Keep this face in your thoughts!

I don't mean to turn this into a cat lady blog but just a short note to keep this little face in your prayers.

He had a relapse on Sunday and took another trip to the emergency vet. Of course it happened after I didn't spend a night at home, making me wish this was just Chach having a panic attack over my absence but knowing that might not be the case. I came home Sunday morning to find his breathing was a little off. It started getting worse as time went on, and after a house call from my mom, we thought it best Chach have another expensive Sunday Funday at the vet.

His breathing was very labored, and he had more fluid in his chest. By the time we left the vet, you could see him physically try to breathe and at some points, he was open mouth panting. It was really scary. After some injections of a diuretic meant to drain the fluid from him (making him drink a ton of water and use the men's room a lot) and an antibiotic, and a few doses of each since in pill and liquid form, Chach is doing MUCH better.

The bad news is, the vets are worried it might not have been pneumonia after all-he might have a heart condition. So, in typical Chach diva fashion, he now has a cardiologist who's going to do an ultrasound on his heart to determine what the problem is. There are a few promising signs it doesn't have to do with his heart. 1.) Where he's retaining fluid is more consistent with pneumonia than with heart disease. 2.) His vet took him off the heart medicine (a diuretic meant to drain the fluid) within two days of his first episode and he still cleared up and was given a clean bill of health by the vet after only being on antibiotics. 3.) And here's where it gets sensitive. Chach's vet, the handsome Dr. Joe, ever so kindly implied that Chach might be too fat to have heart disease. Typically, cats are thinner or lose weight drastically. We all know Chach has been encouraged to apply for "The Biggest Feline Loser."

So, for now, I wait until his appointment on the 28th and hope the cardiologist has a cancellation so she can see him sooner. Until then, it's a pill twice a day and liquid antibiotics twice a day (and a 15-minute earlier wake-up time for me in order to fit wrestling a cat down to drug it into my morning schedule). Chach has returned to Mr. Fabulous status and has a humidifier running in my room when he's sleeping; his food in my room and in the kitchen so he doesn't have to walk far; me feeding him wet food from my fingers; water on all levels of my house; and his litter box in my room so he doesn't have to go far to use the latrine.

Based on the meltdown I had Sunday over this and the anxiety I've felt since, I've determined I will be a crazy lady mom if I ever have kids.

Sick kitty

I had a bad bad bad scare with Chach this month.

I was in San Francisco on business, and my mom was watching Chach at her house. I would do my crazy mommy phone calls several times a day asking how he was, and she kept mentioning he was acting like he had a cold. Sleeping a lot. Not very active.

The day before I came home, her tone changed to one that was more worrisome. “He definitely has a cold.” As far as I knew, the only thing you can really do for a cat with a cold is let it ride out. My mom mentioned she was going to my house to pick up some more can food, since he wasn’t touching his dry food. I suggested she pick up some of his babies (Tweety Bird, Mr. Whiskers, Harley the Hedgehog) so he could play with them, but she said, “I don’t think he’s up for playing.”

My flight was scheduled to arrive around midnight on Sunday night/Monday morning so the original plan was to go home and pick Chach up from my parents’ house in the morning. “We’re on our way to get your car so you can just come here from the airport. Chach needs to see you tonight,” my mom said. “Is he OK?” “Yeah, he’s OK, he just misses you. But, wake me up when you get home.”

I knew something was wrong, but I immediately went into my “happy place” so I could get through the next two days. I was done with work around 10 a.m. on Sunday, so I tried to get on a standby flight in the afternoon, to no avail. Spent the whole day reading “Gone Girl” at the airport (which, if you have to be stuck in an airport, San Francisco’s is really the one to be at. Visiting other airports makes me realize how completely insane and chaotic O’Hare is).

I got to my parents’ house around 12:30 a.m.  I woke my mom up and asked where Chach was and if he was OK. “No, he’s not. He has pneumonia.”

Apparently, my mom noticed Chach was having trouble breathing Saturday morning. He was standing on the bed, looking as if he was going to throw up or cough up a hairball. She took him to my brother’s vet (Chach’s medical team was closed), they did a chest X-ray, and his lungs were almost entirely filled with fluid. They said they “hoped it was pneumonia” but that it could be heart disease. They gave him a few shots, two kinds of medicine and handed my mom the number of an emergency overnight vet, saying, “He may not make it through the night.”

My mom went into mommy overdrive and put Chach to bed with a humidifier in his room, checking on him every half hour. He was barely eating or drinking anything.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m sick, I want my mom and that was no different with Chach. When I got home, I scooped him up and he just nuzzled into me, meowing and purring. The fantastic thing was that within a half hour of me being home, he started eating and drinking again.

I was off work the next two days and basically just played kitty nurse. He had to take one pill a day for the possibility it might be heart disease and one liquid dose of antibiotics. The pill had to be shoved down his throat and the liquid had to be shot into his mouth through a syringe. If you’ve never had to give a cat medicine, consider yourself extremely lucky because it’s exhausting and frustrating. Plus, I was an absolute mess at the thought of him being in pain, discomfort or losing him altogether.

I talked to Chach’s vet the next day and had his chart and X-rays sent over from baby Pickles’ (Danny’s cat) vet. The vet looked them over and said it really didn’t look like heart disease to him, so he took Chach off one medicine and said if he continued to get better, he should come back to get re-checked in two weeks.

Chach was very lethargic for a few days; so much so that I was really worried he wouldn’t bounce back. He was too weak to take more than a few steps before lying down, and I had to hand feed him his wet food so he would eat something. 

Chach resting in my closet, hoping his sponsors, Nike and Puma, don't drop him because of his bout with pneumonia.

After texting a friend of a friend who’s a vet and asking what’s “normal” in terms of lethargy in kitty cat pneumonia patients, Chach soon started to resume normal naughty behavior. This includes trying to tear the loose threads off the bottom of my mattress and insisting he can only eat by being hand fed, even though his strength was back and he could clearly eat on his own.

He’s still taking the liquid medicine and it’s lovely to administer since half of it ends up on my shirt and the other half Chach likely spits out as he foams at the mouth. I have chewable pills he can take instead but with his refined palette (Chach only eats food that contains duck or rabbit-not kidding), he takes a few licks before looking up at me as if to say, “Tastes like drugs.” I can crush it and mix it in with wet food, but Chach does the same thing: takes a bite or two, gives it a few licks and looks at me like “Tastes like drugs.” Last night, I mixed it in with tuna and that seemed to go over better.

We go back to the vet on Friday and I’m hoping hoping hoping Chach receives a clean bill of health!

Flash mob video

For those who get the blog emailed to them, the video link won't show up in the email. You have to visit the blog website, I think.

Flash mob: Gangnam style

I crossed something off the old bucket list this past weekend: participate in a flash mob.

My good friend and roommate from college Amy and her lover Pete got married this past weekend. A few weeks ago at Amy's bachelorette party, there was apparently a discussion about doing a flash mob at their wedding (a discussion I may very well have taken part in but have no memory of-damn strippers!).

No strippers here but this picture is too kick ass not to share.

Amy's good friend Lynn sent a group of us an email suggesting we do a secret flash mob to "Gangnam Style."

Being an old lady these days, and someone who's barely in the car since I take the train to work every day, I had heard the song briefly but didn't know it was a little bit of a phenomenon, and certainly didn't know there was a choreographed dance to it.

Being a dancer, and recognizing she may be dealing with an uncoordinated bunch, Lynn was kind of enough to create a series of video tutorials on how to do the dance. I tried practicing on my own one night but deemed the event too sober and quit until I had some company.

Luckily, Sarah and Chad stayed with me the night before the wedding and after putting Chad to bed and a bottle of wine, Sarah and I thought we conquered the first section.

There were rumors of an impromptu practice session in a secret location at the hotel where the reception was, but the Wardall 7 crew took matters into our own hands the only way we know how: by buying a lot beer and pre-drinking in our hotel room before the reception while practicing.

We took our potent potables down to the secret practice location—in the hotel basement next to a bank of elevators. Lynn led us in a few run throughs, told the uncoordinated bunch (including me) we could just rock jazz hands when we didn't know the moves, and handed out some glow in the dark sunglasses, courtesy of Amy's sister and maid of honor.

The plan was for the DJ to cue up the music during the salad portion of dinner, after all of the toasts. Lynn would be on the dance floor by herself and dance the first two sections alone while the rest of us walked to the floor. Here's what transpired:

It was pretty amazing. There were close to 25 of us, and you can see Amy's mom on the far left and possibly her grandma, equally rocking out.

This obviously moves me closer to my ultimate goal of learning the entire "Thriller" dance. It still remains on the bucket list.

Obsessed

I don't have anything smart to say other than this kid is FANTASTIC. I am not one to troll YouTube for random people videos, but someone posted a video of this guy singing and I heard his voice and was hooked. This one is my favorite:

And this one is too unique not to share. And the one that got him famous:

Gym wardrobe

To meet my fat girl needs, I joined Lifetime Fitness. As far as gyms in Chicago go, it’s probably one of the more luxurious ones in the suburbs but not as swanky as, say, Equinox in the city or East Bank Club (where Oprah and Obama work on their fitness). I’m describing its stature only because I feel at $60+ a month, a member should be able to afford a decent workout wardrobe.

Yet time after time I’m amazed at what people wear when they exercise. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a beauty queen at the gym. I can typically be found in a Gap tank top, sports bra and either cotton capris or shorts. I’ll slap on some mascara and lip gloss just to avoid frightened looks but I by no means dress it up to sweat it out.

What I can’t understand are people who wear jeans or khakis to work out. This is a specific problem among older men. And I don’t understand how it’s comfortable. If you can afford the membership to Lifetime, you can afford to go to at least Walmart and buy some T-shirts and sweatpants to exercise in.

I’ve seen a certain guy I went to high school with tearin’ it up the stairmaster in a sweatshirt hoodie, ripped basketball shorts and dirty gym shoes. He looks like a Garbage Pail Kid. I saw a girl wear what I think were actual pajama jeans. They had a denim quality to them and the appearance of pockets. Yet they were jersey material. A deception to the eye if I ever saw one.

I saw a girl last week whose shirt looked like Boof’s from “Teen Wolf” after she came out of the smooching closet with Scott — randomly ripped up the back. 

My favorite story involves a guy around my age who was giving me the goo goo eyes while I was on the stairmaster. He was cute so I gave him some eyes back. Until I noticed his shirt, which was from Uncle Pauly's strip club in Glen Ellyn and had this on the back:

I withdrew my goo goo eyes right quick.

Vicodin is my jam

I had a bad experience with an old friend last night. Vicodin has never done me wrong the way it did last night.

Prior to breaking my ankle, my body was sensitive to taking even a Sudafed for a cold. I remember one time in college, I took a generic Sudafed when I was sick, and my mind was racing so fast I thought I was certifiably insane. And I was known to say Nyquil should be sold on a street corner, not in a drug store. I just had extreme reactions to simple medicines.

But when you snap a bone in half, rip some ligaments and have a doctor pounding away on your insides, ultimately screwing a metal plate to your body, those memories fade away. When I arrived at the ER, they asked me if I wanted a painkiller in pill form or a shot. The pill would take about 45 minutes to take effect; the shot only five.  Given the amount of pain I was in, duh.

It was duh then but looking back, I may have gone a different route, knowing what I know now. They gave me a shot of Dilaudid, a narcotic used to treat severe pain. Within five minutes of receiving the shot, I was so high I could barely keep my eyes open. I just lay there. And then 10 minutes later, I started throwing up. And continued throughout the rest of the day. But, it took the pain away.

Part of my ER and surgery goody bag was a prescription for Vicodin. The ER gave me 5 mg tablets and my doctor upped it to 10 mg post-surgery. And I quickly discovered that Vicodin is my jam. 

How does it feel? When you first start taking the 5 mg pills, it’s kind of like you have the perfect buzz. With no hangover. The first time I took a 10 mg, I just lay on my bed and enjoyed the ride.

The bad part is your body starts to become tolerant of both doses, making them less effective and less like your floating. Which is how people become addicted. I saw an interview with Kristen Johnson, who starred on “Third Rock from the Sun” and the interviewer knew her when she was on Vicodin, but didn’t know she was an addict. She said there would have been no way to tell because by that point, she wasn’t taking Vicodin to get high, it was merely to function. And then her stomach exploded. Seriously, it did.

Other bad parts include itchiness (seriously, I felt like I had a tick. I was constantly itching my face, head and body. I confirmed with my fellow Vicodiners, Moogs and my dad, and they had the same symptom) and constipation. I didn’t find myself constipated or in pain but I’ll just say that it was awhile in between “episodes of that nature.” A good part is it suppresses your appetite. Between the Vicodin diet, workout from crutches and not eating out because I was homebound, I was feeling pretty good.

I only took Vicodin consistently for a little over two weeks after the break. I was starting to see how people could become addicted and wanted to stop before I was hovering in Matthew Perry circa 1997 territory.

I stayed off the juice for about six months. But once I started working out again, specifically running, I would have days where I was in enough pain to warrant a pill. Since I hadn’t taken one in so long, I stuck with the babies (5 mg).

By the end of the work day yesterday, my ankle had a stabbing-like pain to it. I’ve been working at my house almost every day and between moving boxes up three floors, standing on a step ladder to paint my pantry, kneeling down to paint trim, hauling a bed up three flights of stairs and precariously carrying a glass TV stand upstairs with my mom, the ankle has had a lot of strain on it lately.

So last night, I treated myself to my last “big boy” — a 10 mg. The first 90 minutes were fantastic. It was a cross between a great buzz and an energy burst. I folded two loads of laundry, packed a few boxes and cleaned my bathroom. But then I started to feel really nauseous. I barely ate dinner, and my breathing became really labored. It was that feeling when you’re hung over and trying not to throw up so you just lie in bed and focus on your breathing. It sucked.

Taking a 10 mg pill after not having taken any form of narcotic wasn’t the best idea. Noted. I brought my babies to work today in case it gets crazy again.

Buyer's anxiety

I’m on the verge of an anxiety attack over the closing of my house on Thursday so hopefully writing this blog will be cathartic. Please, bear with me.

My advice for anybody who’s interested in purchasing a home is make sure you are absolutely, positively 1,000,034,348 percent ready for it. Because it has been unexpectedly one of the most stressful things I’ve ever done.

I started looking in January and, of course, had all my ducks in a row: I was pre-approved for a loan, knew how much I wanted to spend, knew somewhat the areas where I wanted to live, etc.

I found a place pretty quick, a duplex in Roselle. So cute, so charming, so much character. Until we did the home inspection.

There were at least 25 items that needed to be addressed. The larger issues included a gas leak from the basement furnace; an assessment of the 20+-year-old cedar shake roof, which was nearing the end of its life and likely $10K+ to replace; the upstairs balcony off the master bedroom was pulling away from the house and nearing unsafe territory; rotted boards on the deck and deteriorated posts supporting the deck; evidence of mice in the basement; a basketball-size wasp’s nest in the attic in addition to a slew of smaller ones; and a large critter nest in the attic (think raccoon, not bird).

I asked the seller to have the roof appraised by a third-party roofing company to determine when it would need to be replaced. She refused. I asked her to have an exterminator come in to rid the place of mice, remove the wasp’s nest and the large nest in the attic (and fix the broken screen where the critters were entering). She disgustingly refused. I asked her to replace the boards on the deck and the support posts. She agreed to replace the boards but not stain them the same color of the deck and refused to replace the support posts. I asked her to have a third-party company fix the upstairs balcony. No go.

She only agreed to fix the gas leak and some of the smaller items on the list.

In good conscience, fiscal sense, safety and cleanliness, I couldn’t move forward. I told her I couldn’t move into a home with roommates (raccoons, wasps and mice) and that I couldn’t be on the hook for a $10K roof replacement in the next year or two.

So off I went, in search of another palace. Two weeks later I found it, in Bartlett. I was at first averse to Bartlett, mostly because it was a little too far west for my taste. But I fell in love with this place so much that I was willing to tough out the extra two train stops. Plus, it’s so close to the train station that I only gain about five minutes of commuting time and I can ride my bike if I want. 

And as you can see below, it's fantastic. Two bedrooms, two and a half baths, three floors, nice and open kitchen, two-sided fireplace, an extra room on the ground floor to be used as an office or TV room. I love it. 

There have been some very stressful moments in this negotiation, but I’m going to spare the details on this blog. It’s not a done deal yet, and I don’t want any of the parties I’m annoyed at to stumble on this blog. 

So now, I wait for final numbers so I know how much I’m depleting my savings. It’s going to be an interesting two days, that’s for sure. If you see the headline: “Woman pukes at real estate closing; deal moves forward,” you’ll know some of the background.

Blogs I like (am jealous of)

I've stumbled upon two clever blogs lately and, like Oprah, I like to tell the world about my favorite things.

The first is called Suri's Burn Book, surisburnbook.tumblr.com. It's written in the voice of Suri Cruise, and she mocks other celebrity kids. It's downright hilar. She consistently rags on her parents, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, posts jealous rants on Harper Beckham (David and Victoria Beckham's daughter), lampoons Shiloh Pitt (Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt's daughter) for being such a goofball, and becomes paranoid over the thought of Kate Middleton being pregnant, thus producing a princess that would usurp Suri's popularity.

As if there could possibly be any other outcome.


The second I discovered only yesterday and it's called Texts from Hillary, textsfromhillaryclinton.tumblr.com. In each post, the bloggers use a picture of Hillary Clinton looking at her cell phone sternly with sunglasses on and pair it with a picture of another celebrity looking at their cell phone and write a clever imagined exchange between the two. I was on the train yesterday stifling my laughs (No, I wasn't on the quiet car, but I am a respectful commuter lady). Hillary Clinton found out about the blog and said she loved it, and supposedly even submitted her own entry. Unfortunately, the bloggers pulled a Seinfeld move and said they were going to stop blogging while they were still big.

One of my favorites. This is for all of my "Real Housewives of D.C." fans or the random Tareq and Michaele Salahi fans.

I heart these blogs but am also envious I didn't think of something so clever. I only have this stupid blog.

Breakfast dilemna

I’ve never been a breakfast eater.

Sure, when I was little, I had the obligatory Cocoa Puffs or Frosted Flakes or Raisin Bran. On the rare occasion I could eat Toaster Strudel, but I would ultimately ruin that privilege by consuming several strudels in one sitting, thus solidifying my gluttony. And on one or two occasions my mom would allow Danny and I to eat Cookie Crisp, a cereal she deemed way to sugary for regular consumption (a theory I’m guessing was solely based on the name since I doubt Cookie Crisp had any more sugar than Cocoa Puffs). 

But as a teenager, I never ate breakfast. In college, I very rarely swiped the breakfast meal on my plan (smartly leaving me open for a CHOMP run at night or collecting a case of orange juice at the end of the month). Once I started working at a newspaper, where I typically started at 9 a.m., a breakfast bar sufficed.

But now that I wake up at 5:10 a.m. and am awake more than two hours by the time I get to work, I am a hungry hippo by 7:30 a.m. There lies my dilemma every day.

There is no way I can exist on coffee and a breakfast bar between 5 a.m. and noon. So I try to find a balance between eating something that’s filling enough to last me until noon and healthy enough that I haven’t ruined my calories two hours into the day.

I seem to go through phases. One week I was really into Greek yogurt, leading me to determine that if I were a gazillionaire, I would hire someone just to stir my yogurt. I find it detestable pre-stir.

Sometimes I get into an English muffin kick, with either peanut butter or regular guy butter. I was on an omelet run for about a year, thanks to the culinary skills of Alberto, the grill cook in the ADA Café. It got to the point where I would walk in, say “Two whites, one yolk,” and Alberto would get scrambling my spinach, tomato, mushrooms and, sigh, cheese omelet.

Sometimes I’ll treat myself and get off my bus early to stop at Corner Bakery for their Anaheim Panini breakfast sandwich, which has eggs, bacon, avocadoes and green onions all scrambled together on a sandwich. Or I’ll stay on the bus for another stop and go to Jamba Juice and have a smoothie for breakfast. I’d love to have the ability to make my own smoothie at work but I don’t know that keeping a blender at my desk is an option.

My other problem is I get very specific cravings for food. Yesterday, I wanted a cranberry orange muffin. I went to the coffee place at Water Tower Mall in search of one and lovingly discovered a raspberry scone instead. Then I was obsessed with having yogurt raisins.

So the cycle continues. I had said yogurt raisins and a granola bar for breakfast today. What’ll be my kick next week? Who knows!

Unpredictability

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack …

Back from a lot, it seems. Back from not blogging. Almost back from two stressful home negotiations (more on that later). And not quite back from Anklegate 2011. Here I am smiling a few days after the "accident," with no idea the frustration to come. 

As everyone knows, I broke my ankle on my 30^th birthday thanks to a Sir Chachi Soderlund (Yes, he’s been knighted). I had surgery a week later and am now the proud owner of a bum ankle with a metal plate, five screws and imperfect reattached ligaments. Here's how it looked a week after surgery-fatty alert! (but cute toes-like I've said time and time again, never trust a girl who doesn't paint her toes). 

Having a Terminator ankle and not having used said body part for seven weeks has presented some problems getting back into the walking and exercising scene. I have more good days than bad, but I never know when a bad day will occur. And we all know what happens when something happens that I haven’t anticipated: TYPE A FACE EXPLOSION!!!

When I do work out, my ankle feels fine. I started out just doing the exercise bike and elliptical because those were less stressful on it, but I’ve moved on to running and taking weights classes. The only exercises I have a hard time with right now are walking lunges (can’t even do them on one side), lunges in general (I can do them but I definitely can’t do them with weights on my shoulders or in my hands) and anything involving balance.

The problem lies afterward. I never ever know how a workout is going to affect my ankle. Sometimes, it’s perfectly fine and I’m walking normal. Other times, it’s a little tight and I’m rocking a bit of a pimp limp. And there are times (like after I ran four miles outside) where I look like FDR, the polio days. A few times lately, I’ve had to hit up my babies (i.e. Vicodin-killer buzz) because I’m in quite a bit of pain. 

I’ve found the shoes I wear also have a lot to do with how the Terminator feels. Gym shoes and flat boots seem to serve it well. Sparkle flats or sandals-not so much.  I’ve tried on high heels a few times, and it’s gone from “Omg omg omg stabbing” to “Not so bad, not so bad, OK enough.”  So hopefully I’m getting there, but I think I’m a ways away from rockin’ a 5’8” stature thanks to some stilettos. It’s gotten so bad that I actually saw a pair of Naturalizer flats and said “Oh those are cute!” FML.

I’ve done some research online, and I’ve read it can take anywhere from a year to never for your ankle to feel back to normal. I ran into a woman in the elevator who had surgery on both her ankles 25 years ago and she said she still has issues. Le sigh.

It’s frustrating because I want to be back to working out four to five times a week, but it seems the ankle can only handle three, maaaaaybe four on a good week. A lot of days, after a long day of commuting downtown and walking a lot, it’s just not up for a workout. Oh yeah, it also depends on the weather. I've become a human barometer. 

My short-term goals are to be able to run a 5K by the end of the summer and take a kickboxing class. It's not that I can't do the run, it's more that I won't know how my ankle will feel on race day. Long-term goal is to run another 10K.

Chach’s short- and long-term goals for me is to break another bone so  I can stay home all day with him. Here he is performing his new trick of sitting on the top stair in hopes of tripping me on the way down.