I am so proud of both of my sons, I’ve used the old fashioned saying, “I’m so proud my buttons are popping off,” or something like that.
Sam has been a registered nurse for two years already and has worked on a rescue squad since he is 14. Critical care emergency medicine is his specialty.
Right now, he is 22 years old and working hard on his career while working in the busy Emergency Department at UVM up in Burlington, VT.
The next thing on Sam’s agenda was to become a paramedic. He entered a program called RN to Paramedic course.
He did 6 weeks of online learning on his own time then spent 2 weeks of practical training in Missouri.
He ran with rescue squads not only in Missouri, but Arkansas, Tennessee and on Indian reservations.
Sam told us he learned a lot, met a lot of great people and made friends for life. Who could ask for more in continuing ed?
He was the first one out of 20 to take and pass his written and practical exams. He likes to test right after since he is pumped up and wants to get it over with.
Now when he joins a rescue squad in his new area, he can run as a paramedic as well as when he’s visiting here in Arlington.
Many of the students in his class were taking the class for the same reason as Sam. They all want “fly” and want to be able to work per diem shifts or work full time at a medical flight agency as a nurse or paramedic.
There are many differences between what a nurse and paramedic can do on emergency flights. They can do either which gives them flexibility when picking up shifts.
They all will have to go to flight school before they can practice emergency medicine in the air. Sam said it’s a hard class with only a 50% pass rate the first time you take the exams.
It’s difficult knowing the correct dosages of medications which are different up in a helicopter or airplane. Also, whoever is onboard with the flight team is in a life or death situation.
There is so much important information they will need to learn and train for. He already has the adrenaline, compassion and the ability to stay calm to perform the job well.
I have no doubt he will do it. He doesn’t like to be the center of attention, but I am my kids biggest fan and wanted to share.
We started puppy classes at our vets last night. Marty and I need to be on the same page regarding adequately training Nelly. Frenchies are stubborn like bulldogs; you’d think they were German. I am married to one for over thirty years. LOL.
The class has ten puppies, most of which are large dog varieties. Nelly may be the smallest puppy in the group, but she was the ring leader. She wasn’t shy and wanted to play with her new friends during the getting-to-know-you time.
The instructor, Jen, told us to bring soft, easy-to-eat treats as they would be using them as a high-value reward. We bought Nelly a package of tiny treats, but she couldn’t eat them fast. That’s when I came up with the idea of making soft little treats for her and hard ones for Klaus.
We are taking everything we know from raising a bulldog along with friends with Frenchies advice and putting them on a seafood-only diet. A seafood diet for these types of dogs is necessary for their skin and allergies.
Klaus has been on a grain-free diet due to his allergies most of his life. Just a little bit can flare up infections in his ears, wrinkles, or feet. I hate being “that guy” that has to say when someone offers him a dog biscuit, “Oh, no, thank you, my dog is on a grain-free diet.” I don’t say gluten-free, like us.
I started reading blogs about homemade doggie treats recipes, seeing millions of ads popping up as I tried to navigate through the blog post to get to the recipe. I never hit the jump to the recipe button; as a fellow writer, I try to give the blogger a chance.
When I finally got to the recipes, they were not just long but included so many useless steps and fussing around. That is why the recipes I write are simple, easy to follow, and no bullshit.
Here is my recipe for soft and hard doggie treats without further ado.
Doggie Treats
Ingredients
1 3/4 Gram, besan or chickpea flour 1/2 cup Natural peanut butter without any sugar, artificial sweeteners, or salt 1/2 cup Canned pumpkin purée NOT pumpkin pie filling
Directions
In a medium bowl, combine the flour, peanut butter, & pumpkin. Mix with your hands until the dough is no longer sticky. Add more flour a little at a time if necessary.
With clean hands, turn the dough onto a floured worktop and knead until smooth. Use more flour if the dough is still sticky while kneading.
Wrap the dough with film and refrigerate for 30 minutes. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Dust your worktop with flour and roll the dough to 1/4-1/2 inch. Cut out shapes, a bench scraper, or a pizza wheel into squares or rectangles. You can reroll your scraps if using cookie cutters.
Lightly spray a sheet pan with pan spray. Place cookies 1/2 inch apart on the sheet pan.
For soft treats, bake for 5 minutes to see if they look baked but soft. Take out of the oven and let cool on the sheet pan.
For hard dog treats, bake for 20-30 minutes, depending on the thickness of your treats. Turn off the oven, leave the treats in the oven with the door closed continue to harden for another 20-30 minutes. This makes them hard without burning the bottom.
Doggie treats can be stored at room temperature. Use an air-tight jar or container for soft treats and one that isn’t air-tight for hard treats.
I haven’t had the energy or the will to cook or do baking, but today I did! I haven’t cooked a few dishes at once since our dinner party on January 29. Yikes!
Nelly got us up nice and early, at 5 am. My body clock switched when she joined our family. I crash into bed by 9:30 pm at the latest and fall right to sleep. It’s pretty amazing; sleep is so underrated.
I started by writing my own recipe and experimenting with soft training treats and doggie crackers using the same dough. This will be a separate post on Monday.
Next, I made my infamous tomato tart for Easter dinner at our friend’s house. Did I mention this is the first time in 33 years I’ve had to cook Easter Dinner?
Then, I made a classic French fluffy asparagus quiche for Easter breakfast tomorrow morning. OMG! I love fluffy quiche.
I made seared scallops for dinner with a white sine and lemon pan sauce, risotto, and sautéed asparagus, the leftovers from the quiche.
It was relaxing having a glass of wine, listening to a dinner party playlist, and slowly and lovingly stirring the risotto. I was taught to always use the same wooden spoon and stir the risotto clockwise.
I’ve been doing that for 25 years, and it always comes out perfect. There are no shortcuts when making risotto, and it’s not something you can rush. This is why risotto is such a popular dish in restaurants.
Dinner was incredible; I realized how much I missed cooking while I was sick. Marty kept saying how good it was. I know he missed my cooking for seven weeks. We threw things together that passed as substance. I was so sick I didn’t give a shit what I ate.
I had all eyes on me while I was prepping at my butcher block kitchen island.
I am feeling better every day. I was pleased with how much I accomplished being home alone with a puppy that is hell on wheels and into everything. Klaus is a good sport and is showing her the ropes.
Look for my post about my three-ingredient doggie treats recipe that is easy to make. I’ll show you how they came out. I am packaging some for my friend’s dogs. I’ll see tomorrow at Easter dinner.
Someone looks very serious and looks like a cat.Those blue eyes are really something.
This puppy has made me one of those doggie moms I never thought I’d be. Never say never, they say. I finally have a little “girl” in my life; my friend Jon says she will be one lucky dog. He’s right. I can’t wait to pick out some clothes for her when she’s full-size. 🤗
Klaus spent the afternoon making deliveries and running errands in Dorset & Manchester, VT with me. I’ve got color in my cheeks again and a smile. I had no issues making the deliveries which I couldn’t do last week.
Although this is Easter weekend, this is not a religious post, or have anything to do with Jesus, Rabbi, or Yeshua what I call Him.
This post is about me, and the rebirth I felt overnight after seeing the pulmonologist on Wednesday afternoon.
The pulmonary office had a cancellation, calling me at 8 am asking if I could be there at 2 pm. Wild horses couldn’t stop me.
I didn’t have time to be nervous days before the appointment. My original appointment was in April 26, which was still 3 weeks away.
I saw an older male pulmonologist which I wasn’t sure about the first 10 seconds. Then he spoke to me in a calm, father-like tone. The first thing he did was going over my complete medical history.
It’s really helpful now that I know my family’s medical history on my mother’s side and bits and pieces of my father’s. (Newcomers, I was adopted and speaking of my biological parents.)
I brought him up to date with the whole pneumonia situation and how I’ve noticed I’ve had breathing issues before I became ill such as climbing 2 flights of stairs and while performing at the 2 gigs at last year.
It all makes sense now. He showed me the three X-rays and cat scan, explaining everything he saw. This scarring happened before I had pneumonia he strongly surmised.
The doctor spent an hour with me, easing my worst thoughts. This wasn’t as bad as I thought.
The pulmonologist suspected the scarring in my lungs was most likely caused by the drug Humira I’ve been injecting for 5 years. He told me not to go back on it.
At the end of my appointment, the doctor prescribed a course of prednisone and a different inhaler to be used mornings & evenings.
Marty purchased me a device to blow into that creates oscillating positive pressure, in your airways and clears away mucus and improves your breathing.
In 6 weeks, I’ll have another cat scan to see if my lungs are improving. If not, I’ll be referred to a specialist at Dartmouth Hitchcock where my gastroenterologist is.
The pulmonologist can’t say for sure if this is only scarring even though that’s what he is thinking. He told me to keep in mind there is a possibility it could be pulmonary fibrosis.
The doctor was very nice made me feel comfortable. He gave me hope and told me not to worry so much. He also told me that I looked good and healthy.
Marty was relieved when I told him about my appointment. He told me, this is the turning point, you’re going to be fine and back to my normal self in no time.
I got a great nights sleep and woke up feeling different. A huge, heavy weight was lifted off my shoulders. I felt alive and had energy. I wasn’t consumed with worry and doubt.
I was so crippled with anxiety and fear it was as if they were holding my body in a straight jacket; that jacket is now removed and I am starting to feel like myself again. It’s amazing what the mind can do.
I realized upon waking, this was a rebirth for me in no uncertain terms. This was the turning point Marty spoke of.
I love Sunday mornings. It’s the one day we truly take off and relax. We also love making Sunday breakfast. The best part of Sunday breakfast is eating it at 9 or 10 am instead of our early weekday gulp-and-grab breakfast before spätzle production.
I loved Sunday mornings when I was growing up. I remember getting breakfast supplies on Saturday afternoons or evenings when we lived in Elizabeth, NJ. We lived there until I was almost ten years old.
Great Grandma in her dining room. The table always had silverware and plates on it since there was always food in the kitchen for guests.
I loved visiting my great-grandma’s house on Saturday nights. My Mema and the rest of my father’s family gathered there. They played music and sat around her long dining room table, smoking and talking. Not my great grandma and Mema, but my parents and my father’s cousins, Aunts, and Uncles.
That’s me telling a story in Great Grandma’s dining room.
I was in my glory when they played Italian music, and my great-uncles would play the spoons. I would dance with my cousins, run around and let great grandma feed us hotdog buttons she had in her housecoat pocket. Don’t be grossed out; her hanky was in the other pocket. Lol.
In Great Grandma’s parlor, I guess on a rainy day.
We would leave when it was dark out. It always felt late, but I loved being out at night. Seeing all the lights in the windows looked cozy and magical. I would look out my backseat window at the street lights lining the streets.
We would drive to a bagel shop and pick up fresh-out-of-the-oven bagels in different flavors; my favorite was egg. My dad would hand me the bag to hold. It was warm in my lap and smelled delicious.
Next, we drove down one of Elizabeth’s main streets and stopped under a bridge at a red light. I would start getting nervous when I realized where we were going.
There was an old man who stood under the bridge. He sold the Sunday papers early. I remember he had one of those coin thingies on his belt.
My dad would roll down the driver’s side window and hand the man a dollar bill. He would give my dad the paper hot off the presses and his change.
I honestly thought this man was a troll. He was little and hunched over. He wore a black sailor’s knit cap and wore black gloves with no fingers. He had a voice like he drank nails, and while I was intrigued, I was afraid of him. I can still see him in my mind’s eye.
On Saturday afternoons, my mother and I would pick up my other grandmother, Nana. My Grandpop was buried at Mount Olive Cemetary in Newark, NJ. It was located next to the Anheuser Bush plant. The plant had a light-up eagle that flew in the sky, or so it appeared.
On our way to the cemetery, we would make two stops; the first was a florist shop to get flowers for Grandpop’s grave. He always had a flag on his grave since he served in World War l.
Me with Nana and Grandpop in Warinanco Park in Elizabeth.
The second stop was Zimmerman’s bakery. It was a wholesale bakery with a door where people could go in and buy freshly baked bread. I can still smell that heavenly scent that filled the air.
After we picked out a colossal rye bread, I loved watching a burly-looking woman dressed in all white with a hairnet put the oval loaf into the slicing machine.
Next, the lady put it in a white waxed paper bag, my mom paid for it, and I carried it out to the car like a baby in my arms. Like the bagels, it was warm and smelled mouth-wateringly delicious.
That big loaf of bread would be divided, giving Nana a few slices, and the rest would be for Sunday breakfast which my dad would make, slathered with lots of butter and dippy eggs.
Holy shit! Until I found this sign, I thought the name of the cemetery was St. Olive, as I wrote. I didn’t change it, I like it as I remember it in my head.
At the cemetery, I would take the metal vase out of the ground at Grandpop’s grave and fill it with water from a nearby water spigot giving the flowers we brought a drink. Nana would sob at his gravesite, and seeing her cry upset me. I would hold her hand and tell her it was ok.
After we left the cemetery, we would all eat slices of Zimmerman’s rye bread. I love the heel and would put it in front of my teeth and pretend they were false teeth like Nana’s. I was in the backseat, so my mother couldn’t see me and yell at me for playing with my food.
In front of Nana & Grandpop’s apartments on Easter in 1968.
On many of those Saturdays, I stayed at Nana’s house. My mother, who used to clean Nan’s apartment since she was blind, decided I was old enough to clean Nana’s apartment while I was there.
This was long before my role as Cinderella began when we moved from Elizabeth to Iselin. I didn’t mind; I would clean and talk to Nana the whole time. One week Nana told me she lost her mother’s ring in the apartment.
While scrubbing her toilet, at 6 or 7 years old, I found her ring on the rim of the toilet bowl when I lifted the seat. I yelled, “Nana! I found your ring!” Nana cried and hugged me.
Nana’s ring that I found. I took it out today, and I am wearing it. It spins around on my finger as it did on hers.
She gave me that ring when I was older, telling me I deserved to have it more than anyone. I never told my mother she gave it to me; she would have taken it away in a fit of rage one day. I keep it locked up in a safe. It is platinum and has tiny little diamond chips in it.
After cleaning, I would lead Nana into the elevator and go downstairs to take her to mass in her building. Afterward, I walked her carefully to the corner store around the block. I was very careful and walked slow. I would tell her when there was a step or crack in the sidewalk.
When I think about it now, that was a little crazy for us to do since Elizabeth was a dangerous place to live even back then. I was responsible for my age, and she trusted me more than anyone she told me.
The corner store had a yucky smell and wood shavings on the floor. I held my breath when we went in there but had to gasp for air and get a big whiff. I knew it was impolite to hold my nose, plus I had to walk Nana through the narrow aisles with her shopping cart she brought from home.
Even though I was only 6 or 7 years old, she would talk me through making dinner for us—simple things like Spam, grilled cheese, tuna, or egg salad sandwiches. I liked standing on a step stool and cooking on her electric stove. I set the table, she washed the dishes, and I would dry.
Anheuser Bush Plant and the eagle that lights up at night.
At bedtime, we would look out her 8th-floor apartment window, wave to the Anheuser eagle, and say, “Good night, Grandpop.” Nana would cry. She missed him so much. I slept on his side of the bed and told her it was ok. We would say the rosary in the dark; I would fall asleep after the first round of Hail Marys.
These are special memories for me and my time with my Nana. Writing about them made me cry since I miss her and our relationship. My mother was jealous of our relationship, so I never told her anything we did.
The same thing went for the games Mema played with me and that she rubbed my back when I was falling asleep. One night I asked my mother if she would rub my back like Mema. Mistake. She yelled at my dad to have a talk with his mother and stop doing that. What a bitch!
This is me with Mema, Pa, my father, and my mother.I wonder why Pa is the only one smiling?
Come to find out, Nana was merely a babysitter to my mother, just like Mema, on Saturday nights. The joke was on her since I loved spending the night at their homes. I kept them company; they treated me with respect, love and made me feel special.
Nana, Mema, and Great Grandma in their older, thinner years. Nana continued wearing her glasses until the end, even though she couldn’t see from them since 1970.
Our boys didn’t get the chance to have any special Saturday night memories like mine, but we always had Sunday breakfast together. We rarely went out for breakfast; I would make something special every Sunday.
I hope Noah and Sam remember some of that now that they are older. If luck is in my favor, I can do the same for my grandchildren someday and let them have a sleepover with us.
This morning I made Marty and me cannoli pancakes that were delicious. I started with chocolate chip pancakes. I used dark chocolate because I didn’t want them to be too sweet. Marty prefers semi-sweet chocolate, but tough shit, I told him. 😜
I made a whipped topping with whipping cream, ricotta cheese, and a touch of sugar. I topped the pancakes with warm maple syrup, ricotta whipped cream, and chopped pistachios.
I am always adding dishes to the menu in my made-up restaurant called, “Six and under.” This would make the menu, but Marty pointed out that people would prefer semi-sweet chocolate chips. You all know me well enough by now to imagine what I replied.
Thanks for going down my breakfast memories path with me. I hope you enjoyed the photos I dug out. Lol. Have a great rest of your Sunday and upcoming week.
We live in a world that is hard for many people to understand. They don’t get the whole they/them pronouns or know what non-binary even means.
While it makes perfect sense to many, it’s harder for some people to understand. Now that I know people who identify as something different, I do my best to use the pronoun of their choice. It was hard to do at; first, I have to admit. It was harder for Marty, so he stopped using pronouns altogether.
Five years ago, I had no idea about any of things either. Marty and I get it now and know many people who identify as such, especially at the farmers market. This post wasn’t meant to be about people; it was supposed to be about bell peppers.
The way I always described bell peppers to my culinary kids at school and adults in my cooking class is now incorrect.
Bell peppers were once easily identified as male and female. Peppers with 2-3 bumps or lobes on the bottom were males, and peppers with four or more were females. Boom.
There is a difference between the two varieties of peppers. Male peppers are more bitter and are better for cooking, while female bell peppers have a sweeter taste and are better for eating raw.
Male and female bell peppers affect the taste and color of the bell peppers. Male or female green peppers are still more bitter than red or yellow varieties. This being said female green peppers are still sweeter than males. Confusing right?
The confusing part for me is bell peppers are no longer identified as male and female. They are gender-neutral, a term we hear or read about every day. I needed to read a bunch of scientistic and farming articles to try to figure out what in fucks name it all meant.
The information I read implies there is no such thing as male and female peppers. Basically, it comes down to seeds, flowers, pollination, and the fruit itself. I am probably not good at science because my right-handed brain just doesn’t understand it. This is perhaps why someone used laymen’s terminology for dumb or creative people like me.
As I mentioned, peppers are a fruit since the peppers contain seeds. That I already knew, by the way, tomatoes are also a fruit. This used to surprise my students. This hasn’t changed. Furthermore, “female” peppers have more seeds than “males” and grow baby peppers.
Fact-checkers are making sure people realize this terminology mistake and have claimed there is no difference in gender. It never used to be a big deal; no one gave two shits about it before. See how this is hard for me to understand?
In closing, what does this all mean? It means people can identify as whatever they want. They should try to be patient and not be offended by people still trying to wrap their heads around it all and try understand it.
Regarding bell peppers, if you want a good cooking pepper, choose ones with 2-3 bumps. If you want a bell pepper to put in salads, on a dip platter, or to snack on, pick ones with four or more bumps. As far as the color goes, that is left up to you and how sweet you like your peppers.
At the end of the day, the gender and color of the peppers doest matter; they are all bell peppers. Period. Just like people. Period. That I wish everyone could understand.
Ok, I didn’t expect this new information about bell peppers after I spoke about them with our friends David and Arthur last week when they came over on taco night.
It was interesting doing the research for this piece. Before I knew it, the writer in me couldn’t help making the connection between bell peppers and people in today’s world.
By the way, while editing this piece, the grammar program I use had a big issue with using the word layman and scolded me because I was insensitive. I guess the politically correct term is a layperson.
I didn’t change it, just like I don’t change the curse words I use on a regular basis. That’s why this blog is about how I live my life.
While I try to be sensitive to people, I am trying the best I can; however, I can’t worry 24/7 about offending people with every word I say or write.
I am already a nut job; doing so would make me even more fucked up. In some cases, I have to do me, and you do you. Thanks for your understanding and support. Support can be beautiful. 😜
I hope you find the information useful and the next time you are at a supermarket or farm stand, you think of me. If you ever need a bell pepper recipe, hit me up. Have a great day!
Our house is usually tidy, especially since we decluttered many things and went for a simple design with clean lines.
Don’t get me wrong, when we were super busy with the business, and I was sick, there was shit everywhere. I was so ill I didn’t care, which is unlike me.
Even when I think my house is a wreck, people who stop by think our house is clean. I guess it’s different perspectives and expectations. Mine are very high since I am a total asshole perfectionist.
The last time I gave the place a top-to-bottom cleaning was at the end of January when we hosted a dinner party for our friends. A week before, I became ill.
Last week, in the production kitchen, I learned I could not be in the kitchen when it’s being disinfected with bleach spray and sanitized.
We tried using a bucket with bleach and water, but that made me cough my head off, and my airway felt raw. I needed to use my emergency inhaler to catch my breath from coughing.
Marty has taken over the production kitchen disinfection and sanitizing; however, on Friday, I returned to the kitchen with a towel over my face to get something, and I coughed until Sunday. This is a serious problem.
I love cleaning and washing whites with bleach. When Noah was small, someone said he was so clean he smelled like bleach. I was proud sick then, but now I think I was a complete whack job.
I shudder thinking he breathed in bleach every day. Up until last week, bleach meant clean to me. How else could I get his onesies, socks, and white shoelaces sparkling clean? Ugh! 😑
Even my favorite orange furniture oil contains fragrance allergens. I will have to pick up old-fashioned lemon oil and use that instead.
After we realized I couldn’t do the final cleaning in the kitchen anymore, I knew I had to change all the chemicals I used to clean our house and laundry. I had to replace everything literally!
Marty went to Hannaford Supermarket and picked up the line of Method cleaning products. I already used some, and they worked fantastically. The shower spray shocked me with how well it cleaned the white shower tiles. I sprayed it on and didn’t rinse it off as the bottle said.
I switched to free and clear laundry pods and ordered new shampoo, conditioner, and detangler for my hair. I already use an all-natural goat’s milk soap I get from my friend Joanne, a fellow vendor at the farmers market. Joanne’s soaps smell great and last 4-6 months.
I don’t have an appointment with my new pulmonologist until April 26th. I don’t know how bad my pulmonary fibrosis is. I am taking it very seriously if I am going to fight this fucker and live a long life.
Tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone, but I am living a little to no chemicals life, eating healthier, even healthier than I am already.
I also started moving more; Nelly was the perfect answer to the moving more part. I can’t wait to go for walks with the dogs when she gets a little bigger.
The title of this blog post is called, Cleaning 2.0 since I have to change the way I clean with different products
Even if you think your home is clean, it’s not a new baby, puppy, or kitten clean. Holy shit, there were more hidden dust bunnies, electrical wires, and all kinds of shit she could chew on, eat, or pull over.
Today, when Klaus and Marty, were out making deliveries in NY. I found an old baby gate and blocked Nelly in our back room. She needs constant supervision, and this was the best place for her.
While I was upstairs cleaning, I suddenly heard a bunch of noises. I went downstairs to check on her; she got tired of playing with her toys and hiding out in her bunker, also known as the loveseat. She knocked over or pulled down everything she could reach. Nosey Nelly!
I decided at that moment It was snuggle time. Nelly laid in the same spot behind my legs where Otto used to when we snuggled. It made me feel good; instead of making me cry because I missed him so much.
I am covered in dog hair after cleaning up all the dust bunnies.
Klausie boy isn’t a snuggler, so I am glad Nelly is. Today, I felt connected to Otto through Nelly; it was a beautiful, peaceful feeling.
I am happy to report I am going back to belly dance tomorrow night while Marty holds down the fort in puppy land. I’ve missed it so much and the lovely women I dance with.
I feel like a new mom with a newborn baby. Lol. Tired, a disheveled mess, and in need of a shower. The only different thing I can have a glass of wine at the end of the night, and I don’t have a baby monitor in my pocket.
Nelly is precisely what Jacob, our breeder said she was. She is playful, but when I want to rest with her, I scoop her up and hold her on my lap, and she falls asleep or sits perfectly still.
When she is in a playful mood, she’s hell on wheels. Klaus didn’t know what to think of her. He has growled occasionally but wears a collar that beeps or vibrates, stopping him in his tracks.
Klaus had fun with her today and didn’t growl even when she went into his toy basket. She tired them both out after Marty got home from the farmers market when Klaus usually wanted Marty to play with him.
He was smiling and wagging his tail. He is still trying to figure her out, but I think he likes her. They will need constant supervision for quite a while, but it’s fun to see her run like crazy, and he follows her.
I read a lot about Frenchies, training them, their daily grooming, and other important information. Frenchies love to be clean and have a hard time, especially girls, cleaning themselves in those hard-to-reach areas.
We start our grooming routine every morning after breakfast and going out. She jumps in my lap as soon as she sees me get out of her grooming basket.
I use an unscented baby wipe and start with her wrinkles. It’s essential to keep them clean, or they will get infected. Klaus refuses to let us go near his wrinkles and has had issues with allergies and infections.
People have pointed out there are special cleaners for her tears. Thank you for the advice, but those are her coloring markings.
Next, I clean her ears and body. I clean her butt, under her tail, and, finally, her itty bitty girlie parts. She loves to be brushed and have her nails clipped. We finish by brushing her teeth. It takes 5 minutes, ten if I do her nails.
I can do anything to her as I did with my Barbies and baby dolls growing up. I played with dolls and Barbies until I was 12; poor kids these days grow up too quickly.
Our boys played with matchbox cars and Play-mobile for a long time. I’m so glad they grew up before social media and Xbox.
Nelly is 80% housebroken; she had an accident because I wasn’t watching her for signs she needed to go out. She gets it, and we are trying to keep a schedule as to when she needs to go out.
She’s been getting up at 3 am to go out, which we do, then immediately return to bed. I’ve been in bed by 8:30-9:00 every night and fall right to sleep—no insomnia issues, which is a dream in itself.
Learning from previous mistakes, Marty didn’t touch or hold Nelly the first day but did up in her room upstairs when Klaus was in bed downstairs.
Klaus listens to Marty and accepts him as the alpha, so he is fine when he picked up Nelly to go outside with them. She loves to play outside with Klausie.
Nelly looks into my eyes, snuggles up to me, and breathes a breath of contentment. She doesn’t know it yet, but I am the one content.
It gets easier every day; Klaus and Nelly will become friends; we can tell that already. He’s much more tolerable than we imagined with a new puppy.
My ESA letter is ready for me to pick up. An ESA is entirely different than a service animal. Federal law allows service animals everywhere; ESAs had many of those rights removed in 2021 due to fraudulent ID cards & phony certifications.
Many people were scammed with sites promising access anywhere or purchased an ESA vest online and put it on their pets, demanding to take them everywhere. People abused it and ruined it for people that needed it.
I plan to carry Nelly’s letter and her small metal to wear on her harness, but if she is denied access to places, I can’t bring her in. The last thing I need is situations to cause me anxiety defeating the point of an ESA in the first place.
Many stores and restaurants are pet friendly, and we shop at them anyway. Most restaurants with outdoor seating allow pets; we will frequent those places when we are out on delivery days.
Nelly is already an ESA for me. Her love fills that empty hole in my heart and makes me laugh. She gives me something to take my mind off my worries, fears, doubts, anxiety, and depression.
Nelly is the perfect dog for me; Jon Katz was right when he talked about his dog Zinnia. They find their way to you if you take the time to find them.
Right after my little Nelly arrived. Look at those blue eyes.
You can never say never; in my case, that saying is 100% true. I got a puppy last night, and her name is Nelly.
It’s been a rough six months for me. In October, I got hit by a dipshit vendor’s tent at the farmers market that wasn’t secured, was airlifted, and hit me in my left side, back, leg, and hip. I was pissed. She or the owner of the business never apologized.
I saw it coming from across the street and ran as fast as possible, but I couldn’t outrun it. I was injured for three months. I didn’t write about it; I try to stay positive on my blog as much as possible.
In November, my sweet boy Otto got sick and died at the beginning of December, leaving me completely heartbroken. That month Sam moved to Essex Jct, VT, to work in the ER department at UVM.
We are very close, and while I was proud and happy for him, I was sad. I knew how much I would miss him and his silly antics.
January ended with good news, Noah and his girlfriend, Aja, moved to Salem, NY, and moved in together.
I was so happy for them that they found each other after both of them patiently waiting to meet that special someone.
February started and ended with me having a severe case of pneumonia. I didn’t share how sick I was, but it was scary for us.
March brought the news of a cat scan results revealing I had pulmonary fibrosis. I read a little about it but was still sick, so I didn’t dig too deep.
Last Friday night, after Marty went to bed, I played the game Dr. Google and discovered that the prognosis for pulmonary fibrosis is 3-5 years to live.
Don’t play Dr. Google; trust me, what you find is never a happy ending, so don’t do it.
I lost my shit. I mean all of it. I went over the deep end. I had a nervous breakdown; I was exhausted from crying and went to bed.
The second I got into bed, I started to cry, lying next to Marty. I was thinking about all the things we still wanted to do. All the things we wanted to see and places to go.
I wouldn’t get to play with grandchildren and would die with a broken heart. My heart was an empty void after Otto died. I realized I hadn’t been happy since the summertime. Marty woke up, and we talked for a long time while I ugly cried.
In the morning, after he went to the farmers market, I called my dance sister, Kathleen, because she knew a lot of medical stuff and knew she would say something smart to calm me down.
Smart she was. She asked me when I was playing Dr. Google in the studies I read, if they were done on men, how old, did they get it from inhaling asbestos or industrial dust.
Did they smoke, or were they fat and out of shape? She continued and asked if I had read a study that included patients who got pulmonary fibrosis from a medication. Um, no.
We talked for a long time, and I realized that that wasn’t my prognosis by that evening. I was referred to a pulmonologist and wouldn’t know anything until I saw her.
I put the cart before the horse big time. I was so scared I wasn’t living my life to the fullest, not doing the things I kept putting off.
I was a horrible emotional mess over everything that had happened since the summertime; this was not just about another chronic disease, even though I struggled with others.
My attachment disorder was out of control again, and I realized how sad I’d been. Even though I have Marty, my sons, and friends, I was in a lonely, dark place again.
I’ve wanted a female French bulldog for a couple of years but knew it wasn’t a good time since we already had hands full with two dogs.
Marty asked me on Saturday when he got home from the farmers market if it was time to get that little Frenchie girl. My response was typical for me. For those who know me, you will be able to imagine this.
I asked, “really?” He said, “yes.”’I started skipping and jumping around the house the best I could with my shortness of breath and singing about getting my little Frenchie puppy. I was so excited I couldn’t believe he had suggested it.
Marty started looking for a breeder while I spoke with my friend Jon Katz and his wife Maria and asked for advice since he knew a few things about dogs. 😂
Jon is an expert on dogs and has written many books on the subject. I listened to his advice and shared it with Marty.
After finding out quickly how many fucking scumbag scammers are out there, our street sense kicked in, and we followed what Jon told us.
It took a lot of searching, but Marty found an AKC-recommended breeder of Frenchies. They were located in Ohio and had an excellent reputation as one of the best.
It happened quickly, we found a puppy, and Marty put down a deposit. Bright and early the following day, the breeder called us, and we chatted for a long time.
We asked questions about them, and he answered everything. I told him what I needed in a dog, and he assured me, speaking to me all about her personality and how she would fulfill my wishes.
Jacob, the breeder, is a very trusting man. You don’t have to pay the balance of the puppy until they are delivered, and you meet them. The second I held her, I knew she was the right puppy for me!
Nelly is playful, intelligent, and laid back. She likes cuddling and being a couch potato, the breeder said. I wanted a low-key snuggle bug, a puppy who loved me as much as I loved her.
Nelly is a literal lifesaver for me. While with her, I feel all my stress, anxiety, worries, and sadness go away.
Cuddle bug.
My primary provider is writing a letter recommending or “prescribing” her as my emotional support animal so she can always be with me.
I’ll have proper documentation and a tag on her as an ESA, an emotional support animal. Under federal law, she can’t be denied entry anywhere I go.
I think I got some good news yesterday, the pulmonologist’s office called to make an appointment for me on April 26.
That’s over a month away, so I can’t be in that bad a shape; I guess Kathleen was right.
Today, I can go up and down the stairs without shortness of breath, even carrying Nelly. Thank goodness my coughing is only occasional now. I heard Marty tell Sam he hasn’t seen me smile this much or happy for a long time. It’s true.💗
As I write this, Nelly has been on my lap the entire time. I started to cry when I wrote about my crack-up on Friday night, and she looked up at me with those blue eyes and melted my heart.
I’m crying again; they are tears of joy and happiness. I feel like George Bailey again; I want to live again.
This year, I made cottage pie instead of the usual roasted corned beef, cabbage & potatoes. I made corned beef several times during the year and wanted to try something else. The something else was delicious!
Cottage pie is the same as Shepherd’s Pie, except it uses ground beef instead of ground lamb. I made the cottage pie without a recipe but found one similar to how I made mine.
The difference is I used a cup of diced fresh carrots and added 1/2 can of creamed corn. I also made a pan gravy to serve with the cottage pie. I love gravy!!!
In addition to the recipe, I added an egg yoke, cheddar cheese, and chives to my mashed potatoes. I whipped mine with a beater until silky smooth, then applied a simple fork pattern on the top of the pie. I love how the design came out after it was baked.
Here is the Cottage Pie recipe link if you want to try making it. It was so perfect on a foggy & rainy night.
I mentioned in earlier blog posts I haven’t had any coffee or cocktails for the last five weeks. Since I am no longer on antibiotics, I made a decaf coffee with Baileys Irish Cream. It tastes so damn good!
One thing that can’t be taken away is that I am Irish and love a good drink. The other thing is I will always tell stories the Irish way, which drives Marty insane.
We give a dozen side stories to get to the point. The side stories are completely necessary; ask my buddy, Martin Sullivan.
