The post in which I discuss random Star Wars stuff, none of which has anything to do with sewing.

When we found out we were having a kid, I knew we had the announcements covered since at some point during one of my random marathon internet surfing sessions I'd bookmarked a website with the coolest announcements ever.

My husband is a huge Star Wars fan - I'm talking, 'eyes glaze over and nothing gets done for the rest of the day if any of the Star Wars movies are on TV' type of fan. Please don't ever get him started with trivia because he'll talk for hours about things like jawas and wookies and the underlying symbolic reasoning behind every minutia of each movie. Right after I found out we were expecting, I saw a photo on Flickr that set off what became 9 months of all things vintage Star Wars (including a shower complete with a Star Wars themed diaper cake). I purchased enough vintage Star Wars sheets to linen an entire hotel and created a pretty bad-ass nursery.

When I thought about announcements, I had the perfect idea of combining Rattle-N-Roll's work with the Star Wars theme. I added announcements to the list of things I to line up before Miles arrived but, in true Robin fashion, it never got done. So, I added it to the list of things to finalize in his first few weeks but there were a few other minor events that kept me from getting them done in the time-frame in which most normal people do announcements (see: dog dying, child with colic, and a severe sleep deficit). Somehow though I got my shit in gear and I finally finished sending them out a few weeks ago.

I must say, they're freaking awesome.

Each time I look at the announcements (and the movie poster-sized print we had made), I'm amazed. I was worried that the announcements might not live up to my expectations, that they wouldn't be able to capture Miles' likeness or that it wouldn't resemble the movie poster enough. Turns out I didn't need to worry at all - Ryan at Rattle-N-Roll created a finished product that we will treasure forever. The first time Mark saw the proof he was like a kid at Christmas - a tough feat for my husband who is infinitely hard to please.

On another note, I crafted a bad-ass Star Wars taggie blanket for Miles to take to daycare. He loves to hold it and suck on the edges and, while I know I'm creating a habit that I will regret one day when he's 4 years old and screaming because we left his blankie in some random, unrecoverable place, for now I think it's pretty cool...

Or at least I thought it was cool until my husband, while skimming the new Pottery Barn Kids catalog that came today, tapped my leg and held up the catalog. I shrieked in horror. My cool, original, vintage Star Wars bedding is no longer cool and original - it's in a freaking Pottery Barn catalog. Part of me wants to be honored that my idea is so cool that it's now featured in a uber-yuppy catalog but most of me is just pissed that my cool, original idea is now a mass-marketed, cookie-cutter room theme of suburban children everywhere.

I get the point

Coltrane's necropsy results* and Miles' birth certificate both arrived in the mail yesterday, one on top of the other.

I think the universe is trying to tell me something...


*Yes, we had to call UGA to get the results even in light of the fact that they repeatedly told us they'd call when the results were available. When Mark called, he was also informed that: (a) the results came back over a week ago, (b) while Coltrane did pass away from the staph infection, they didn't test to confirm that it was a recurrence of the same infection (and tried to reason that maybe our house dog who was on limited activity because of his knee, contracted MRSA again instead of it lingering in his blood) and (c) the orthopedic who last saw Coltrane (who prescribed the prenisone and who still has yet to call and offer any condolences) knew about what happened right after it happened. So much for the teaching part of their hospital. While I'm doing my best to put this behind me, each time I try, shit like this happens and I just can't get past the anger.

Trying to Find the Silver Lining

I'm slowly beginning to move on although there are still those moments when I feel that deep, deep sadness knowing Coltrane is gone forever.

Like last night when I sat on the couch watching TV and realized I was never going to see that big guy drag his bed from the bedroom into the family room and beg for his kong to be filled with a treat as a reward for his job well done. Or tonight when I dropped a piece of bread on the floor and had to pick it up instead of having him there at my feet picking up my scraps. It's a sorrow unlike anything I've ever known.

There's also the anger. It sounds illogical but the more we learn about how and why Coltrane died, the more angry and at peace we are with his passing.

We now know that Coltrane passed away from MRSA - that nasty antibiotic resistant 'superbug' staph infection. At one point during the past year of treatment, he tested positive for it and, while we thought we'd treated it, it was still in his system (we've since learned that MRSA never really goes away - it's always in your system). Once his immune system was suppressed by the prednisone, the MRSA flared up.

While we know that, medically, UGA did the best they could with the information they had, it's the things they didn't do that bother us. They didn't have us follow-up with our local vet regularly which, given the dose of prednisone he was on and Coltrane's history, would have been prudent. They knew we had a newborn at home (he was with us during those last visits) yet, it was only after my husband called to get the test results (note: they didn't call us - we had to call them) that we learned of MRSA. The vet then added that that it was probably a good idea if we get tested. (I wonder when they would have mentioned that if my husband hadn't called to get the test results.) This week we received an itemized bill in the mail with a credit card slip stapled to it; they simply charged the final bill to the credit card we used for the deposit - no call to tell us the final total or ask us how we wanted to pay. And, what bugs us the most is that the orthopedic doctor who was handling Coltrane's case - until that last visit when we realized the severity of the infection and it was turned over to the internal medicine vets - still hasn't called. A short, 'I'm sorry to hear about Coltrane' would have gone a long way toward making us feel better about the situation.

The odd thing about this is that we have a friend who, for the past year, has had MRSA issues mirroring Coltrane's. Even odder: Coltrane injured his knee at our friend's house during the same weekend when our friend's MRSA issues began.

On each visit to UGA we mentioned our concerns about the MRSA - about how strange it was that the cases followed a parallel path, that we were worried it was still in his system and that we had concerns about the prednisone. We wish the doctors had paid closer attention to our concerns about MRSA instead of looking at us like we had horns when we told them about the similarities between Coltrane's prognosis and our friend's condition.

But, ultimately, MRSA is such a new and nasty thing that doctors barely know what to do with it in humans. Our friend has been battling it for over a year and they still don't have a grasp on how to handle it. The test that allowed them to finally find the source of the issues in our friend (an infection in his bone) is rarely done in animals. The closest facility that has the capability is at the University of Tennessee and diagnosis alone would have cost approximately $10,000; who knows what treatment would have cost - assuming it was even available.

I hope that UGA uses this as a learning experience - that they learn how to treat cases like this, that they don't make these mistakes in the future, and that Coltrane's death will help some other animal who comes in with the same symptoms. It's the only bit of peace I can find in this situation.

The End

Funny how life works sometimes. Just the other night I was looking through some posts I wrote about our dog Coltrane's knee surgery. At the time I read the posts, a little over a year had passed since the surgery and we were still dealing with the consequences - a leg that wouldn't heal, a litany of medicines, and a dog that, for the past few months, hadn't been himself.

Then the bottom fell out.

We noticed some changes in Coltrane about a week ago. Some we chalked up to the new baby in the house, others we thought were a result of the lingering surgery issues and a few we thought were caused by a recent change in his food. But we knew things weren't right a few days ago when he wouldn't eat. Then on Wednesday, when we went out for a walk, he collapsed - he did it again that night.

Yesterday we took him to the University of Georgia - where he'd been receiving treatment for the past few months. We met with the doctors in the morning and ran some errands while they ran tests - that afternoon, while in the Target parking lot, we got a call from the doctor. Coltrane had an infection - a serious infection.

When we got back to the hospital that afternoon, we met with the internal medicine doctors who kept stressing the severity of Coltrane's condition. Apparently this was more than just an infection. But, we left Coltrane in their hands, remained positive and headed back to Atlanta.

That evening we got a call from the doctors - the infection was so severe that it had caused inflammation throughout his body. While they thought they could get the infection under control, the other issues - mainly the condition of his heart - were grave. They felt we should come over the next morning to see him as he might not make it through the weekend.

A few minutes later we got a call telling us to come that night.

We drove back to the university that night and got there at 10:30 pm. The school was dark and, as they let us in, I felt as though I was someplace I shouldn't be; it was eerie and ominous. We went into one of the exam rooms and talked with the doctors who told us how Coltrane was fighting but that his prognosis was grim; after discussing options, we told them to do whatever they could to save him.

We went in to see our buddy, saying what we knew could very well be goodbye. He recognized us and I promised him Brewster's ice cream every week if he pulled through. We told him how he needed to fight for his new little brother Miles. We choked back tears as we petted him while he laid there in on the floor of the ICU with tubes attached to him everywhere.

We headed back to Atlanta in silence and hoped for the best but ultimately his little heart couldn't handle it. At 1 am, when the phone rang, we knew - we didn't need to hear the doctor say it, Coltrane had passed.

There are a million and one things I could say about how amazing Coltrane was - about how he was the kindest, gentlest dog in the world (even at 100 pounds, he'd play with the 5 pound bichon frise down the street without any of us ever worrying about him hurting her), how he was so happy (no matter how crappy my day, just hearing him run to the door to greet me would cheer me up the minute I stepped in the door), how he was loving (he never wanted to be without us and would follow us around the house - complete unconditional love)... Honestly I could go on for hours but it would never do service to what an amazing creature he was.

We loved that dog as if he were our first child and, while at the hospital after Miles' delivery, the only thing I could think about was getting home to see that furry little guy again and having him meet his new brother. I'm sad that Miles won't get to know and grow up knowing a family member who was a huge part of our life. And each time I think about never seeing that big bushy tail, that ear-to-ear grin or those cute white feet, I ache with a pain so bad that I wonder if it's capable of ever going away. Quite honestly I'm having difficulty putting it all into words - it's like being hit with continual tidal waves of grief, anger, and the type of sadness that literally makes you hurt inside.

I'm trying to focus on the good - the 6+ years of pure joy Coltrane brought into our lives and the many years of joy we have to look forward to with Miles - but it's a minute-by-minute struggle. I know that with time it will grow less painful and it may one day be something that doesn't cause me to shake and cry uncontrollably - it's just hard seeing that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

Rest in peace little buddy - you'll be missed.

On Normalcy

I'm 37 weeks along today. Full term - which means the baby could be born any day.

It's odd knowing that at some point in the next 3 to 5 weeks my body will go through something over which I have no control. No matter how many books I've read or classes I've been to, I don't know how it will feel and, assuming all goes as it should, I don't know when it will happen. I can't pencil it into the calendar and I can't make a perfect plan for how it will all go down.

I watched an episode of Dexter last weekend and, at the end, as the main character sat with his girlfriend at dinner, they concurred that they wanted the same thing out of life: to be normal.

At first it struck me as rather unambitious - the desire to be normal. But this past week has been one of anything but normal. I've had friends faced with extraordinary events, seen things that I never thought could happen and even something as silly as the weather - with tornadoes one week and snow flurries the next - has been out-of-the-norm.

It's made me realize that normal is really underrated.

For a good part of my pregnancy I've wanted things to be anything but normal. At first I didn't take pictures because I thought I looked fat or because I knew I didn't have the time or tools to make the pictures look perfect. Most recently, I've put off sharing the nursery because I haven't had time to attend to the tiny finishing details. And, for almost every day over the past week, I've spent my evenings stressed out because I know the baby could arrive any day and our house isn't Martha-Stewart-style organized.

But today I realized that, even if I had all of the time in the world, I'd never get things perfect and, even if I could, I don't know if I'd want to.

There's something to be said for normal - for sitting on the couch with my husband and discussing our day while he rubs my feet instead of spending the evening running around crazy, scrubbing floors or organizing drawers. Having a normal pregnancy thus far has been a blessing and I'm lucky to still feel great. And, there's nothing I love more than my completely normal house, family and friends.

That's not to say that there aren't things that I find extraordinary about my life or that I don't have reasons for thinking that my friends and family are better than most but, on paper, I live a pretty darn normal existence and for that I'm thankful. I'm happy to be normal and I, too, want little more than to continue to be normal for a long time to come.

Ready for a Break from my Break

I'm a creature of habit. I love having a schedule and I'm never without at least 2 or 3 to-do lists. My comfort zone is firmly planted in the middle of a well-planned day. Unfortunately I haven't had too many of those lately.

Last weekend we traveled to Asheville for my high school friend's wedding. We stayed at an amazing Bed and Breakfast, laughed until our stomachs ached, hung out with some of our best friends, enjoyed an absolutely perfect wedding, and experienced what may have been the most beautiful weather of the year.

It was almost an idyllic weekend. Note: almost.

On Saturday morning our friends who were getting married arranged for their guests to take a trolley tour of Asheville. Since the visitors' center from which the trolley was set depart was only a few blocks from our B&B, we decided to enjoy the crisp morning and walk. We were chatting, enjoying the other gorgeous houses when BAM! - I tripped on the leaf-covered sidewalk and fell flat on my belly - my 16-and-a-half week pregnant belly.

After a few calls to the on-call doctor, a weekend full of worrying and an ultrasound on Monday, we now know that the little bugger is fine - comfy and cozy in my belly, jumping up and down on my cervix, no less. But that didn't make it any less dramatic.

We have another wedding on Saturday, my husband's aunt is coming to town on Sunday and we have another friend visiting from Monday through Thursday. I beginning to wonder if I will ever have a regular schedule again - a schedule without impromptu doctors' visits or weekend-long events.

I haven't been to the gym in ages, all of the unfinished projects that normally litter the bed in the spare room so I can work on them whenever I have 5 - 10 minutes are piled in a huge stack on my cutting table, I can't remember the last time I did real grocery shopping, and as I sorted laundry last night I almost cried when I stared at the seven piles of clothes waiting to be washed.

Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed every wedding and, given the choice between having friends and family around or sticking to a schedule, I'll take the friends and family, hands down. But I could use some time to catch my breath.

I will get back to sewing one of these days, I promise...

Honestly

I had a friend who lives in Florida email me today - she'd just heard the news of our impending arrival and insisted that I keep her updated with photos.

I didn't have the heart to write back and tell her that she probably won't be getting any photos.

Maybe it's because I'm always the one behind the camera - that it's too hard to direct my husband to shoot pictures so that they come out the way I have them set-up in my mind. Or that I'm too lazy to set up the tripod and use the timer.

Or because our camera is broken and our memory card is corrupted - and I don't have the patience to go through the 20 steps necessary to take and dump one photo.

But truthfully I've got to believe the main reason why I haven't taken a single pregnancy photo is because I hate the way I look.

I broke out the maternity clothes yesterday. 15 weeks, that's got to be one for the record books. I never thought I'd have to wear maternity clothes at 15 weeks - the time in my pregnancy when my friend Miki was still bragging about fitting into her size 2 designer jeans, my size 8 pants were cutting off circulation to my lower extremities.

I did a fashion show for my husband yesterday - let him know the kind of sexy he had to look forward to for the next 6 months; the pulled-up-to-beneath-your-boobs, spandex-patch-in-the-front, huge-elastic-waistband kind of hot. He thinks it's cute - I, however, think it's hideous.

People who didn't know I was pregnant until now have started to ask. "When are you expecting?" they say and, although I'm tempted to reply, "Expecting what?" instead I say, "Not for a while - way too far off to be showing this much."

Those who already knew about the baby have also started to comment. "Oh you're getting so big!" they exclaim, as if it's a complement. To some women it might be - to me it's the equivalent of my husband telling me my ass looks fat in my favorite jeans.

I hate the stupid pregnancy t-shirts with sayings like, "Yes, I'm pregnant!" or "Baby". I hate going shopping and seeing all of the cute fall fashions as I make my way to the maternity section, where everything is loose and over-sized. I hate being told that I'm going to have to give up my 4-inch heels. And I hate people commenting on the continual expansion of my waistline.

I knew I wouldn't be one of those people who talks about being pregnant every minute of the day and I've always sworn that, although I know my life will change, I won't let this baby to change who I am. Never say never but I didn't enjoy hanging out with pregnant women or new moms before I got pregnant, I don't enjoy it now that I am pregnant and I don't expect it change my mind on the topic anytime soon. I doubt I'll ever be one of those pregnant women who think that they're so special and that somehow they're entitled to something just by virtue of the fact that they're pregnant.

But, I did think that I'd be sentimental - the kind of woman who takes pictures every month to document her growing belly and who keeps journals of all of the funny, insightful and touching moments over the course of the 9 month process.

Apparently things aren't at all what I expected.

During the first trimester, I didn't have any morning sickness and I didn't fall asleep on the couch the minute I got home from work as everyone insisted I would. I still crave all of the things I can't have (wine, strong dark coffee, unpasteurized cheese, lox and sushi) - unlike all of my friends who insisted I wouldn't want any of those things - that the sight or idea of them would make me nauseous - while I was pregnant. Quite honestly, I find pregnancy to be much like every day life - except for the fact that I'm fat.

And I find it difficult to get riled up over that.

I know I should get excited about my growing midsection - it's been a long time coming and I should be grateful that it's finally here, without shots, pills or other medical procedures. The baby is about 4 inches long now and, according to one of my email newsletters, if I were to shine a flashlight on my belly, the baby would be able to sense the light and move to the other side of my uterus. It's hard to believe (and also pretty cool) that I'm growing that inside of me - and I guess that a big belly and ugly clothes are a small price to pay for the ultimate reward. Just give me some time to warm up to the idea of documenting it on a memory card.

The Joy of Simplicity

Last weekend I went 'home' for a bridal shower for one of my high school friends. It's funny how, no matter how long I've been gone, or the fact that I've lived away almost as many years as I lived there, there's something in me that thinks of Ft. Lauderdale as home. It was great to see my family and to catch up with friends who have, like me, scattered throughout the country. It's always great to be around those people who know you the best - the people with whom you can be yourself and with whom you can laugh about your feathered hair, bad judgment in boyfriends or simply memories of times that feel like forever ago.

For what was probably the first time in my life, I decided I was going to be prepared for this shower. A few weeks before the shower I logged on to Wedding Channel. I had my plan: order the gift, have it shipped to my parents' house in Ft. Lauderdale and take it to the shower. Easy right?

Not so fast. No registries under her name on Wedding Channel. So I searched everywhere else. Target? No. Linens N Things? Nothing. Bed Bath & Beyond? Nada.

Turns out my friend - being the great person she is - hasn't registered intentionally. She'd rather people spend their money on coming to her wedding - to be there to celebrate with her and her new husband, rather than on some trinket that will sit in their kitchen.

That's fine. I'm creative - I can make her a gift, I decided. After giving it some thought I decided on the perfect gift: Sublime Stitching embroidered kitchen towels. For bonus points I'd work their names and wedding date into the design.

Naturally, in true Robin fashion, two days before the shower, I hadn't even started the gift. But, determined to finish a handmade gift before the shower, I called an audible. I threw some of my favorite fabric in my bag and thanked the lord baby Jesus that my mom has the same sewing machine as I do.

A few months ago I bought Amy Karol's book. Much like Amy Butler's book, it took me a while to break down and buy it and, I'm almost embarrassed to admit why. While I know that Project Runway may not be the next entry on my sewing resume, I do know my way around a sewing machine and I worried that the book might be too elementary for me - that the projects would be boring, things for which I don't need instructions or patterns.

But, in a fit of boredom one afternoon, I broke down. And, I'm glad I did. The projects are pretty simple but they're so darn fun.

Sometimes it's better to not have to think - to be able to have the measuring and experimenting done for you. To be able to just pick up something and do it - instead of having to figure out how to do it, scratching your head at each step along the way. This weekend was one of those times. Within 2 hours - start to finish - I had an adorable apron and, complements of Denyse Schmidt's instruction in her equally great book, a matching oven mitt. A perfect gift for a dear friend in record time.

Now if only I could find a way to get the bride to cook...

Moving On

"Are you folks enjoying my hotel?"

We stood there in the elevator - me, my husband and our friends Jeanine and James. My husband's band played earlier that night at the House of Blues and we'd spent the hours after the show lingering in the posh Foundation Room, sipping cocktails and toasting James' thirtieth birthday.

By the time we made it across the street to the hotel, it was well past 2 am - our eyes blurry from the late hour and a night filled with the type of jokes that push you to tears.

So, when the question was posed to us, we stood there in shock. I wish I could remember what we said. I'm sure one of us mumbled something and that we all quickly stepped out of the elevator. But I do clearly remember what happened when the doors closed after us - we all stood there in disbelief, with eyes that asked, "Was that really??" After all, it's not ever day you meet Dan Ackroyd in the Chicago House of Blues Hotel elevator at 2:30 in the morning.

During a break in my schedule during my last trip to Chicago, I had to visit Bin 36 - one of my favorite places to go during my frequent trips to Chicago. Even though I knew I couldn't indulge in either of my passions given the growing bean in my belly, I still wanted to visit a familiar place, a place where I've shared long afternoons over wine flights and cheese plates.

I was on the phone with my husband, chatting about my day, as I made my way down Dearborn, when I saw the sign. "They changed the name of the House of Blues Hotel," I exclaimed. We'd known that the House of Blues Hotel and the Loews hotel group were parting ways so I can't say the name change was surprising but what I saw when I made my way to the hotel and up the stairs, was a complete shock.

Gone was the huge pink chair that sat outside, the huge golden Buddha that greeted visitors in the lobby, and the funky decor. The bold colors were replaced with white and the decor lacked any of the originality that excited me so much back in 1998 when I visited for the first time.

My heart sunk and tears welled in my eyes. I felt as though I'd lost a good friend. I recounted every change with my husband on the line and could sense that his disappointment mirrored mine - we'd shared many, many memories at the House of Blues hotel. Of the cities we travel to together, Chicago is by far the most frequent and we've never stayed anywhere other than the House of Blues Hotel. I felt as though so many of our memories were wiped away with a few coats of paint and some new furniture.

It made me wish I'd said more on that night so many years ago - that I'd said how much I loved that hotel. That I'd mentioned how it was my first introduction to Chicago so many years ago and how I thought it represented so much of what I love about Chicago: energy, fun, hospitality. I wish I'd spoken of the memories shared at that hotel - of how I loved to see the faces of friends and family when the discovered the gem of a place, with it's Howard Finster artwork, terrazzo sinks and bottle cap phone. How we'd ushered in many special first trips, big birthdays and new years in that place and how I couldn't think of a better place to have spent each occasion. It was something unique - with it's own character - words almost never used in association with something as generic and sterile as a hotel. I wish I'd gushed about how great the House of Blues Hotel was and how much it meant to me.

I doubt any of that would have changed things; nevertheless, I feel compelled to say it now. Dan, I did enjoy your hotel - thanks for the memories.

An Open Letter to My Favorite Kind of Law Enforcement: The Police

Dear Stew, Gord-o and Andy,

First, let me start with an apology.

I know that Florida seems like it has a lot going for it - great weather, nice beaches. I mean, seriously, who wouldn't love 360 days of sun each year? But, as you probably discovered on a Wednesday night a few weeks ago, the thing that really makes Florida unbearable isn't the heat or the hurricanes - it's the people.

I'm sorry that people didn't seem excited to be there - it had no reflection on the night. But more on that later... I think that the attitude of the people can be summed up by my experience after the show. My husband and I decided to wait out the traffic by having a drink at the hotel next to the arena: we found a table, sat down and waited for a waitress. No such luck - no waitresses. After making my way to the massive bar and seeing that there were only two female bartenders working the hoards of people who had the same idea we did, I took my place and reminded myself to be patient. And, for 20 minutes I waited amongst drunk guys who, while sloshing their jack and coke all over my white Ann Taylor blouse, pushed their way to the front of the bar, shouting out orders of 10 - 12 drinks each. "Oh wait - I need two more Cosmopolitans!" they'd yell at the bartender after she'd already printed their tab. Yeah, that kind of fun.

I was ignored on the bartender's first pass down the bar, but when I was ignored the second time (after waiting 20 minutes of dealing with the kind of jerks that I'm sure are present all over but who seem to come out in droves in the great Sunshine State) I had enough - we left. Too bad too because I would have given the bartender a much better tip than the 2% left by the aforementioned drunken meatheads. (I mean, seriously, who leaves a $1 tip on a $50 bar tab?) But I digress... At least now you know your audience.

But enough on the people because the show? Because the show... Ah the show.

For years I've listened to my husband wax poetic about what he'd do if the police ever got back together. As we sat in our seats that night, it was hard to believe the 'if' had become a reality.

Andy, although you might want to rethink the green in-ear monitors (they looked like big jalepenos stuck in your ear), you're still amazing. Great solos without being over done - not too short, not too long.

Stewart, you're a man after my husband's heart. When you brought out that big set of toys and ran around on the stage playing them all, you made my husband's jaw drop. Every so often I'd get an elbow nudge, "Check it out - he's playing the tympani!" my husband would exclaim.

And Sting, you could make a fortune bottling water from that fountain of youth you must have in your backyard - I know 20 year olds that don't look as good as you. Seriously, it's almost unnatural. And although you had to bring 'So Lonely' down a few steps (didn't think we'd notice, did you?), you sounded great.

Sure the set list was almost identical to the other shows you've played - so much so that my husband was accurately able to scream out the name of each song before it started but I honestly didn't care. I screamed until I lost my voice, I jumped up and down until I was soaked with sweat and I sang along to songs that brought back so many amazing memories - while also creating new memories that I'm sure I'll treasure for a long, long time.

Even better, I saw my husband in a state that - in our almost 10 years together - I've never seen. After the concert I realized that I've never seen my stoic husband so excited - not even at our own wedding. He smiled for the entire 2 hour show and was more excited than a kid at Christmas - I know this might not sound like much but, trust me, if you knew my husband you'd be rushing to check the temperature in hell.

And as for the encore - remember the rotten people - who, even in light of the amazing show that turned even my hardened husband into a singing-along, jumping-up-and-down, screaming fan, the "fans" that stood there, barely clapping or showing any emotion? They didn't leave. For the first-time in my concert-going history, I stood there in awe as not a single person left. The arena remained packed - full of people yearning for more.

By the end of the concert I was convinced that if we ever have children, we'll throw all of your names in a bucket and pull a winner. Hell, even if my kid wound up being dubbed Gordon Sting, at least I'd know he was in good company.

Thanks guys.

-Robin

Recovery

I had grand plans for today. I'm desperately behind in my training for the race I'm running in just over a month so after dropping my husband off at the airport at 6:30 am, I'd planned on going for a long training run. I'd finish with my run just in time to shower and get ready for my friend Kara's baby shower and after the shower, I'd grab my friend, Paige, and hit a kick-ass local craft fair. For the perfect ending to my perfect day: drinks at a local wine bar.

But it all came to a screeching halt around 10 pm last night. I knew things were bad when I made Mai Tai's and mine sat, untouched, until the ice melted completely - an oddity for me as I'm usually the first to polish off a Friday evening cocktail. I remembered hearing some coworkers earlier in the day, "Do you think it's food poisoning or the flu?" they'd asked someone in their department. My stomach rumbled and I knew the answer.

I'm feeling much better but - to avoid any type of relapse and also, as I wish my co-worker had done, to avoid spreading this nasty little bug - I missed out on the shower, the craft fair and drinks. Bummer.

Hopefully I'll be able to finish all of the things on my to-do list tomorrow. Among them: putting the final touches on my studio and finally posting those after pictures.

In the mean time, I'm going to catch up on my magazine reading.