Seth agreed to a lot when he married me.
He agreed to stick with me through good times and bad, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.
I don’t think he realized it wasn’t just my sickness or my health. It was also Edgar’s.
Earlier last week we took Edgar to the vet to get his vaccines updated and to get a little check-up. We hadn’t been to the vet since last summer when he jumped out of a first story window…and then a second story one…and then ate an entire batch of oatmeal raisin cookies. We’d racked up enough frequent flyer miles for the year. And aside from a having a dog whisper visit the house, he hadn’t required much follow-up care.
While we were there, we asked the vet to examine what we thought to be a hernia. I was told the little nickel-sized protrusion on the center of his ribs was just that when I adopted Edgar. “Happens all the time. Lots of dogs get them. If it doesn’t grow and doesn’t get hard, don’t worry about it.” For two years, it neither grew nor hardened. All was well with his undercarriage.
Then, while Seth and I were away on our mini-moon and my mom watched Edgar, it got a little bigger and a little darker. Not too much cause for concern, but if we were going to be at the vet, we may as well get it checked out. So, she drew fluid. And informed us it wasn’t a hernia but, was in fact a xiphoid cyst. And still absolutely nothing to worry about. It was simply bigger and darker because he’d bruised it. Ok, cool.
Or so we thought.
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The glass partition between the brewery and bar slid open. Ryan, the head brewer, poked his head out, “So…uh…what’s the difference…?”
“There’s no frosting on top,” I said, without glancing up. I knew exactly what he was going to ask. Because it’s a question I’ve wrestled with before. How is a muffin different than a cupcake? Especially when it’s chocolate. And has chocolate chips in it.
The answer? No frosting. Frosting isn’t a breakfast food. Muffins are. Chocolate can be. When it’s in a muffin.
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I am a notorious over-packer. Always have been. When I was younger and would have sleepovers at my bff Mandy’s house, I’d leave home with a giant silver suitcase stuffed to the gills. It contained nothing but Barbie, her friends, Kens, and dream houses. Obviously, I’d save no room for clothes or pajamas that would actually be of use to me, but Barbie had enough outfit changes to rival Mariah Carey.
This need to overstuff and overfill my suitcase has continued on well into adulthood. Moving halfway across the country has done nothing to dampen my packrat ways. You can often find me schlepping at least two overstuffed suitcases and two precarious carryons along the arrivals sidewalk at the airport (thank heavens for Southwest and their two free checked bag policy. Life. Saver.)
When packing a bag, I’ve always had the mindset of “But what if I need it?” This, coupled with my biological predisposition to preparedness and planning has left me with sore shoulders and a dozen pairs of socks for a three day trip.
I thought I was getting better, I have really been trying. I managed t0 whittle down my purse to a little crossbody bag that holds little more than my cash, cards, and sunglasses. And this last time I went home, I not only took just a single bag, but there was room to spare in it! Of course, on the way back South, I had stuffed it so full of vintage Christmas lights and decorations I’d found at a thrift store it was full to bursting…
It’s not my fault though, it runs in the family! My grandma does the same thing when she comes to visit the Upstate from Wisconsin. She comes bearing gifts, lots of them – often in the form of fresh cheese or butter. One time, she somehow managed to get a box of Door Country Dried Cranberries here that weighed roughly the same as a toddler.
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