You should not have to know a guy to get home at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night...

This weekend, I was stranded in the Penn Ave. Subway (irony, foreshadowing) in Wilkinsburg. My husband and I had planned on catching a ride home with our designated driver (my mother-in-law) after the Big Pour on Saturday. Last minute, we decided to walk to a nearby party with some friends, thinking we could just catch a ride home with friends, or worst case scenario, catch the 69 (there is no irony here) to Forest Hills, where we call home. (MISTAKE #1)

During our walk to the party, the skies opened and we were drenched in no time. I have a fondness for NOT sitting around in wet clothes. So upon arriving at said party, we quickly decided to catch a bus home instead. I called up the Port Authority website on my iphone, and saw a bus was coming to a stop about a mile away in 20 minutes. The party had not yet begun, so the host graciously drove us to the bus stop, saving us from trudging through the rain again. (MISTAKE #2)

We are now at the bus stop. Huddled under trees for shelter. Waiting. WAITING. WAAIITTTING. Our Big Pour buzzes are now completely gone. I am cold. My husband is hungry. And we are both going to have to pee again. I check the bus schedule again, all like, "WTF. Where is this freaking bus!?" Guess what? I was reading a WEEKDAY schedule. You apparently are not allowed to ride public transit on weekends.

Desperate for a way home, I call a friend who lives nearby. They were out for the evening.

Not sure what else to do, we look up taxi services on our phones and begin calling each one. Between the four cab companies, they all either had busy signals, no answer, or said they were out of cabs. This is where I notice a 67A approaching the bus stop. Thinking only of getting out of the rain, we board without hesitation. This bus does not go through Forest Hills, so we planned to ride until Wilkinsburg.

On the way to Wilkinsburg, I called the host of the party were supposed to go to earlier that night. I was hoping my friend would come rescue us. Unfortunately, by that time, he had already started drinking pretty heavily and was in no condition to drive.

We got off the bus at Penn and Braddock and attempted to seek shelter in Wendy's. It was closed. Not sure what else to do, we make our way towards Subway, which appeared to be open. I think I heard angels singing when we saw it was open until midnight.

I walk inside, so relieved to be out of the rain, but still unsure of how I would get home. I am not proud of this, my dear readers. I began to weep in Subway. The kindly sandwich artisan (or whatever the hell they call those people) took pity upon me and my husband and said we could hang out in there until we could figure out a way home. I explained our situation and said we couldn't even get a cab. The kindly sandwich people then told us, "You can't wait for a cab! You'll be here for hours! You gotta call a jitney! I know a guy. He'll definitely be able to get you to Forest Hills."

I may be a lil' white girl, but I was ready to call that jitney. I have to pause and reflect on this for a moment, though. Why do I need to KNOW A GUY to get home at 10 p.m. on a Saturday? Is this Mayberry? What is going on with this city and the transit situation?

Back to our story, my husband decided to call his mom and tell her what was going down. She much preferred to drive out to get us than have us call a jitney, so we waited the 45 minutes for her to drive in from the North Hills, (all the while eating BMTs and relieving our tired bladders at Subway).

We finally got home around 11:30 p.m. soaked, forlorn, and sure as hell we will never make the mistake of counting on bus or taxi service on a weekend EVER AGAIN. Pittsburgh, is a great city, that is for sure. But "gettin' around" is the Burgh's biggest blemish, in my opinion.

Tommy has a new mommy...

Michelle of Burgh Baby took pity upon Tommy and snagged him right before the auction ended for a whooping 99 cents! (Michelle, please tell me that Tommy won't end up in a "Toys for Tots" collection box this winter! That would be traumatic for everyone involved.)

Tommy Needs A New Home

I found a terrifying artifact from my childhood this weekend.

Brace yourselves.



Yeah. I keep putting it in the trash, but it keeps crawling back out but I keep pulling it out to show him off to friends and family. What can I say? He's a looker.

And today is your lucky day. Tommy is looking for a new home on Ebay. All profits benefit Burgh Baby's Christmas Crazy, which helps provide toys to children in need during the holidays. Read about the success she had last year here.

Happy bidding.

A moment of self-pity

If you have been a long-time reader, you know that I am constantly fighting a battle against unexplained fatigue. No matter how much sleep I get each night, I wake up feeling unrefreshed and unprepared to tackle the day. Doctors have misdiagnosed me with narcolepsy. I've seen neurologists who have suspected M.S. My primary care doctor has screened me for anemia, Lyme disease, thyroid disease, and treated me for a B12 deficiency. No luck. After feeling like I've been given up on, I took matters into my own hands and scheduled an appointment with an endocrinologist. (Why my doctor never suggested this to me years ago, I have no idea.) Last week, after waiting three months for an appointment, I finally saw the endocrinologist. She studied my previous blood work and medical history. She told me she suspected I had one of two things. One thing--Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia-- would explain the fatigue. The other--Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome--would not. She ordered the appropriate blood work that was needed for a diagnosis. I crossed my fingers that this was it. This would finally give me an answer I've been waiting for for ten years. The blood test results are in. I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. I am really disappointed that my fatigue remains a medical mystery. Actually, "devastated" is the word I would like to use--but I'm afraid it's a little too dramatic for some people. I know people are going through much worse. But I can't help but shed a few tears today in frustration for what I guess could be a lifetime of unexplained exhaustion. I guess there is still a chance that the PCOS is causing the fatigue... but my endocrinologist does not think so. She was pretty quick to rush me off the phone when she called with my results. I need to see her "in three months if I wish to discuss in detail." Great. I seem to be the only one in a hurry to get this all figured out. It is INCREDIBLY frustrating. The icing on the cake is that PCOS is linked to infertility issues. As someone who wants to be a mother one day, that's something I cannot even wrap my head around just yet. To treat PCOS, my endocrinologist suggested that I go back on birth control pills. I stopped them four months ago to see if my fatigue lessened at all off Yasmin (actually the generic: Ocella), a pill which I've heard terrible things about. Not sure which pill I will try next. Waiting to consult my gynecologist before I start taking the one my endocrinologist recommended. Stay tuned. Related Posts: Finally! That Explains Everything. It's not all flowers, squirrels, and gingerbread... Dear Doctor, Fix Me

My dog is kind of an a**hole

You know how Romeo felt about Juliet? Well, that's pretty much how Luke feels about the trash. There is nothing stopping him from being with (read: eating) the trash. We tried everything. Not even a trash can with a locking mechanism could get between this canine and his love for eating grotesque leftovers and other putrid artifacts.

We thought we had foiled Luke's lust for trash eating when we installed an under-cabinet trash mount system this winter. On Saturday, we discovered that after more than six months of basking in the bliss of not cleaning trash off the floor every other day, Luke had taught himself how to OPEN THE KITCHEN CABINETS. If you have a dog, you might realize that this is the equivalent of Armageddon.

After we made this discovery, we did what any sane people would do. We barricaded the trashcan with a heavy chair and went to the home improvement store--making a beeline to the childproofing aisle. We considered all of our options and realized that the layout of our cabinets seriously limited what would work for us. We ended up leaving with a carabiner bungee cord. Upon returning home, Andrew worked his magic, looping the bungee into a configuration that would surely keep Luke from feasting upon our trash for--oh--the bazillionth time.

Yeah. Right.



As you can see in the above photo, Luke is a bona fide a**hole. Not sure what is next for us. I know installing a garbage disposal is a step in the right direction, and we can hopefully do that within the next year. Temporary solution recommendations are welcome, nay, encouraged.

P.S. I know I fell off the blogging truck for a while, but I am ready to make my comeback. I feel a reinvigorated desire to post here again regularly. I have missed you. *hugs*

What do you say? Will you take me back?