the whole day at the hospital with Anders and Sally. 
• In an effort to wean Anders off Sally's iphone, we play charades. 
• I brilliantly reenact Gob's chicken impression from Arrested Development.
• No one gets it because, OMG, they have not watched Arrested Development.
• I make a personal decision to cut ties with any friend who watches AD and doesn't think it's the BEST FUCKING SHOW EVER. If they don't get it, then they don't get me.
• Over the next twenty minutes, I force them to watch Gob's chicken dance on Youtube. 
• Because we are too distracted to notice, Anders has been playing on Sally's iphone the entire time. Oooops. 
• Sono tech enters room with a huge machine to do Anders' echo. I think he is kinda cute.
• Sono tech turns out to be a doctor doing his fellowship in pediatric cardiology. He just became, like, really fucking hot. 
• Echo does not yield the results we were hoping for. Anders will most likely have to go back for surgery. 
• The look on Sally's face is heartbreaking. 
• We solemnly gaze out the window while anticipating "Boston Snowstorm 2011," a storm so huge, CNN is covering it and even the locals are freaking out. 
• As nightfall approaches, we notice huge snowflakes fall from the ominous sky.
• We try to elicit Anders' interest in snow, but he couldn't care less. 
• Anders masters "Angry Birds" on the iphone that Sally is trying to wean him off of.  
• Terie and I leave well after visiting hours to brave the storm.
• Being the two northern girls that we are, we decide to walk back to the apartment. 
• We get about twenty feet out of the hospital's entrance when we decide that it is unwise to walk home in these conditions. My decision is based on my visual of Jack Nicholson's stiff, frozen body after he gets lost in the maze in "The Shining." I don't think Terie can visualize much of anything; her eyes are watering so much that I wonder if she is crying out of fear. Turns out, this is just a reaction to the cold. 
• We spend the next hour trying to hail a cab. Boston cab drivers are ASSHOLES.
• When we finally get home, Terie and I pull up two chairs in front of the huge window that overlooks Boylston Street.  
• We spend the next hour watching people dressed up for Halloween as they try to catch cabs to take them to their party destinations. Boston cab drivers are ASSHOLES. And, Oh My God, this is what we choose to do on a Saturday night... while on VACATION. We are getting old. 
• Before we go to bed, I say my prayers, which includes praying that we wake up to snowbanks the size of Mt. Rushmore in hopes of getting snowed in, thereby preventing us from returning to Austin for work. 
• Next morning: blue skies and a little bit of slush. Fuck! Does God ever answer prayers?
• We spend the morning with Anders and Sally. 
• As it is our last day, Sally insists that Terie and I go out to do some last minute sightseeing. 
• We head to the North End via the "T," thank you very much, because we are the effing gurus of public transportation.
• The North End is Boston's little Italy. 
• I am inspired to speak in an Italian accent. The. Entire. Time. Even while doing Gob's chicken dance.
• Terie gets annoyed.
• Pffft! What good are friends if you can't annoy them?
• We have appetizers at two different restaurants. 
• Benevento's... awesome, highly recommended.
• Rabia... not so much. Our lack of appetite could be due to the fact that we are full, or maybe it's because one of the "decorations" sitting on the window sill next to our table looks like this:

• Terie gladly schools me by informing me that this is called a gourd. I hate to make her feel stupid, but I am pretty sure this is a plasticized replica of Snooki's spray-tanned vagina. 
• Don't believe me?

• See? Told ja!
• After picking up Cannoli (it's the plural form, I swear. Look it up.) from Mike's Pastries, we head back to the hospital, where Sally dresses Anders up for Halloween, and where I proceed to wolf down an entire cannolo that Sally was convinced none of us would ever finish. 
• My fat jeans—bought for the trip to replace the skinny jeans that can no longer accommodate my fat ass—just became my new skinny jeans.
• Anders is dressed up as Mario. Can you say ADORABLE?

• Saddened by the news that Anders definitely needs to go back for a second surgery, we regretfully bid adieu to Sally and Anders.
• We hate to leave Sally in her time of need, but she assures us that Sarrah and Karen will be arriving tomorrow to take over our duty of being "supportive friends." 
• I'm happy they are going to be here for her, but I secretly hope that Terie and I have done a better job of keeping Sally's spirits up. 
• The day after we get home, we learn Anders is out of surgery and doing well. Yaaay!
• Dang it! Sally texts us to tell us that Karen just bought a gazzillion dollars worth of groceries so Sally and Anders will have food for when they return to the apartment. Who does she think she is, anyway? I wonder if Karen was brave enough to sneak wine past security, like Ter and I did, just so we could throw down in a children's hospital 'cuz that's how we do. 
• Determined not to be outdone by Mizz Oh-I-Just-Bought-You-A-Rotisserie-Chicken Karen, Terie and I send Anders this...

• What? Shut up! It was done in the name of happiness! Yeah, that's right, happiness. As in the happiness of a child... who just had OPEN-HEART surgery. So suck it!
• After sending this to Anders, who apparently watches it a thousand times groceries, smoceries, we get this in return...

But, wait, I must warn you: it's a little offensive. Viewer discretion is definitely advised. Grab your Valtrex, ladies and gents, 'cuz this shit's going viral!

The kid's got talent!

Update: Anders is doing awesome. The surgery was a success, which just goes to show ya, sometimes...

God does answer prayers.

Thanksgiving Dinner

I wrote this last year when I was home for Canadian Thanksgiving. People here in the States are always baffled when they hear Canada has a Thanksgiving. They wonder what it is we are thankful for, so I tell them we're just grateful we didn't become the 51st state. Of course, they know I'm kidding because I am proud to live here, and I'm thankful for all the awesome Americans I have in my life. You know who you are;)

For the first time, I have cooked the entire turkey dinner by myself, except for the brussel sprouts, which Mom prepared. After a long day in the kitchen— a room in which, up until today, I've spent very little time— I join my family at the dinner table.  Before they can enjoy the fruits of my labor, Terry, my stepfather, says grace. He is interrupted by my brother, Cam, who can't contain his laughter. Apparently, the spread of assorted dishes has my brother busting a gut.

We begin our binge, or what I hope will be a binge, when, after only two bites, Mom gets up from the table to retreat to the bedroom, where she remains in a supine position with a cold, wet towel draped across her forehead. She swears it is the cancer and not my cooking that has brought on this acute bout of nausea. 

Cam, still laughing, sits next to his girlfriend, Jen, who is a really slow eater; although, I don't remember her ever eating this slowly. 

Terry is masticating quietly. It's as if he is concentrating on digesting his food so that it won't make a reappearance later on tonight. Cam still looks like he is constipated; the muscles in his face are stiff and his complexion a crimson red. He is trying desperately to contain his amusement but keeps having spurts where spit and snot fly out of his mouth and nose from his inability to suppress his cackle a second longer.

Terry stands up abruptly and declares, "Enough! You are being very rude! Can't you appreciate the amount of time that went in to this meal?" He leaves and takes his plate to the kitchen. I thank him for sticking up for me, and I tell him I am not offended by how rude everyone else is being. At this point, Aimee leans over to whisper that she thinks it was a strategic move on his part. Unfortunately, I realize it's probably true; Terry had only eaten half of what was on his plate, and I can hear him clearing the rest of what's left into to the trash.  

Everyone seems to feel a little guilty right now.  I can tell because, in an effort to make me feel better, each one of them has piped up to tell me how great the brussel sprouts taste. 

From Austin to Boston: Part Three - Send in the Clowns

Part One and Part Two 

******

Is it horrible for me to admit that I can't decide what makes me happier: the fact that Anders' condition has improved, so he was discharged from ICU earlier this morning; or the fact that this new unit doesn't impose restrictions on the number of visitors he can have at any given time?

Okay, I'm going to be an asshole and say it: I'm just happy I won't be third man out, because even when I'm present, Terie and Sally are becoming, like, BFFs—right in front of my face, no less. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if I were stuck in the waiting room, unable to provide interference?  It would be all...Ooooh... "Sally, you like Haribo gummy bears, too? OMG, so do I! We have so much in common," or... ooooh... "Terie, thanks for cleaning up the room. You are so AWESOME," or... "Look, Anders, Terie bought you a Spider-Man action figure. Isn't Aunty Ter, Ter the best?"... and blah, blah, blah, OH MY GOD, I'm going to fucking puke rainbows and unicorns.

Despite their budding friendship, which resembles two lost kindred spirits reuniting after years of separation, I'm secure enough to know where I stand as a friend. I AM NEEDED, god damn it, and I will do anything to prove it! Which is why, when the nurse announces that it is important for Anders to pee, I over zealously volunteer to help him like I'm some kind of pedophile out on parole. Sally, suffering from a back injury, doesn't put up a fight. Like, at all.

Unfortunately, Anders not only makes peepee, but he also makes poopoo. This is considered great progress from a post-operative point of view, but to me, it is totally gag worthy. I don't complain, though, because I'm an AWESOME friend like that. And I don't complain when Sally asks me to help him a second time, either. The third time, however, I've gone from being Sally's loyal friend to being her bitch, and I am more than happy to let her new best friend assume the responsibility.

In our ardent efforts to keep Anders entertained, we do all the things that he loves to do. We play Uno, which, strangely enough, he keeps winning. Unbeknownst to me, Sally and Terie are letting him win.

I am not.

Because Anders is obsessed with all things booty, we let him smack our butts, and we do little dances while shaking our ass-ets like dancers in a rap video. And though we probably shouldn't be encouraging this behavior, we actually foster it, because guess what? The kid just had open-heart surgery and if this is what makes him happy, so be it.

Right around lunchtime, we notice two clowns walk by our room. Sally, unable to contain her excitement, tells the nurse that Anders would love a visit from the clowns. Terie and I, trying to suppress our excitement, are also eager for a visit from the clowns, 'cuz said clowns are flippin' hot. And it is this very admission that makes me stand back and ask myself, "How the hell did I get here?" And by "here," I mean the point in my life where I'm so sexually deprived, I am openly admitting in a blog post that I'm getting all hot n' bothered over a pair of clowns. I feel a little better knowing that Terie is also drooling over this dynamic duo. So is Sally, but she won't admit it.

When the clowns finally come to see Anders, he couldn't care less. Teri, Sally and I, on the other hand, sway to-and-fro in time with their silly songs, while joyously clapping our hands and laughing flirtatiously. We look like three adolescent girls swooning over Justin Bieber, except we have wrinkles and saddle bags, and the objects of our affections are clowns. Clowns!

After they leave, Terie and I create pretend lives for the clowns so as to make ourselves feel less pathetic about finding them attractive. We decide they are starving musicians who have to do the clown gig by day so they can hone their real craft by night.

It is Sally who finally suggests that Terie and I go do some sightseeing around Boston. "It's supposed to snow tomorrow, so why don't you guys go out and enjoy this beautiful day."

"Oh, Sally, we simply can't; we'd feel too guilty leaving you here at the hospital," we conscientiously reply.

"No, seriously, you guys g—"

"Well, OKAY! Only if you insist," we say, our voices trailing off because we're already halfway out the door.

Seconds later, we are in a cab, on our way to Newbury Street, a trendy street lined with novelty shops and eateries. Because we are trying to cram as much in as possible, we do some quick shopping and then decide to do appetizers and wine at a couple of different restaurants.

The first restaurant, Piattini Wine Cafe, is absolutely amazing. We share three appetizers and have a flight of wine each. Terie gives it two thumbs up:

Our next stop is Tapeo, where we are more impressed with the ambiance and the bartender than we are with the appetizers. I'm not sure if the warmth I feel deep in my core is a result of the wine, or if it's a response to the bartender's Latin American accent. But my heightened arousal to his accent reminds me of the time I went through this phase where I was intent on only dating guys with accents. This phase was inspired by the movie Unfaithful, a suspense thriller starring Richard Gere and Diane Lane, in which Lane has an adulterous affair with an incredibly sexy French man, who ends up getting his head bashed in with a snow-globe by Gere, Lane's jilted husband. Ooops, sorry. I guess announcing "spoiler alert" is a moot point.

Anyway, this intense desire to date a guy with an accent landed me in a one night relationship with a French Canadian guy, who, in his drunken state, mistakenly confused my bathroom drawer for a toilet. Needless to say, the relationship ended poorly the next morning when I found my makeup drenched in piss. It was hardly the Diane-Lane-experience I had been hoping for.

With nightfall fast approaching, Terie and I brave the subway system... translation: the nice security guard maps out our route and also helps us buy tickets from the electronic ticket dispenser. As Terie so accurately puts it, "You'd think we were two girls fresh off the farm."

Our next stop is Sweet Caroline's, a newer restaurant that is located a block down from our apartment. Having both eaten to the point where we could puke, we decide to only order wine.

After a couple of glasses, we discuss how cute Anders is and how we feel terrible for abandoning Sally. To make up for it, we write, produce, direct and star in the following videos...

Ladies and gents, send in the clowns:

After sending them to Sally, we get this in return:

Sally texts us to tell us that Anders loved the videos, and he watched them over and over again, all the while laughing. 

For some reason, I am quite content in knowing that we were able to make Anders laugh, especially when he didn't even crack a smile for the clowns. Perhaps Terie and I have missed our calling. 

To be continued...

From Austin to Boston: Part Two - Butt I Wanna Go First!

⇈ That title up there will hopefully make sense by the end of this post. If it doesn't, I can't help it if you are not as profound thinking as I.

This will make more sense if you read Part One first. Oh, c'mon. What else are you going to do tonight?

*****

Terie and I arrive in Boston midafternoon on Wednesday. Eager to get to the hospital, we catch a cab to the apartment. Yes, that's right, we stay in an apartment 'cuz that's how we roll. Okay, fine, it's the apartment that Sally has rented for her month's stay in Boston. 

At the apartment, we find Sally's mom, Anthea, waiting for us. She and her husband Grog, Sally's dad, have been staying with Sally as a show of support. I adore Sally's parents. The fact they are British only solidifies my love for them because, as we all know, I love me some Brits. I really wish I'd been born in the U.K.. Though my mom denied it until she was blue in the face (that seems like a horrible idiom, considering I really did watch her turn blue in the face) I'm pretty sure I was conceived in England, but that would have meant my mom and dad played the "Lock-n-Key" game before they were married; hence, my mother's need to deny it vehemently.

After our initial salutations, Anthea gives us a quick tour of our swank accommodations, and then she takes us to the hospital. The hospital is in walking distance from the apartment, which is a good thing because a) we don't have a car, and b) the walk will give us a chance to burn off some of the calories we are likely to consume over the next five days. (Update: we consume a lot.) Anthea clearly takes Terie and me for two girls who are incapable of curbing their caloric intake, because she is intent on pointing out the Burger King that is conveniently located on our way to the hospital. Can't blame her, really. I have, after all, gained like three of me since we last saw each other.  

As we walk, I notice that Boston has a very scholarly feel to it. Perhaps it's all the college-aged people carrying their attache cases, scurrying to get coffee before their next lectures. Or maybe it's because I'm reminded of Good Will Hunting (yes, I know, MIT is located in Cambridge, but I'm hardly a stickler for details, people). Whatever it is, it makes me want to go back to school. I'm sure this feeling will pass once I get back to Austin. (Update: it does.)

When we arrive at Boston Children's Hospital, we meet up with Sally and Grog. Anders remains in the ICU, where only two people can visit at a time. I'm really eager to see him, so I get to go first, leaving Terie in the waiting room with Anthea and Grog. 

When I see Anders, my heart melts. It's difficult seeing anyone when he or she is sick, but seeing a child who is sick, especially one you love, is unbearably sad. Like, Million-Dollar-Baby sad.

What's even more touching is seeing Sally interact with Anders. I've always considered Sally an excellent mother, but seeing her in this light makes me regard her as the Mother Teresa of mothers... but without the hymen. She is one of the most caring and loving people I know. (Snap! She is going to love this paragraph.)

I spend some time with Anders, who isn't talking much at all—most likely a result from having been extubated earlier in the day. Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Grog has convinced Terie to buy a MacBook Air. What is it with these Grogonos and their ability to persuade people into using Macs? I became a convert, myself, after living with Sally years ago. I swear the lot of them are vested in the company. 

Because it is getting late, and Anders is drifting in and out of sleep, we decide to bid farewell to Sally and Anders. Sally declines my offer to stay the night with Anders so that she can go back to the apartment for a good night's sleep. She refuses to leave him... understandably so. 

This is a more lucid Anders later that evening, after we left. 

Sally's parents take Terie and me out for a drink to a sports bar a block down from the apartment. And by drink, I mean one each, because we are not about to get crazy-drunk in front of Sally's parents. The last time I got drunk with a bunch of Brits, I ended up making a total ass of myself and regretting it deeply. 

After a pleasant evening of appetizers, beer, and a candid conversation about Sally's childhood, we head back to the apartment. Because Anthea and Grog are flying home in the morning, we retire for the night. But only after a quick picture... okay, more like six pictures; I couldn't figure out how to work the flash. 

Terie, Anthea, Steve Jobs, and Me.

With them in one room, Terie and I have to share a bed in the other, which means we stay up whispering, taking care not to disturb them, while muffling our giggles like a couple of school girls at a slumber party.

For some reason, we get to talking about The Human Centipede, a morbidly disturbing movie about a psycho killer who sews his three victims together, connecting them by their mouths and their butts. It's one of those disgusting conversations that is absolutely pointless—one that women our age shouldn't be having. But hell, we are on our holidays. (This same excuse is uttered repeatedly over the next couple of days, every time I shove something fattening down my gullet or imbibe something that will likely damage my liver.)

We eventually laugh ourselves to sleep while contemplating who in the centipede chain is worse off. Clearly, it is the middle person. Right, Ter? I mean, we all know that the person who is first in the chain got the better end of the deal. No ifs, ands, or butts about it. 

Little do we know, thanks to a four-year-old boy, this is the first of many conversations we will have over the next week that is focussed around butts. In fact, the "derrière" will fast become the theme of our trip to Boston. 

To be continued...