Marital Law

Me:  I just want it on the record that I am quite fond of you.

Mr. Misha:  Noted.  I am fond of you too.

Me:  I just wanted that on the record.

Mr. Misha:  I think you've been watching too much Law and Order

Me:  I OBJECT!

Mr. Misha:  Sustained.

Lost in Translation

Much to the dismay of our crabby next door neighbor, Mr. Misha and I often holler stuff at each other from different rooms.


Usually it is stuff like, "Are you hungry?" or "Did you feed the dogs?"


But sometimes it is goofy stuff like "I fucking love my wife!"  or "My husband is the cutest husband in the world!"  or "Why are these dogs so goofy? Do you think we should give them back?"


On rare occasions it is something important, "You're supposed to be at your doctor's appointment RIGHT NOW!"  or "I'm gonna go get you coffee before you leave for work!" 


Yesterday, Mr. Misha yelled something from his man cave and I completely misunderstood him.




What he actually said: "On the 28th Flight of the Conchords are going to be in Berkeley!"


What I thought he said: "On the 28th the cocker needs to be in a burka!"


I have no explanation.

There Is A Price To Pay When You Borrow My Vehicle

Once upon a time, Mr.Misha went up to Sacramento to see his mom.  Since his car was in desperate need of tires, he took the Mishamobile.  With his iPod hooked up in the car, a bottle of fizzy water and a pack of smokes...he took off for Sacto.

At one point, he encountered heavy traffic.  So, he rolled the windows down, opened up the sunroof and turned his music up.  As he cruised along Hwy 80 at 5mph, he noticed a couple of hot, young chicks checking him out.  He didn't think anything of it and kept driving.  A few moments later, the girls were even closer to him and they were waving and smiling at him.  He looked around to see who they were waving at and was very surprised that it was him.

They played cat and mouse in the bumper to bumper traffic. The girls would fall behind for a while and then would catch up.  Each time, the girls were waving and giving him the thumbs up.  Each time they passed, it puffed Mr. Misha's ego up a little more. 

Then the traffic started to break up and everyone was able to accelerate to the speed limit.  Mr. Misha could see the girls coming up from behind him.  As they flew by, they waved and smile at him one last time.  That was when he saw it.

The girls had one of the same bumper stickers that I do! It's pink and it has one simple statement:

I SUPPORT PERINEUMS

Yo, Yo, Yo! Forget The Four Horsemen. Yeah, Boyz!

Of all of us in my little family, Mr. Misha, Mimi the cocker spaniel, Harley the girl pug and me, I am the tolerant one.  Mimi doesn't like anyone or anything in HER backyard and she has no problem telling everyone about it with her little bark.  Harley, while she may snore, snort, burp and snarfle loudly, is quite disturbed and offended by the farts, burps or stomach growlings of others.

Mr. Misha, although he is getting better, has little patience or tolerance for anything. He yells at the remote control and throws it went it doesn't work.  He gets road rage, yelling and cussing when some injustice is done while on the road.  When clients started calling with Vista related computer problems, I thought he was going to have a stroke or punch Bill Gates in the nards. His bellows are quite scary to someone who doesn't know him. I know that he is really a big softy, but the dogs still run and hide between my feet when their daddy starts yelling.

I am the one who is afraid to flip someone off on the freeway, because they might chase me down and shoot me or beat me up (that actually happened to me, but that is another story for another time).  I am the one that talks about Karma. I remind him that you get back what you give, so it is better to put the good shit out in order to get the great shit back.  My ever-growing faith in the theory of "What comes around goes around" is what probably keeps me from committing an act of violence a few times a week. I am the one that usually lets stuff roll off my back. I am the patient one in the family.

Usually.

Saturday was a different story.

Saturday, Mr. Misha was the voice of reason.

At least for a little while.

On the other side of our little driveway in front of our home, separated by a honeysuckle-covered fence, is a private school. When we first moved here, I went to the school's website to check out the curriculum. It's a pretty serious school, I mean, they teach the kids LATIN. So these kids are there to learn and are generally a very well behaved bunch. They always holler, "Thank you!" when I toss the occasional stray ball back over the fence.

Every once in a while they do get a little rowdy during their recess, but I figure that if I was ten years old and just spent an hour conjugating Latin verbs, I would need to run around the black top screaming like a banshee. So I don't get to bent out of shape when one of the little conjugators wakes me from my daytime slumber during the week.

On weeknights and weekends, the school allows an Evangelical Church to use the school for services, events, and fundraisers.  These folks are loud. They have loud cars, loud kids, they are all loud talkers. When I take the pooches for walks in the evening, I hear all the gossip about the congregation.  I am pretty sure that my miserable, crabby, old neighbor, Charlotte, has called the cops on them for their loud talking late at night.

Saturday, at the stroke of noon, I heard a roar of applause and a man offering thanks to their creator for supplying the absolutely lovely day.  After the prayer, I heard the familiar clicking of drumsticks and a hearty "One, two, three, four". The music started, incredibly loud, off-key, rhythm deficient, Christian soft rock.  I took a deep breath. In fact, I took several deep breaths.

Then Mr. Misha came out of his man cave. He said he was going out to pick up some lunch and asked me what I wanted. I told him and he asked if there was anything else I wanted. My reply, "Yeah, if you get close enough to the fence, could you pull the plug on the sound system? I don't think I can take this Jesus music all afternoon."

He grinned and threw my words right back at me, "I don't know baby, don't you think it would be bad karma?"  I groaned and nodded. While he was gone, I told myself that it wasn't that bad.  I reminded myself that these people were expressing their joy and faith through song and to get pissed off and bitchy would only have negative effects on me and it sure as hell would not help the band play any better. So, I turned up the volume and went back to watching TV.

The music continued through lunch, adding a screechy girl and changing from Christian soft rock to twangy, Christian cow pie music. I was in hell. I thought the for sure Mr. Misha would crack, but he didn't. Then after a short break, a new group of "musicians" started up.  I was hoping that eventually I would hear some soulful, Gospel music.  No such luck. While Mr. Misha was cleaning out the carport, the most horrible sound blared across our front yard.

As I folded laundry, I waited to see how long it would take for my husband to lose it.  I was amazed how long he held out.  It took a few songs of records scratching and white kids yelling, rather than actual rapping, for him to reach his breaking point.  After four hours, Rap is what finally did him in.

If anyone ever needed to know what sound would signal the start of the apocalypse, it's Christian Gangsta Rap.

Heaven help us all.

What Did You Call Me?

We seem to have an issue with names in our family. I have about 4 or so names that I will answer to and Mr. Misha has at least 5. I am not talking about pet names, I am talking about names our family, friends, co-workers and acquaintances call us. We are not criminals. We do not have records. We are not in the witness protection program. It just happens that I have a very common first name, so I got a few nicknames. My husband on the other hand, he has a stage name, a Polish name, his legal name, his other stage name and his married name- Mr. Misha.

It gets even more ridiculous with our dogs. Both of our dogs are from rescue. We didn't get to choose their names, they came with them. Our Cocker Spaniel's name is Mimi and our Pug's name is Harley. They weren't names we would have chosen for them, so consequentially they have received a long list of alternative names while living with us.

If I list them in a evolutionary kind of way, one can see how the names developed.




Harley:
Pug
Puglet
Pugnacious Bean
Harley Bean Barley Corn
Butter Bean
Baby Headed Pug
The Dutches Of Snarfleshire
Adopted Chinese Baby from Szechwan Province
Dim Sum Dog
Ching Chong China Pug (not Politically Correct, I know)
Mrs. Swan
Crotchety Broad
Bolivian Fruit Bat
Gollum
Pug Roast




Mimi:
Meemers
Meems
Meemarino
Cocker
Cockie Spannel
Cocker Spannel Channel
Cocker Doodle Doo
Crockodile
Wigglebutt
Princess Wigglebutt of Cocker Doodle Doo
Velcro Cocker
Needy
Chenille Afghan Dog
Leggy Blond Supermodel Dog
Cocker Chops
Pin Nosed Cocker
Lamba
Jeebus Lamba
They seem to answer best to their actual names and their breed. The poor dogs are probably so confused.

Eye Popping Television

Behold, the cuteness that is our little girl pug, Harley. She also goes by Puglet, Bean or The Dutchess of Snarfleshire. We are a bit ridiculous about our dogs. So it is no surprise that if there is a show on about our breed of dogs, we will watch it.























The other day, Mr. Misha and I were watching this video about Pugs:



Everything was fine until we got to the part about the eyeballs. Mr. Misha has a thing about eyeballs. He doesn't like to talk about them. He doesn't want to touch them or see them touched. And when this show started talking about how Pug's eyeballs are known to POP OUT- he almost lost it. It really traumatized him.

Now, every once in awhile, I will hear him in the other room petting our little pug and saying to her, "Don't worry, Daddy won't squeeze you too hard. I won't make your eyeball pop out." Thank goodness she doesn't understand English.

Happy Birthday Mr.Misha

Today is Mr. Misha's birthday. He is turning 45. I found out on our first date that he was born at the hospital that I now work at, birthing babies. The first time I met his mom, she told me the story of his birth. It is quite cute, especially when you hear it in her Polish accent. So that is how I decided to write it, in her words.
















"Honey, za pains kept comink and I kept pooooshink. One time, before za next pain, an announcement came ofer za loud zpeaker; 'Lady and Gentleman, General Mac Arthur has joost die'. Well, I could not think, za pain come again and I must poosh. Zo, I am poooshink and poooshink, and zen, ze doctor he say 'Mrs. Knee-Klev-Itch, you have ze leetle general!' And zere was Pawel. Bud he deed not look like general to me, he look like za colt. Like leetle horse on my bellie, wit arms hangink off one of my sides and legz hanging off zee ozzer side. I am not big wooman, and Pawel was BIG boy. When Stan make to za hospital, he get so exzited that we have boy after two girl.....he forget he is on third floorz and walk right into window, knock himself out!"

Happy Birthday Husband and Thank You Emilia, for birthin' your son.

Ode To Mr. Misha

Why does Mr. Misha rock harder than Bon Jovi you ask?

He makes me laugh so hard that my cheeks and stomach hurt the next day.

The whole " rat in the house" incident.

When he wakes me up for work, he does it with "MY" Starbucks drink in his hand.

He purposely doesn't fart in front of me (he has farted in his sleep, but was completely apologetic/embarrassed about it).

His family is so nice, you don't say fuck in front of them. My family is so screwed up, that you have to say fuck in front of them. He loves that about my family.

He lets me pimp him out for my friends computer problems and never complains.

He didn't stare at my boobs on our first date.
If it is really busy at the hospital and none of the nurses have time to eat, I can call him at anytime in the middle of the night.....and he will go buy food for the WHOLE department.

He went to a sushi restaurant (he hates sushi) and bought food for my patient whose baby just died.

He built me a computer and gave it to me on our second date.

He likes a woman who can burp, LOUD!

He head-butted my Uncle John at our wedding to keep him from fighting with my Cousin Larry and it worked, Uncle John just laughed.

He loves kids and dogs, but is not fond of cats. Which works out great since I am deathly allergic to cats.

He composes and sings the best songs to our dogs, my mom, our friend's children and me, all of the time and on the spur of the moment!

He doted on our 86 year old neighbor, Babe. She had a crush on him and even smacked him on the ass from time to time!

He tolerates my self-diagnosed OCD.

He compliments my cooking.

His "Fanta" dance.

I once had a patient who said she did "an 8 ball a day", I had NO IDEA what that meant. So, I called him......he told me how much that weighed and about how much it would cost.

He has taken really good care of me since I was injured last April.

When he noticed that the pain medication was making it unsafe for me to walk to the kitchen safely, he gave me a tambourine to shake when I wanted something to eat or drink.

Flock Together

A conversation between me and Mr. Misha today:


Me: Look at those two birds, they look like they are fighting mid-air.

Mr. Misha: They were probably fucking.

Me: But it's not mating season. They fuck in the spring, not in the winter.

Mr. Misha: I think those birds are Mid-air Winter Fuckers.

Who Knew? (Misha is mad about ballroom, again)

The first time I ever saw Mr. Misha dance was on our wedding day. It never came up during our courtship. I knew he loved music, I knew he had rhythm, but I was a little worried that I would dance with him once on our wedding day and that would be it.

Little did I know that I had married a Dancin' Machine. With the first song, he was out on the floor shakin' his booty and having a great time. Even 4 years later, people still talk about how much fun they had dancing with Mr. Misha. It was great.

Monday night was the season premire of Dancing With The Stars. As usual, Mr. Misha retired to the Man Cave while I watched the first show of the season with glee. Every once in a while he would come out and take a peak, but for most of the evening, he stayed away. I loved the show. One of my favorites was retired NFL Defensive Tackle, Warren Sapp, "The Quarterback Killa". I have a thing for big, bald guys with big smiles. I voted for him, hoping I would see him dance on Tuesday night.

Last night, I had to work. It turned out that my patient was a fan of DWTS too. Since she was resting comfortably after her epidural, she turned on the show. While I charted and titrated her IV drips, she and her family oohed and aahed over the costumes and dance moves. I saw snippets of the show, but I knew I had set the TiVo, so I made sure my main focus was the nursing care of my patient.

Then suddenly, my pocket started to vibrate. I excused myself from the room and took out my iPhone to see who was texting me so much. I had multiple text messages from girls who had been at our wedding that simply read, "Warren Sapp reminds me of Mr. Misha". That explains why he is one of my favorites this year!

For those of you who didn't see DWTS, here are Warren's two performances:

The Cha Cha

The Quickstep

Lancelot, Eat Your Heart Out

When Mr. Misha and I were newlyweds, he worked for a company located about 2 1/2 hours away from our home in Napa. The commute was too grueling to do everyday, so Mr. Misha started looking for a cheap room to rent close to his office. I was amazed how quickly he found a place. He would be sharing a house with two guys named Rick and Dan.

He told me he found them on craigslist and that they were both single, gay men. He said he thought they would be the most appropriate housemates for a newly-wedded man. He didn't want me to worry about late night keg parties or girls hanging around the house all the time. I could have cared less because I trust him, but his intent was sweet. It was a pretty nice arrangement. Mr. Misha's room was just like his "Man Cave" at home and the rest of the house was clean and orderly. The three guys got along well. Dan had a big Bull Mastiff named Tess. She and Mr. Misha became fast friends. Mr. Misha helped the guys with their computer problems and they fed him. I was looking forward to meeting them.

Around Christmas time, I went down to the Silicon Valley for Mr. Misha's company Holiday party. I was greeted at the door by Tess and Rick. As I rubbed Tess' belly and scratched her ears, Rick went on and on about how much he loved having Mr. Misha as a housemate. He became extremely animated as he told me how Mr. Misha "saved" him.

"One evening I was cooking a little something in the kitchen, a little something, not too heavy because it was late. Anyway, I must have been clarifying butter or something but all of a sudden, this horrific loud squealing noise started in the kitchen. I was so scared; I had no idea where it was coming from! I just froze. I was about to faint from the horrible sound when, like a night in shining armor, your gallant husband came out of his room, grabbed a broom and jousted some contraption from the ceiling and the noise stopped! I don't even want to think what would have happened if my knight, your husband, hadn't been there to rescue this damsel in distress!"

That's Mr. Misha: Rock-n-Roller, Reverend, Computer Genius and Jouster of smoke detectors.

Home Of The Whopper.

As you get older, the things that are really important to you become clearer. After wasting most of my 20's dating Evil Steve, I sat down and made a list of what I was looking for in a mate. Over time, a series of hysterically awful dates and an abrupt and incredibly sad ending of a relationship, I had perfected my list.

I wanted someone who was tall, at least over 6 feet. I wanted someone who was chubby. I wanted a bald man with a goatee. I wanted a man who was smart, respectful and would make me laugh so hard I would pee my pants. The man could not be: a pilot, a cop, a doctor or a lawyer. It was a pretty simple list and was a good guide to help me weed out unsuitable prospects.

Mr. Misha fit the bill. After dating only 6 months, I must have fulfilled all of the items on his list too, because he proposed. I accepted and a few days later we went to see his mom. She seemed very happy about the engagement, but she sent Mr. Misha out to run an errand and sat me down for a chat.

In her Polish accent, she warned me:
"Hunee, I vant to make sure you know vaht you are gettink into. Pawvel is goot boy. He is sveet boy. He only have 3 tings wrong vit heem, but zay are zee whapperz."

I started to feel a little scared, but I didn't stop her.
"Numbear wan, he is alvays late. If you vant heem to be somevars at 3 o'clock, you must tell heem it es 1 o'clock. Nevere tell heem ze real time or you vill nevere gets zare on times."

I already knew that, he had been 4 hours late for our first date and 2 hours late for our second.
"Numbear, two. He ees not goot vis de monee. He is like hees fazer. He thinks dat when monee get into hees hand it burn and he must spend it. Ven you are mar-eed, you must put screws to heem and you are in charge of monee."

Not a problem, he had already told me about that. I would be in charge of the money.
"Und numbear three. He know how to clean, I teach heem. But he don't do. He is messy all time. I tell him he has to be clean now if he have wife, but you need to put screw to him. Make him clean, don't follow heem around and clean for heem. Put screw to heem, he know how to clean."

After she was sure that I understood the extent of Mr. Misha's 3 whoppers, she seemed a little surprised that I still was willing to marry her son. I told her that her son had disclosed his whoppers to me and I knew what I was getting into. I tried to tell her about unconditional love and how I agreed to marry her son "as is", but she would not hear it. She just kept repeating to me, "Put za screws to heem!"

Six months later, we were married. In the spirit of marital harmony, our second bedroom had become "The Man Cave". The rules of the man cave were:

Keep the door closed and if the junk or stench of the man cave ever started to waft out to the rest of the house, Mr.Misha would have to clean the man cave. The plan worked out pretty well.

The following spring, we decided to start a family and adopted our beautiful cocker spaniel, Mimi. She was so sweet and became very attached to me. When I would come home from work in the morning, she would snuggle up in bed with me and sleep quietly all day.

After a busy night of birthin' babies, I came home and went straight to bed. After a few hours of deep sleep, I woke up abruptly when I rolled over in bed and felt something hard poking me in my side. I reached down and felt it. I couldn't tell what it was. I opened my eyes and realized that I had rolled over on a half-eaten, petrified hamburger.

I was completely grossed out. I jumped out of bed, threw the burger away and stripped my bed. I threw the sheets in the washer, took a quick shower, brushed the dog's teeth and re-made the bed. After some deep breathing and relaxation techniques, I was able to fall back asleep.

Several hours later, I was awakened again when something hard jabbed me in my side. I instantly jumped out of bed and saw a partially eaten, fossilized burrito. I had no idea where the dog was finding these things. As I took the sheets to the washer for a second time that day, I noticed the door to "The Man Cave" was ajar. I called Mr.Misha at work and told him about Mimi's discoveries. Through his laughter, he agreed that The Man Cave guidelines had been breached and he would be spending the weekend cleaning.

After he was finished purging the man cave, I made Mr. Misha call his mother and let her know that I had, as she recommended, "Put zee screw to heem".

A favorite New Year Eve memory

A few of my dot-comrades (Eleanor, Lauren J and Emiline) wrote "New Year's Eve" blog posts today.  Their posts reminded me of one of my favorite memories.

It was our first NYE as a married couple.  Still exhausted and poor from our wedding and Christmas, we were planning a quiet night at home.  A horrible turn of events changed our plans. To protect her privacy, I will not use her name.

She lost her baby.  She and her husband had been trying for quite a long time. She had wrapped the positive pregnancy test in a box to give to her husband.   She just didn't have miscarriage, but lost the baby and almost her own life in the process.  Because most of her friends are nurses, we had to "heal" her.  Once she was home from the hospital, each of us took a day to be in charge.  We brought dinner, we played with her 2 other children, and we did whatever she needed us to do.

Paul and I were assigned New Years Eve.  She had sent her husband hunting for the holiday, he reluctantly went. I made lasagna, garlic bread and salad. We bought some champagne and cheesecake. We headed over to her house.

As usual, her kids met Paul at the door.  He has some sort of magnetism that draws children to him.  Her girls were no different.  They wanted to show him their Christmas presents. One of the girls got a classical acoustic guitar.  She asked Paul to tune it. Paul and the girls stayed in the living room while she and I visited in the kitchen while dinner was heating up.  We had to force them to stop playing around and sit down to eat their dinner.

After dinner, another friend showed up at the door with her two girls.  Paul now had an audience of 4 little girls.  He started playing the guitar and singing. All the girls danced crazily around the living room.  He would stop, mid-song and yell "DEAD BUG!" The girls would instantly drop to the floor and flail their arms and legs in the air.  This went on for hours.

As midnight approached, we turned on the TV to have "Dick Clark"(I don't think it was him, but whoever it was) give us the countdown.  Paul and the girls went into the kitchen to get their pots and spoons.  With the TV full blast, Paul and the girls stood in the front yard and anxiously waited for the last 10 seconds.  Then it was time, at the top of their lungs they yelled out the last 9 seconds of the year.  At the strike of midnight, Paul and his gang of elementary school girls yelled "Happy New Year!" and ran around the front yard banging their pots. 

Paul decided that the celebrating should continue and loaded the four girls into my jeep, seat belted them in and took them around the neighborhood.  When they found a house that looked like it's occupants were asleep, he would put the car in park, the girls would get out of their seatbelts, stick their heads out the sunroof and scream "Happy New Year!" at the top of their lungs.  They would quickly jump back into their seats, click back into their seatbelts and search out their next victim.  As I sat in the house with the girl's mothers, we could hear their exclamations as they traveled from house to house.  It was the first time I saw her smile and it didn't seem forced. I was so glad I had met and married this goofy man.

I am happy to report that she got pregnant again and had another beautiful daughter.  It has been several years since that NYE, but those girls never forgot their night with "Crazy and Fun Uncle Paul".

Better to give than receive.

I have Tree Butchers in my backyard cutting down a 4-story tall Redwood tree....it's noisy work and the dogs think that these men are going to turn their chainsaws on us, so they keep barking and whining. I can't sleep, so I thought I would share a little bit of what I got/gave for Christmas, show you how awesome Mr. Misha is and get your thoughts on gift giving and recieving!
As a little kid, Christmas was all about family, food and presents. As a teen, it became just another day in my angst riddled life. As a young adult and new nurse, I started to get into Christmas again. I had the funds to buy presents. I had a home of my own to decorate, an address to send Christmas cards from. Unfortunately, I also had a job that required me to work on holidays. The holidays were better, but it just wasn't as great as it had been when I was a kid.

Then I met Mr. Misha and it came full circle, once again was about family, food and presents. But instead of being about getting presents, it became about giving them. I love buying for all of the nieces and nephews. I like finding something his mother will love. I like the look on Paul's face when he opens his gift. This year, I got him ...

Ibanez V Series V70CE Dreadnought Cutaway Acoustic-Electric Guitar

He loved it! He opened it on Christmas Eve, and of course...his family wanted a song.

My filming, Polish translating and movie editing techniques leave much to be desired,
but you get the idea. A good time was had by all.

Because I don't like to open presents in front of everyone, Paul gave me my present when we were at home, just us and the pooches. It was a musically themed Christmas for the Misha's, cuz I got this:

So now my instrument collection now consists of all of this:

I wonder where one goes for adult triangle/tambourine/guiro/cowbell/percussion egg lessons? What I lack in rhythm and technique...I make up for in enthusiasm!

Mr. Misha also gave me a 1GB memory card for my camera. I won't go through every gift exchanged, but I have to show you one more....

In an effort to get me to clean more, my mom gave me these really cool rubber gloves.

So are you weird like me and get embarrassed opening your presents in front of everyone?

Do you tear open the wrapping or carefully unwrap your gifts?

Whaddya get from Santa? For Channukah?

What was your favorite gift you gave?

Is it better to give or recieve?

Dawgs

So, I have to be back at work in less than 7 hours. I can't sleep and I am having a muscle spasm on one side of my back and it is really fucking annoying. While I am waiting for the drugs to kick in...

Here is a picture of my dogs:
Mimi, The Cocker Spaniel and Harley, The Pug.



Here is Mimi sleeping with Mr. Misha:




Harley is not a tranquil sleeper,
here is some video:
(Turn up your volume, LOUD)

Check out this video: zzz

That's it. I just wanted to share that ...I am off to bed!

PANIC! (on the airplane)

Mr. Misha and I had been wanting to visit Las Vegas for quite sometime. But being of the fair-skinned and squishy persuasion (we don't tolerate desert sunshine and heat well), we had to wait until the fall. When we found out that two other couples we dig were going on Veteran's Day weekend, we decided to book our trip.


The day before we were set to leave, our friend and adopted "Noni", Babe, passed away. Paul and I really didn't feel like partying in Vegas. I checked to see if we could postpone our flight and hotel reservations. Changing the plane tickets...no problem. Changing the room reservations, no such luck. So we talked with Babe's family and they told us to go. They reminded us that Babe loved traveling, gambling, cocktails and a good time. They told us she would be pissed off and would quite possible haunt us if we didn't go and have a good time. We decided to go and party in Babe's honor.


I woke up early Friday morning with puffy eyes, lingering tears and a headache after Thursday's events. I finished packing, showered and dressed and then headed to

for my usual drink. I decided to get Mr. Misha some coffee and a snack too. He likes the egg salad sandwiches from Starbuck's,

so I picked one up along with a butter croissant for myself. I got home, woke him up and we had our breakfast together. We drove to Erika's house. She was going to drive us to the airport and then patrol the greater Sacramento area for the weekend riding in the "Misha-mobile".


Erika dropped us safely at the airport and we checked our bags and headed through airport security. All of a sudden, Paul didn't feel good. He said his stomach was upset and wanted some meds for it. I went and bought some water and tums. He took them, along with some pepcid I had in my purse. I was thinking I could nip this ailment in the bud. He seemed okay as we boarded the plane.


As soon as we reached cruising altitude, something happened to my husband. He looked pale, he started to sweat, he kept clenching and unclenching his left hand. He told me he was nauseous. I started to freak out. These symptoms, added with his family history of cardiac problems......made me think he was having a heart attack. I took his pulse, it seemed fine. But there was no way to be sure without putting him on a cardiac monitor. I didn't want to panic the flight attendant, so I just waited. Paul just kept looking paler and paler. He said he had to go to the bathroom. The other guy in the row and I got up and let him out. It seemed like he was in the bathroom forever. Our aisle-mate tried to distract me with small talk. It turns out he is the stage manager for a Ska Band called Reel Big Fish. He was a really nice guy and offered to go and check on Mr. Misha for me. As he got up to go check on him, Paul was on his way back to his seat.


He sat down and seemed okay for a moment. Then he grabbed the airsickness bag and hurled. I have to say, my husband is the best airplane puker in the whole world. He did it silently, with no spillage and sealed the bag quickly so no one smelled it. I was still really scared, but proud of my husband's stealth-puking abilities. The RBF dude kindly got the attention of the flight attendant, who gave us a garbage bag and some extra airsickness bags. Paul thanked him with an apologetic look on his face and RBF dude replied; "Dude, no worries. I travel with a band. I have seen it all."


Paul continued to look like shit. He continued to clench and unclench his left hand. I knew that airplanes were outfitted with AEDs (Automated Electrical Defibrillator) and you need some room to use one of those things. I had no idea where I was going to find the space!

                      
The last 20 minutes of the flight were scary. We would be landing at Long Beach International Airport for a 1 hour layover. I just wanted to get him off the plane. I knew if I could get him on land, I could get paramedics to him quickly. I also knew that we had family in southern California, so if I had to get him to a hospital, I would have some family support.

We landed and de-planed. I got Paul situated in a quiet area and went to inquire about a first aid station, local hospitals and changing our flight. Paul continued to puke in the barf bags I got on the plane. He didn't want to go to the hospital (which is quite common for someone having a heart attack). I tried to convince him that he needed to be seen by a doctor. He wouldn't have any of it. He said he just wanted to get to our hotel room in Vegas and lay down. While Paul went to the bathroom, I changed our flight for a later one and texted our friends to tell them we would be late or might not be there at all.

When he came back from the bathroom, he told me not only was he still puking...but now had problems down south too. I instantly felt relieved. He seemed a bit annoyed that I was happy that he had diarrhea. I told him that the added symptom reassured me that he was not having a heart attack, but probably food poisoning. I was relieved. I medicated him with some anti-nausea medication, some Immodium and some Tylenol. I figured he would be safe to fly in a few hours.

The flight to Vegas was uneventful, thank goodness. We rescued our baggage that had arrived 6 hours before us and headed to our hotel. Paul still wasn't feeling great....but I was pretty sure he would be okay. I was also pretty sure that he would never eat another egg salad sandwich from Starbucks.

Stay tuned for the next Vegas blog post tomorrow.

If you ever find yourself in a similar situation...

here is some info.

Heart Attack

Each year over a million people in the U.S. have a heart attack. About half of them die. Many people have permanent heart damage or die because they don't get help immediately. It's important to know the symptoms of a heart attack and call 9-1-1 if someone is having them. Those symptoms include

* Chest discomfort - pressure, squeezing, or pain

* Shortness of breath

* Discomfort in the upper body - arms, shoulder, neck, back, stomach

* Nausea, vomiting, dizziness, light-headedness, sweating

Food poisoning

Definition 

Food poisoning is the result of eating organisms or toxins in contaminated food. Most cases of food poisoning are from common bacteria like Staphylococcus or E. coli.

Symptoms 

The symptoms from the most common types of food poisoning generally start within 2 to 6 hours of eating the food responsible. That time may be longer (even a number of days) or shorter, depending on the toxin or organism responsible for the food poisoning. The possible symptoms include:

* Nausea and vomiting

* Abdominal cramps

* Diarrhea (may be bloody)

* Fever and chills

* Weakness (may be serious and lead to respiratory arrest, as in the case of botulism)

* Headache

Treatment 

You will usually recover from the most common types of food poisoning within a couple of days. The goal is to make you feel better and avoid dehydration. Drink any fluid (except milk or caffeinated beverages) to replace fluids lost by diarrhea and vomiting. Children should be given an electrolyte sold in drugstores. Don't eat solid foods until the diarrhea has passed, and avoid dairy, which can worsen diarrhea.

If you have diarrhea and are unable to drink fluids (for example, due to nausea or vomiting), you may need medical attention and intravenous fluids. This is especially true for young children. If you take diuretics, you need to manage diarrhea carefully. Talk to your doctor -- you may need to stop taking the diuretic while you have the diarrhea. Medications should NEVER be stopped or changed without discussing with your doctor and getting specific instructions.

For the most common causes of food poisoning, your doctor would NOT prescribe antibiotics. Antibiotics can actually prolong diarrhea and keep the organism in your body longer.

If you have eaten toxins from mushrooms or shellfish, you will need to be seen right away. The emergency room doctor will take steps to empty out your stomach and remove the toxin.

Expectations (prognosis) 

Full recovery from the most common types of food poisoning usually occurs within 12 and 48 hours. Serious complications can arise, however, from certain types of food poisoning.

Complications 

Dehydration is the most common complication. This can occur from any of the causes of food poisoning.

A Long Goodbye. (updated)

Originally posted on Thursday November 8th @ 11 am PST.

This is Cornelia. But no one calls her that. She was the youngest child in her family, so everyone just calls her "Babe". Her parents are from Northern Italy. "So far north, we are practically Swiss!" as she would say.  Her parent's immigrated to the US and settled on the coast of Northern California.  Her family struggled through the depression and Babe left school in her early teens to work.  She cooked for the cowboys at the ranch where her older brothers worked. Babe married in her late teens and had two children, a girl and then a boy.  Her daughter had two children; both of them are good friends. Her grandchildren have given her three beautiful granddaughters. Babe outlived two husbands, her son and all of her siblings except one of her sisters. 

How do I know all of this?

Well, for the past 4 years she has been my neighbor.  Her family bought the duplex next to Babe's so she could have someone she knew to keep an eye on her.  It just happened to be at the time when Paul and I got engaged and were looking for a place to live.  It was a good deal for both parties and Paul and I moved in about 2 hours after her granddaughter got the keys. For the most part, it was a pretty easy gig.  Until this year. 

After 70+ years of living on her own and by her own rules, Babe's mind started to give out on her.  It started off with harmless absent-mindedness that is to be expected in an octogenarian and escalated to where she could not be left alone. When Babe stopped driving, one of the things she really missed was breakfast at IHOP.  When my husband Paul found this out, he set out to remedy that.  That started our somewhat weekly "Breakfast with Babe". 

I would get off work in the morning and stop by Babe's to see if she was up.  Most of the time, not only would she be up, but she would be dressed, lipstick on, hair combed, purse on her lap and cane in her hand and sitting in her chair waiting. I would wake up Paul and then go get the car. Paul would walk Babe to the car and get her buckled in the front seat and we would take off.  

When we would arrive, Paul would open her door and help her get out.  Seeing him dote on her and help her was so sweet.  She loved the attention and it made Paul feel good too.  When we would get into IHOP, we were immediately greeted.  The hostess, the wait staff, and the bus staff...they all knew Babe by name. Despite that she could not remember most things, she knew all of their names too. They all welcomed her with hugs and kisses.  Paul immediately dubbed Babe, "The Duchess of IHOP".  It didn't matter how many people were waiting for a table, we were always seated immediately.  

After a few times there, they knew our preferences too.  We wanted to sit at a table, not a booth.  Babe would have coffee, Paul a Diet Pepsi and water for me until I made up my mind.  Babe would have the "International Passport" with Swedish Pancakes and Lingonberries. Paul would have the Spinach and Mushroom omelet with griddlecakes. I was always the hold-up; I never found my regular dish. 

While we ate, Babe would tell us stories about her life. The same stories, OVER AND OVER.  Paul and I can recite the directions to her parent's hometowns. We know the stories of her romance and married life with her first husband. We can tell you all about her life on the farm, her son who loved to swim and how wonderful her granddaughters are.

The trip home from IHOP was pleasant and usually was capped off with Babe trying to pick up on Paul.  My favorite Babe pick up line was: "Next time, I will pay for breakfast! Or...Paul, you and I could work it out in trade". Paul would just smile, let her take his arm as he walked her home and then give her a kiss on the cheek before he left.

We haven't gone to IHOP with Babe since September.   We tried to go last week, but she wasn't up to it.  Father Sean came and gave Babe The Sacrament of the Sick yesterday.  The hospice nurse is coming in a few hours.  The fact that Babe is passing away isn't surprising, she is 86.

I just wish we could have had one more "Breakfast with Babe".

UPDATE, Thursday 11/8 @ 2pm PST:Babe just passed away a few hours ago, peacefully in her sleep.

Thanks to all of you for your kind words. Please keep her family in your thoughts over the next few days.

How Paul Became Mr. Misha.

Okay, so there have been some requests to hear how Paul became Mr. Misha. I wish I could find our emails that we exchanged...they are truly hysterical. But alas, after transferring my documents from computer to computer over the years and also going from PC to Mac...some stuff has been lost. I will try and do my best to give you a taste of what transpired. Here goes:

I was cruising around match.com looking for my future husband. The pickings were a little slim within a 50-mile radius of Napa. So, I widened my search. On the list, was a guy with the display name of "Pete Moss". He had a devilish grin and his quote was something like "my mama raised me right". I read his profile and thought, "This guy has potential.” Match.com had just come out with this new thing called a wink. You could wink at someone and let him or her know that you were interested in him or her. It is a way to communicate your interest without composing a witty email. 

So I winked at "Pete Moss".

I expected him to email back or ignore it. Paul didn't email me- instead he winked back. What I didn't know is that it was 4 days after payday and Paul was broke. Paul will tell you himself, he is the richest man in the world for the first three days after payday and the poorest for the next ten. I was a day late. I was a little annoyed; I had just worked 4 nights in a row and wasn't feeling particularly witty. He was forcing my hand. So I wrote back and called him a stinker.

While I was calling him a stinker, Paul was trying to borrow enough money to renew his lapsed membership. 

Paul found the money and wrote me back. He wrote that he had done some Internet searching and found out that I had witnessed "a whacking in Cotati". He wrote that I would be going into the witness protection program, would soon be taken to a desert island and the FBI needed some information on my likes and dislikes to make my stay more comfortable.

I can't remember all of the questions, but here are some: 

10 favorite movies, 

10 favorite TV shows,

10 favorite books,

10 favorite albums, 10 favorite foods. I wrote back and explained to him that when I was in Cotati, I was a drunk bridesmaid and that I was rolling around on the pool table with the bride, reenacting the "Like a Virgin" video. I could barely remember the name of the groom the next day, let alone testify about a whacking. I went ahead and answered his questions. I found out later that he was a little hesitant to continue corresponding with me, because I was "A Reader". 



We emailed back and forth for about a week and then progressed to telephone calls. He was cracking me up. I was really digging him. We finally agreed to meet and he volunteered to come up to Napa for our date. 

I was house sitting for a nurse colleague of mine. So, I felt pretty safe having him come to HER house.

I had my chaperone all set up but Paul foiled my plan. He was FOUR HOURS LATE! He kept emailing and messaging me to let me know he was going to get there eventually. 

When he finally arrived, all forlorn and apologetic, I couldn't find a chaperone. So, I risked it and went out to dinner with him.

He seemed nice, but he wouldn't look me in the eye. He kept averting his eyes when he would talk with me. I didn't know what was up. I thought maybe he was trying not to stare at my chest. 

After dinner, we went back to the house. We sat in the living room and talked, for hours. Paul fell asleep, mid sentence, around 4 a.m. I woke him up and put him in the spare bedroom. There was no way he could drive back to San Jose. I went to the master bedroom, locked the door and went to sleep. 



About 6 hours later, I hear a knock at the door. It is Paul, with coffee and donuts. So, we sit out in the backyard, drinking coffee, eating donuts and smoking' cigarettes. His phone rings, it is his mom. She asks him how his date went. He tells her "I am still on it, Mom". He then holds the phone so I can hear her reply...in her thick Polish accent she says, "Pawel, you were gentleman, yes?” I almost snorted coffee out my nose. Paul reassures his mother that he was a gentleman and slept in the spare room. Paul tells his mother he will call her later and hangs up. 



We spent about 4 more hours together. We drove to the house his parents owned in Napa when he was born. He made fun of my laptop and tried to make it run faster. He still never looked me in the eye.

UB40 Wrote A Song About This. (Profanity)

My nights and days get all screwed up after I have worked a few nights in a row. I try to stay awake when I get home in the morning and just take a nap in the afternoon. Then when Mr. Misha gets home from work, we can have dinner and spend the evening together before hitting the hay, thus...turning my internal clock back to "dayshift"

Sometimes, it doesn't work. I will go to bed with Mr. Misha and wake up at 3 or 4 am, WIDE AWAKE. I try and quietly do things in the front of the house to allow him to get some sleep. On one particular morning, I decided to cook. I had purchased a bunch of ground beef. I was going to brown it all, separate it into 1lb increments and put it in the freezer. When I needed it, for tacos (my husband likes tacos), or some other ground beef meal, I could just pull it out of the freezer and "Viola!"

So, I am in the kitchen, browning the meat. Our cocker spaniel, Mimi, is sitting at my feet praying to her little dog deity that I will drop all 10 lbs on the floor. While standing at the stove, I hear the doggie door open. I can't believe that Mimi has left her post! I look down, she hasn't! I walk towards the dining room and there I see it! It is a FUCKING RAT! A FUCKING RAT has come in Mimi's doggie door!

I must digress a bit.

I pride myself on being a cool chick. I can usually do most things myself.

I know how to: change my oil, find a stud in a wall to hang a heavy mirror, pitch a tent, drive a 4WD, change a tire, shoot a gun and Bar B Que a nice steak.

Things I want help with: reaching things on the top shelf, killing spiders bigger than a nickel (the squish grosses me out), opening jars, lifting the couch so I can vacuum under it.


The ONE thing I WILL NOT DO.........deal with fucking rodents!

So here it is, 4:30 on a Sunday morning and a FUCKING RAT is in my dining room. What do I do? I run screaming into the bedroom. I am running around the room like a fart in a windstorm screaming "THERE IS A RAT IN THE DINING ROOM. GET IT! GET IT!" I keep yelling this until he wakes up (if you know my husband, you know this takes a long time). He wakes up and sits straight up in bed and says, "What?" I repeat "THERE IS A RAT IN THE DINING ROOM. GET IT! GET IT!" He says, "Huh?" Again, I scream "THERE IS A FUCKING RAT IN THE DINING ROOM. GET IT! GET IT!"

He jumps up, puts on his boots and coat, and grabs his car keys and LEAVES THE HOUSE!

I barricade myself and the dog in the bedroom. I am wondering where my husband went and trying to figure out how to sterilize the entire house. I am sure that the whole house is now infested with the Hanta virus. Just then, the phone rings, it is Mr. Misha. I answer it and he says, "What am I doing?" I repeat, but this time I don't yell "There is a rat in the dining room, you have to get it. Go to the store and get something to get the FUCKING RAT out of the living room." He says "OK'" (Mr. Misha is not a big talker when he first wakes up).

For what seems like an eternity, Mimi and I stay huddled on the bed. I am imagining that my entire kitchen, dining room and living room are being over run by Ben, Wilbur, Templeton and any other celebrity rat I can think of. I am looking through my public health nurse textbook to see what diseases I am going to contract from this FUCKING RAT.

He finally returns. His shirt is buttoned wrong, his shoes are untied, and the hair on his head is sticking out and up, Bozo the Clown style. In his arms are three bags of various contraptions to catch a rat. He spent about $60.00 in Long's. He starts pulling out extension cords and hooking up all these ultra sonic rodent repellents. I am skeptical. I am not satisfied. I ask him to lift all of the furniture up and make sure that the rat has left. Of course, I am scared that the rat will come after me when he lifts the furniture up..............so, back to the bedroom for Mimi and me.

Finally, Mr. Misha gives me the "All Clear". I finish browning my meat; I put in the individual bags, place them in the freezer.............and start to sterilize the house.