I’m sick. But I won’t say much about that because I hate whiny sick blogging. Also – I refuse to accept sickness because I have too many things going on, like the girl’s birthday and Halloween madness fun drunkosity. And dammit, I refuse to be sick.
I will, however, say this about being sick: My mother will drive me crazy one of these days. I know she loves me and cares about me. And I know she worries. I do it myself – one kid sniffles once and I’m running through all the horrible diseases on earth (and perhaps the universe) in my head, while remaining calm on the outside. So I get it. I really do. But, I swear, if I hear one more accusation & demand that “You better start taking care of yourself!” I will punch someone.
Despite what she seems to believe I do take care of myself. I’m not diving into biohazard bins at the hospital in my free time. I take vitamins. I try to eat (somewhat) healthy. I get a flu shot. But a few years back, I had H1N1 and it did a serious number on my immune system – I still get sick more easily, and illnesses seem to hit me a little harder than they did before. And I have these two things in my house. These germ-filled pastries known as “kids”. So, Mom? When I am sick, if what is coming out of your mouth is anything other than the following:
“Poor baby!” “Let me make you some soup!” “Can I take the kids for you?” “Here is some Nyquil/Advil/wine.”
Then, please – I’m begging you: SHUT UP ABOUT IT ALREADY!
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In other news, I have the only golden retriever in the entire world that is not a love pig. Which is what makes the slobber & hair worth it. What the fuck?
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And I just got back from my annual work retreat at a lovely resort on the bay, where I had great food, lots of (free) booze, a massage, bike-riding, shopping and a sunset cruise. Only to return to a house that looks like pigs live in it. Not figurative pigs – actual farm pigs. And lots and lots of bullshit drama. So I am just going to think about this instead:
When the boy was two, we lost our beloved golden retriever, Cosmos. It was a rough time for me, and I was nowhere near ready to get another dog. Mr b, however, kept pushing for it. I wasn’t ready and told him so, but I could see that he was constantly thinking about it. One day, I came home from work and mr b and the boy weren’t home. Not that this was particularly unusual, but that day, I just had a feeling. And then I saw the local newspaper open to the classifieds and that feeling got stronger. A few minutes later, they came home & when I asked where they were, mr b said they had gone to the grocery store. I sighed in relief because my feeling was wrong – I was not ready. Mr b went out to the car to get the groceries and I picked up the classified to throw them away before he got any ideas, and the boy turned to me and said the words that changed my life:
“Daddy got a puppy!”
Admittedly, I wasn’t happy, but then mr b walked in with a goofy, bumbling black lab mix puppy & I couldn’t help but love him. He was a few months old, already and not well-trained (which would be my biggest frustration ove rhte next few years. Mr b had come across an ad by an elderly woman who recently lost a dog and replaced him with a brand new, cute as a button black lab. Well, she soon realized that a new puppy was too much for her (and her remaining old dog) to take, so she gave him up for adoption. And then he was ours. She had named him Boris, which was possibly the worst name for him, ever, so he immediately became Rocky.
Over the years, he turned into a great dog. He was so loving – as a young dog, he would practically try to wrap himself around your head like a turban. And he never outgrew the need to constantly be touching you. He was funny – we’d put him in costumes (like a while polyester jumpsuit – and call him Smellvis) and put things on his head and he’d take it like a champ. He was protective – he’d bark at anyone and anything that came near our house. It could be annoying at times, but I always appreciated it – when there was a rash of burglaries & fraud in the area perpetrated by an Irish Traveler-like group going door to door, he scared them off when they came to his door. He was a love pig, but he sounded like a quivering, snarling, white hot ball of canine terror (Family Dog, anyone?). He was gentle – we often found him curled up with a cat or a kid.
One of his most prominent traits, though, was that he was nervous. And what did he do when he was nervous? He shits He shit Big. Some examples:
Your son has a friend over. The friend’s dad and sister come to pick him up. The kids start playing Twister. Rocky is nervous about the strangers and shits on Twister.
It’s Christmas morning. There is much squealing and yelling and wrapping paper being strewn about. Rocky is nervous about the excitement and shits on Christmas.
Mr b is picking up the boy from daycare. He takes Rocky along. He stops at the ATM machine and gets back in his work van. While he is out, Rocky, nervous about being alone in the van, ignores the 3000 square feet of floor space in the van, and instead somehow balances himself and shits on the driver’s seat. Husband does not notice as he gets in, and sits on the driver’s seat. Husband contemplates murder.
You are 7 months pregnant (and in high-gagging mode). Your 2 cousins come to visit. They pet and love Rocky. When he walks away, all present get the “who farted?” look. Rocky, nervous about the stock market, shits on said cousins’ feet. Cousins contemplate murder. You contemplate barfing. The boy cracks up.
You are 9 months pregnant, and driving Rocky to the groomer. This is already a trauma, since Rocky is not a Car Dog. He is flailing about, falling down, hitting the dashboard and being a pain in the ass. In the middle of a call to the office, you get the “who farted?” look. Apparently, Rocky is nervous about automobile travel and shits on the passenger seat. Rocky is suddenly in the backseat, crying softly. You contemplate barfing. You decide it’s a fine idea and do so. You call Husband and tell him of your murder plans.
Despite all that, he turned out to be one of the best dogs I’ve ever known. And now he is gone. I miss my loving, funny, protective, gentle, nervous puppy.
Edited to add that random.org told me that comment #18 was the winner! And that lucky person is Carmen @ life blessons. Carmen - I've emailed you - just send me the info I need and you'll get your gift card ASAP. Congratulations!
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I just wanted to let you all know that I didn't forget you - I will be announcing the winner of the $50 gift card very soon!
Until then, here's a very sad puppy getting his SECOND bath of the day. It's his second bath not because I enjoy wrestling a biting, chewing, wiggling ball of badness into the tub, but because after his first bath he ate cat litter-encrusted cat poop in a delightful clumping cat-pee/litter reduction, puked it up in his crate, and then ROLLED IN IT.
I was talking to someone about the movie Cats vs. Dogs recently, and they asked if I was a Cat Person or a Dog Person. I can’t really answer that, because I guess I am both. But it got me thinking – do I prefer one over the other? So I sat down and tried to figure it out.
Poop:
Dogs would rather eat off their own foot than poop in the house. Dogs do NOT want to disappoint you.
Cats can’t wait until you slip up and neglect to clean their litter box at exactly the right moment (approximately 5.3 seconds after they are finished, but don’t even think about coming around a millisecond too soon and looking at them, you disgusting pervert) so they can poop on the floor next to it to just punish you.
Advantage: Dogs
Attitude: Dogs: “I love you! I Love You!! I LOVE YOU!!! YAY!! LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE!!!!! YAY FOR LOVE I LOVE YOU LOVE LOVE LOVE!! I LOVE YOU!!!!
Cats: “……….whatever……….”
Advantage: Dogs
Baths:
Dogs (or most dogs), are not at all interested in getting a bath. They will hide under the bed, run around the house to escape, put their brakes on, brace themselves against the door frame, and cry like a baby when being forced into the bathtub. And then once they are in there, they will sit down so you can’t rinse their ass, shake dirty dog water everywhere, and jump out and run immediately to a nice, dry, non-wet-dog-stinky piece of furniture. And don’t think just because your dog likes to swim or play with the sprinkler that it means they will be good in the bath, because dogs have no common sense. And here’s a little known fact: Dog dirt cannot be cleaned – it can only be transferred to another surface. So when the dog is finally soft and fluffy and fresh you and your entire house will smell like a wet, dirty dog.
Cats clean themselves. I have only had to bathe a cat twice. Once when he got a pitcher of kool-aid dumped on him…by a dog. And once when he was peed on…BY A DOG.
Advantage: Cats
Home alone:
Dogs need someone to look over them. You can’t leave multiple days worth of food because they will eat and eat and eat until they explode and then they will look for something else to eat. They have to be taken out and loved and played with and talked to.
Cats can be left with a vat of food and a big bowl of water (which they will ignore in favor of the toilet).
Advantage: Cats
Intelligence:
Dogs: Become startled by their own farts. Regularly tangle themselves up in their leashes.
Cats: Can’t find the treat sitting directly in front of them. Lose a battle of the wits against tape.
Advantage: Tie
Critter patrol:
Cats like to hunt. Most cats can be counted on to seek and destroy mice, rats, moles, centipedes and spiders.
The most you can expect from a dog is a resounding “SQUIRREL! SQUIRREL!! SQUIRRELSQUIRRELSQUIRREL!!!” and the damned squirrel is outside and not bothering anyone. If you are lucky, they will also attempt to rid your house of mail carriers and their shadow. They will fail spider miserably, though.
Advantage: Cats
Coming Home:
Dogs don’t care if you were gone five days or five minutes – their reaction is always the same: “You’re back, oh my God, I am SO HAPPY! I was so worried about you because you were here and then you were gone and I was thinking about you and then you CAME BACK! YAY!!! I LOVE YOU!!!!!
Cats didn’t even know you were gone. If they happened to be walking through the room when you return home, they might give you a barely noticeable glance to let you know that they want food and a clean littler box.
Advantage: Dogs
Protection:
Dogs will do almost anything to protect the people they love. At the very least, they will bark and let you know someone is coming (and sometimes, continue barking and barking and barking).
Cats will hear a noise in the house at night, puff up, looked totally freaked out, take off and hide under the bed. Cats do not care if you are slaughtered.
Cats basically have no smell. Unless they have one of those weird I Refuse To Clean Myself compulsions, they are obsessive in their hygiene. Other than the occasional I Just Ate, Can You Smell The Tuna On My Breath moments, they are pretty pleasant.
Dogs…Lord. If the non-bathing and bathphobia weren’t enough, let’s add in the ass breath. And the dogfarts. And the fact that they like to roll in poop and dead things for fun. Dogs – though delightful – are gross.
Advantage: Cats
Loyalty:
Dogs are loyal. They will love you no matter what you do. You can screw up again and again with a dog and he will still think you are the greatest thing ever. You always hear stories about heroic dogs saving their owners, or walking hundreds of miles to find their family again.
Cats, on the other hand, will give you ONE chance to not screw up. In fact, cats are already plotting your death simply because they can. Cats don’t save their owners – cats eat their owners after they fall down the stairs and there’s no dog to run for help.
Advantage: Dogs
So there you have it. The final tally:
Dogs: 5
Cats: 5
Humans: 1,000,000 (or possibly minus-2, depending on how big of an asshole the dogs and cats are being at the time).
We came home from The Girl’s cheer competition at Idlewild Park late Sunday night (more on that later), and I knew as soon as we pulled into the drive that something wasn’t right.Usually, the instant your tires hit the drive, you hear the sound of the barking barker who barks and barks and then barks some more.But that night, there was no barking.I thought maybe the dog was sleeping, but as I was getting out of the car, I heard some loud banging coming from the open window.
My thought went from OMG something is wrong with the dog, to OMG someone is in the house, to WTF?It turns out my first thought was the correct one.
Before you get too worried about us, let me say that he is OK.But that night, we weren’t so sure.We walked in to find puddles of vomit, poop, and a cowering dog.At first, I thought he just chowed his food too fast (and he always cowers when he’s guilty), but then I saw how much there was and I knew it was something more.
I went to pet him and it was obvious something was very wrong.He couldn’t seem to control his body.He tried to get up and kept falling over.When he did manage to get up, he just went in circles.His eyes looked…I don’t know…blank.
Within 30 seconds, both kids were crying and mr b and I were terrified and trying not to cry ourselves.Mr b took the dog outside while I tried to calm the kids down.The whole time, all I could think was “Not yet. I’m not ready.”But, you know – you’re never ready.There is never a good time to lose a loved one – even when it is a pet and you know it eventually has to happen.
Every time I have lost a pet, I have gone through a brief, but intense period of I Am Never Having a Pet Again Because It’s Too Painful, and then I come to my senses and do it all over again.Last time – with my cat – I found that it was easier to go through because we had another cat at the time and it didn’t feel so empty, so…catless.And I came to the conclusion that maybe two dogs or cats are better than one.So I got yet another cat.
And lately, we’ve been thinking about getting another dog.Not because of the reasons I just described, but just because.We talked to a breeder and made plans to send in a deposit.And then Sunday happened and I found myself feeling guilty – as if I was “replacing” my dog before he was even gone.I know it’s silly, but I felt almost responsible for what happened.
First thing Monday morning, Mr b took the dog to the vet and was told that he would most likely recover.And so far so good – he’s getting around almost as good as before, he’s eating and barking and being his pretty much normal goofball self.But I find myself worrying about him every day, spending more time playing with him and petting him, which he loves, of course.
And I’ve gotten over my ridiculous guilt – our puppy-to-be will be born in a few weeks and we’ll have him in late October.And in the meantime, I am just loving the dog we do have, and trying not to think about what’s in the future, because no matter how much you try and prepare for it, you’re never, ever ready.
I was (finally) out shopping for my March for Maddie giveaway prize this weekend, looking – obviously – for some weird stuff to throw in there. And I came upon a tiny plastic aquarium with a couple of those “grow” fish in them – the ones that expand in water. And I decided I needed to have one myself.
You see – I am not very good at taking care of pets. No – that’s not exactly true – I am fine with dogs and cats, because they can remind me that they exist and are hungry/thirsty/bored/need to pee/are dicks. But quiet, contained animals? Doomed. That’s the same reason I kill plants. They can’t nudge me with their cold noses, or bark by the door, or stare at my food and “boof,” or knock their empty dish off the platform, shove it across the room, jam it into my instep and “merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! MERL! MERL! MERL! MERL! MERL!MERL!!” at me until I get off my ass and either feed or kill them.
The fact that I still have living hermit crabs should tell you how little care they need. Because if they required anything more than minimal effort, they’d be hot-glued into little vignettes by now.
So anyway, I got this cute, tiny little aquarium that I can set on my desk and play God with the fake fish. You add water – they grow – you forget all about them and they dry up and shrink. Then you notice them one day and think, “GASP! My fish are dried up!” Then you add more water and they puff back up again and you don’t even have to feel guilty about it! I don’t know if you realize this, but YOU CANNOT DO THAT WITH REAL FISH!
Don’t get me wrong - I love aquariums. I can spend hours just looking at them. Speaking of which, I once did just that at burghbaby’s house. Her husband was nice enough to talk to me for a long time all about the fish and critters. Which – while we’re on the topic, Ms. burghbaby often claims that her husband doesn’t talk, but I certainly haven’t experienced that. It seems that she is either full of shit, or Mr. burghbaby and I are dorks of feather. Truthfully, either is possible.
Anyway, I wasn’t always bad at keeping fish, etc alive. Back when I was a kid (somewhere around 6 or 7), my aunts took me to a carnival. One of the games they had was the one where you toss ping pong balls into tiny fishbowls filled with colored water and goldfish – if the ball stays in, the fish is yours.
My aunt tried to talk me out of playing, since it was a waste of money – no one ever wins at that game – plus, if you do – the fish die in a couple of days, anyway – I mean – they are swimming in tiny bowls of colored water, right? Wrong. I won me a fish and I named him Fred (I went through a stage where everything was named Fred for a while). We took it home (to my aunt/grandma’s house) and within a couple of days, we had a whole aquarium set up for this one fish. And despite what everyone but me expected, this fish did NOT die in a couple of days. In fact, he not only lived, he thrived. Within a week or so, we saw him start to increase in size. I was worried about him being lonely, so we bought him a few friends. But soon, the friends disappeared and Fred got bigger. And bigger. And BIGGER.
He soon started looking less like a tiny goldfish and more like a huge gold river fish. He was bigger than any goldfish you’ve ever seen. His tail was the size of an adult hand when “unfurled.” More than once, when my grandfather was cleaning the tank, he put Fred in another container while he scrubbed the tank in the kitchen. When he came back, he found that Fred had leaped from the tank and was lying on the floor, dry and seemingly dead. But Gramps, who loved animals, grabbed Fred and plunged him back into the water. Then he started rubbing him gently – almost doing compressions. And damned if that fish didn’t revive! And it happened TWICE! Gramps thought the first time was a fluke, but after the second, he started throwing a towel over the container.
Fred lived a good, LONG life. I got him when I was about 6 and when he died? I was in college. College! Gramps was magic like that. He didn’t need a fake fish to dry up & reanimate – he could do it for real.
There was a truck in front of me the other day that had stickers on it that made it look like there were bullets holes all over fake bullet holes all over the tailgate. I truly do not get this. I am just not sure why this guy wants to say to the world, "I am such a huge asshole that someone SHOT AT ME" I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he also had fucking hitch balls. For those of you asking what hitch balls are, here you go. Classy. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I’d be wiling to bet there was a mullet involved. I’ll bet the guy has to beat the ladies of with a stick, because he is clearly quite a catch.
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I saw that truck in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s while I was getting some morning caffeine. You know what I really hate? People who blow their horn in the McDonald’s drive-thru line. I understand that you are in a very important hurry, but do you not realize that we have no control over our speed here? The poor guy at the window is just waiting for his McMuffins and there you are, three cars behind him, blowing your goddamned horn. In MY ear. Stop it.
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We rented some movies from redbox this weekend, and I have to say, Dear Baby Jesus – thank you for redbox. I am serious – they are cheap, and best of all, I don’t have to deal with the idiot working at the video store. I know netflix is cool, too, but really, if it involves stamps and mailboxes, I will fuck it up. Redbox is much easier for me.
Anyway, we watched Bolt, What Just Happened, and The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. I didn’t expect to like Bolt, but I did. I think I was biased, since two of the main characters were voiced by Miley Cyrus and John Travolta, and I don’t like either one of them. So I was prepared not to like the movie. But it turned out it was pretty damned funny.
I think What Just Happened is one of those movies that is really for Hollywood. Because I think that anyone in the film industry probably found it uproariously funny, but for the rest of us, it was just one inside joke after another. I just didn’t really get it.
**warning, spoiler-y**The Boy in the Striped Pajamas was a weird one for me. I was prepared to love it, but it just kid of missed for me. I liked it most of the way through (for as much as you can like a movie about the holocaust). Other than the fact that the boy from the camp was not only way too robust, but actually had full-on chubby cheeks, it was engaging and somewhat interesting. But the end ruined it for me. I think I was supposed to be heartbroken by it, but I wasn’t. don’t get me wrong, it was sad. But the overall horror of the holocaust is so overwhelming that it is hard to feel sympathy over this one “accidental” death. I mean, I guess that was the whole point of the movie that the holocaust was horrible. But you don’t rally need to kill off an innocent German boy to prove it to me. I know already. Six million dead Jews and 5 million other dead ethnic and religious minorities, disabled people, homosexuals, and free-thinkers (or more) pretty much make it clear without this contrived story that I felt was intended to pull at my heartstrings. It simply didn’t. in fact, although the boy was likable and I felt bad, I still found myself thinking, “well, boo-fucking hoo”
I know that the movie was critically acclaimed, but I just can’t get on board with the rave reviews. I didn’t hate it, I don’t think it was a bad movie, but I just couldn’t help being disappointed in the end (and don’t think I expected a happy ending, because there are none in this subject matter). I broke my own rule and saw the movie without reading the book and that may have made it worse. Reading about the book, I think I would have appreciated the slight differences. The movie, though, left me feeling…I don’t know…weirdly uncaring. Maybe that makes me cold, I don’t know. But Schindler’s List made me cry. Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl made me cry. Inheritance made me cry. Forgotten Holocaust made me cry. The Holocaust made me cry. Survival in Auschwitz made me cry. Night made me cry. Every single book I have read on the subject made me cry. Visiting Dachau made me an emotional wreck. But this movie just made me feel manipulated and underestimated.
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OK, so now, since I hate to end things on such a heavy note, I will talk about dogs.
When I was cleaning on Friday, I found a few large-ish chunks of black pet hair. Now, having a black dog and cat means that I am always finding hair floating around, sometimes even big tufts and tumbleweeds of it. But these were bigger than normal an I was a little concerned that one of the pets was having some sort of problem. Until Sunday when I saw this:
I know it's not a great photo, so in case you can't tell, that is a large chunk of fur missing from the dog's back. one of several, in fact. Put that together with me being unable to find scissors Saturday and The Girl “helpfully” telling me exactly where they were, and I think we all know what happened here. I guess she has moved on from putting eyeshadow on him.
Also - Puppy! (not mine, just “borrowed” for a little while from Rapunzel)
Friends who are going to Disney World soon.Disney World is my crack.And I nnneeeeeeeeeeed some soon.Sadly, I won’t be getting it.I was hoping for the every other year plan, which started with October 06 and 08.but we have been thinking that even thought October is the bestest time to go (great weather, lower crowds, Halloween party, Food and Wine Festival), it’s getting really hard to take the boy out of school for it.So we will now be going in the hellish, horrible summer, which is more crowed, hotter, and more expensive.And also harder to get mr b convinced it’s time.If I had it my way, if we have to go in summer, we’d go for two weeks instead of one (OK, if I had it my way, we’d go for two months)
2 things I am waiting for:
News that my brand new baby cousin is on the way.My cousin Lala is approximately 37 months pregnant right now and every time the phone rings, I think it’s time.It’s been almost five years since there’s been a new baby in the family and I can not wait to get my hands on the little pumpkin who, despite my constant harassment polite requests, they are not naming Gina.I don’t get it.I think he’d like the name.
Lunchtime
3 things I am looking for:
A suitable replacement for my favorite and long since discontinued eye cream. I am death to products – makeup, hair products, food items – you name it.If I love something, it is almost guaranteed to be discontinued.And if not discontinued, then changed enough that it is not the same thing and may as well be discontinued (I’m looking at you sugared maple lipstick).And I can’t even begin to express my love for the former Mary Kay Triple Action Eye Enhancer.This was the best stuff, ever.I don’t know why they discontinued it, given that I am constantly talking to people who also loved it and lament its disappearance.There are a few tubes online, but considering that it had been years since they took it off the market, I’m not sure how safe, or at least, fresh it would be.But I might be willing to take a chance, since it was awesome.It brightened and sort of lifted the eyelids and made shadows and liners go on smoothly and stay on well.I have tried about a million new brands but never found anything as good.I have no idea what was in the stuff, but between the deep love I had for it and the fact that it is no longer on the market despite sales, I am guessing mercury, BPA, plutonium, and crack.
Dragon’s Song.Years ago, some clients gave mr b a small book that a friend of theirs had had published.It was an epic poem about Pittsburgh called Dragon’s Song.It talked about growing up in the city and how the mills looked like giant dragons.I loved it.And now I can’t find it.Since it was self-published, I can’t find it anywhere –even the Carnegie, and it’s pissing me off. I found an email for the author, but haven’t gotten a reply.On the off chance that any of you have it, let me know – I really want a copy.
Love in all the wrong places (OK, not really, but I needed one more thing here for this to work).
4 things making me happy:
Spending the day at the Carnegie Library with the girl on Saturday.Sure, we have a small library in my hometown, but it doesn’t thrill me the way the Carnegie does.I’m like a kid in a candy store in there.We spent hours reading in the children's section, reading and picking out books to take home with us (of those we took, best title: Skippyjon Jones, best book: The Library Lion, most giggles: The End).Then I did a mad dash & grab in the newer fiction (it really almost doesn’t matter what I grab – I’m happy to read it).I was in such a good mood, I even got a few books for mr b and the boy.Mr b got a couple books on blues music, and I reserved a dvd of Buddy Guy for him.The boy got a huge illustrated encyclopedia of Star Wars vehicles. Which I knew held love.Of course all the book-induced endorphins made me black out the part where he would spent he next three weeks excitedly telling me about each and every vehicle. At length.But still: books!Best part of the day?When I asked the children's librarian where the Cornelia Funke books were located (I need Inkspell now), and she asked me what grade/reading level I was looking for and I had to say, “Um..it’s for me.”Awesome.
The girl now sharing my love for bubble drinks (though not that milky sweet nastiness).Oh, black tapioca pearls, how I love you.
This study is ending today and I can go back to my normal working schedule.
The little wedgie move she does after finishing her “floor routine”:
5 things pissing me off:
Speaking of Cornelia Funke, I was all excited way back when I saw the trailer for Inkheart.And then I ran out and read the book, as I like to do.And when I read it, I discovered that almost nothing in the trailers is actually from the book.No Toto, no flying monkeys, no unicorns.What the fuck?
This bullshit.I can’t even put into words how I feel, other than What. The. Fuck?
The fact that , like every other year, we have been hearing the annual “Oh No, We’re running out of salt for the roads” song of whining, and yet on a 60 degree day, I was behind a truck spreading salt. What the fuck?
As much as I love SpiceIsland, I really hate those stupid takeout containers they use.The plastic lids get hot, then they pile them on top of each other, and then I end up with shattered plastic in my now inedible Kway Teow.I’m seriously craving it, but won’t bother again until I can eat in.What the fuck, SpiceIsland?
The fact that I just found out that Kindergarten registration is coming up.When did my baby get so old???She’s a teeny, tiny baby!And her impending kindergarten is making me yearn for more babies.What the fuck?
6 things the dog has crapped on:
A preface:We got the dog when he was a few months old. We had recently lost our beloved Golden Retriever, and mr b came across an elderly woman who recently lost a dog and replaced him with a brand new, cute as a button black lab. Well, she soon realized that a new puppy was too much for her (and her remaining old dog) to take, so she gave him up for adoption. I wasn’t thrilled when mr b and the boy came home with him (surprise - we got a dog!), but I fell for him quickly. He is a sweet, friendly, loving dog, who is also a fantastic watch dog. And he points at squirrels and chickens. But he’s guilty. He’s guilty for everything he ever did, ever. He sounds like Cujo when someone is approaching, but a quivering, snarling, white hot ball of canine terror, he is not (Family Dog, anyone?) All you have to do is look at him with The Look and the ears go down, the eyelids start fluttering, the tail tucks under and Ferocious Watchdog becomes Sissy Wussy Dog.And what does Dog do when he’s nervous and guilty? He shits. He shits Big.
Twister: The boy had a friend over one weekend.When the friend’s dad came to pick him up, he brought along the friends’ sister and they hung out and played for a while and the adults visited.Pretty soon, the kids start playing Twister. The dog is nervous about games and shits on Twister.
Christmas:It’s Christmas morning. There is much squealing and yelling and wrapping paper being strewn about. Dog is nervous about the excitement and shits on Christmas. The living room is now a minefield as we pick through piles of paper while trying to locate/avoid the pile of shit.
Taxes.A few years back, we (by which I mean mr b) waited until the very last second to do out taxes.While we were dealing with the stress of taxes, I someone spilled beer into the keyboard and it died.So now we had added the added stress of running out to get a new keyboard to finish the taxes.We had papers everywhere, keyboards on the floor, and a general crazy mess.And apparently taxes make the dog nervous.Because he shit on them.And then he sent his post-poo celebration time barfing. Yes, he followed up the shit with a nice big pile of yack on my living room carpet. This is the life.
The driver’s seat.Mr b was picking up the boy from daycare and decided to take the dog along to surprise him.He stops at the ATM machine and gets back in the van. While he is out, Dog, nervous about being alone in the van, ignores the 3000 square feet of floor space in the giant van, and instead somehow balances himself and shits on the driver’s seat. Mr b does not notice as he gets in, and sits on the driver’s seat.Then he smells it.Then cranes his neck, looking all around the van trying to find the source of the smell.Then he realizes he can’t see it anywhere and it becomes clear.Then he contemplates dog murder.
The passenger seat.When I was 9 months pregnant, I was driving Dog to the groomer. This is already a trauma, since Dog is not a Car Dog. He is flailing about, falling down, hitting the dashboard and being a general pain in the ass. In the middle of a call to the office, I got the “who farted?” look. Apparently, Dog is nervous about automobile travel and shits on the passenger seat. Dog is suddenly in the backseat, crying softly.Being in my ninth month of a barfarific pregnancy (seriously, I lost 25+ lbs from the barfing), I contemplate barfing. I decided barfing is a fine idea and do so. While cleaning my car of dog shit and barf, I call mr b and tell him of my dog-murder plans.
On my cousins’ feet.I was 7 months pregnant (and in high-gagging mode). My two cousins came over to visit me one night. They pet and love Dog. When he walks away, all present get the “who farted?” look. Dog, nervous about the stock market, shits on said cousins’ feet. Cousins contemplate murder. I contemplate barfing.
I think this is why Lala refuses to name her baby (boy) Gina.
I'm still swamped with a study running at work, so I am going to re-post my Crap-entine's Day post from last year. I'm not a big fan of the Valentiney stuff, can you tell?
Valentine’s Day has never been my thing. At least after I outgrew the school parties and homemade boxes and heart-shaped lollipops and chocolate covered marshmallow hearts (OK, I never actually outgrew the chocolate covered marshmallow hearts).
In high school, I always hated when V-day rolled around. If I had a boyfriend there was the worrying about what to get him, when in actuality I thought it was stupid but I didn’t want to be the loser who got something and didn’t give something in return. And really, I hated cheap candy and stupid plush hearts and teddy bears. If I didn’t have a boyfriend, it actually wasn’t so bad. My friends and I would send each other flowers or lollipops (red for I love you, pink for I like you and white for just friends – we always went with red) and we’d make fun of everyone else’s stupid plush hearts and teddy bears. Hedge and I will be doing this this week, in fact. Twenty-mrtngh years later.
And mr b and I never went all out for V-day either. In the beginning, we were too broke and now we just don’t give a crap. We’ll get a card and maybe a little chocolate treat, maybe a little thrown-together bouquet of flowers, but beyond that? Eh. I'll get the kids a little something (though this year, we are going candy-free - think trinkets and girly things for the girl and more of The Office on dvd for the boy).
I’ve talked about it before, but I am so sick to death of Hallmark and jewelry stores telling me how important it is. I really, really don’t give a shit if he went to Jared. So in case you were wondering, here’s a list of thing to NOT get me on Valentine’s Day, though the constant radio ads will tell you otherwise.
(Not that you were getting me anything for Valentine's Day anyway, but in case you have a SO who is like me, this might be helpful)
Vermont Teddy Bears No. Seriously, no. I don’t care about a stuffed animal. I don’t care if it has a little outfit on and looks like me or is sitting at a computer or wearing a tie-dye or whatever. I simply do not need or want a fucking teddy bear. I’m 40. It’s just one more thing for me to dust and take up space in my too-small house. And besides, unless the little fucker is going to get up and clean the house for me, then 80 frajillion dollars is too damned much to spend on a stupid space-taking, dust-collecting stuffed toy. Now that I think of it, get me a maid service instead.
Lingerie Ahhh, yes. The gift that says, “I’d like to get laid”. There is a local lingerie store that has radio ads every Valentine’s Day, with some stupid bitch telling the “gentlemen” how their “ladies” would love “something sensual” but are afraid to say so. Ummm, not really. Please - If I want lingerie, I am not afraid to say so. But I won't say so. You know why? Because if I want it, I’ll go buy it. If I want lingerie, I want something that will a) not embed itself in my ass, b) hold the hooters in place, c) actually be comfortable, and d) be made from fibers found in nature so as not to create a raging yeast infection. If you give me sexy lingerie, I will open it and my first thought will be, “Motherfucker, this is for YOU, not me. Next time get me a table saw, why don’t you??” And don’t be surprised if you get a 20-something pool boy from me next year.
Chocolates Body Paint See “lingerie.” The only thing I will be doing with this is heating it up and pouring it over ice cream. Sorry.
Gold-Dipped Roses I do not, I repeat NOT, need another crappy tchochke in my house. Please. Also, see “too much money” and “dust-collector”
Flowers in General Don’t get me wrong - I love flowers. And roses are OK, though not my favorite. But on V-Day, those things are marked up like 15,000 percent. And they are FAR crappier then, too. Fuck that shit. It’s complete insanity to expect people to pay that much fucking money for flowers that will be dead shortly anyway. If you want to get me flowers, go to the local supermarket that sells them by the stem, pick out a bunch of different style, different color, mix and match blooms and I’ll love it all the more.
Heart-Boxed Chocolate I love chocolate. Love it. But I don’t need the heart shaped box. You pay way more because of it and generally, I hate everything in there. I hate the creams and the nougats and the nuts. So get me some Dove hearts, some truffles, some Hershey’s kisses, or hell, some Raisinettes. I’ll love them.
Diamond Heart Jewelry I am really not a big jewelry person in general, but I really, really hate the heart stuff. I don’t like heart shaped stones, I don’t like the cheesy heart rings and necklaces that come in a box with chocolates or a bear. Seriously, I just don’t care for it. And I really don’t need more jewelry. I already have more than I can wear (one ring on each hand and maybe a necklace or bracelet - and I’m too damned lazy to change every day). And don't even get me started on the blood diamonds. If you insist on getting me jewelry, go string some beads for me or buy me something artistic and handcrafted. Or something antique. Otherwise, save your money.
Champagne OK, champagne is fine, as long as you get several bottles and don’t expect it to lead to sex.
And now the dog would like you to know that he does not subscribe to my jaded views of Valentine's Day and the he is, in fact, a lover:
So the impromptu I-didn’t-know-I-was-having-it party on Saturday was a lot of fun. Only a few of the invitees were able to come and I ended up extending the invitation to a few of my family members and friends, and our neighbors dropped by (no – not crazy the asshole neighbors), and it turned out to be a great time. There was drinking and game-playing and karaoke singing and crazy blond wig wearing and terrible, untalented move-bustin. And good food.
And other than the fact that the dog seems to hate my cousin’s husband, John, for no reason – a good time was had my all. Except by the dog. Because he hates wearing crazy blond wigs almost as much as he hates John. (which, seriously – wtf, Dog? Wigs are fun. And so is John. He’s loved far and wide by dogs and kids alike. And the dog used to love my cousin, but he’s not too wild about her either, now that she’s carrying his spawn. So clearly she has to divorce him now, which is too bad because he’s a nice guy. WTF, Dog??) We had a ton of alcohol left over from my birthday party, so it was a good way to get rid of it. Except that everyone brought something to drink and we somehow have more booze than when we started. Isn’t that just awful? I think I’ll go console myself with a glass of my choice of seven different wines. Or a beer. Or a mojito. Or a daiquiri. Or a rum and coke.
Oh – also – for my birthday, Hedge and Rapunzel gave me a blender, since I was lamenting not having one (I have broken two in the past 6 years by making frozen drinks. And not smoothies – big surprise). So anyway, I inaugurated it Saturday night and was feeling all warm and fuzzy about my friends being so awesome and giving me a gift that clearly shows their love and affection for me (because nothing say love like a delicious frozen alcoholic drink). Until I realized that they were trying to kill me. Yes – my dear friends clearly rigged the blender so it would malfunction and cause my death.
You see, I made a batch of daiquiris – non-alcoholic for my pregnant cousin and the kids. And since they didn’t have any extra liquid (rum) in them and I was too drunk stupid to replace the rum with another liquid - like water – they were very thick. I had to spoon them out rather than pour them. I got drinks my cousin and non-drinking SIL (not my BFF SIL, Weenie – by midnight, she was half passed out on the dog pillow – you guess if she’s a teetotaler) and was trying to spoon the last of it out for the kids when the bottom of the pitcher (with the blades) fell off and landed on my foot. At first, I didn’t realize the magnitude of my injury because it just hurts when something lands on your foot. But then, a split second later, I looked down to see my entire foot covered in blood and a growing puddle of it on the floor. My first thought was, “Holy shit, I cut my foot.” My second thought was “Goddammit, I just cleaned this floor!”
Then, I spotted something on the floor. It was pale pink and toe-shaped and covered in blood. And my next thought was “Oh my God, I cut off my toe!” I sat down to inspect it before I got anyone upset about my toe-ectomy and discovered I hadn’t in fact cut off my toe – it was just a toe-shaped drop of extra-thick daiquiri, which was definitely good news. But the bad news is that my toe was still bleeding like crazy. Everyone was running around like crazy with towels and bandages and Neosporin (except for my faints at the sight of blood friend who expressed her concern from the relative safety of the family room). My non-passed-out-on-the-dog-pillow SIL was insisting that I needed to go to the ER, and all I could think about at this point was that if I had to go to the ER, it would ruin this party.
We eventually got it to stop bleeding, after approxmately 10 paper towels, lots of pressure, 16 feet of gauze, 8 pounds of cotton, and 8 Dora band-aids. Needless to say, I didn’t go to the hospital. Which isn’t as stupid as it sounds. Because even though the current version of the story involves almost bleeding to death, an explosion, a desperate dive to safety, snakes, giant, whirring blades that narrowly missed my carotid artery, and – depending on how hungover I am when I’m telling it – insane ninjas, it really wasn’t that bad. Except for the profuse bleeding. And the ninjas.
Dear jogger, Contrary to what you clearly believe, briefly interrupting your run in order to comply with basic safety laws will not, in fact, result in your immediate death. Not doing so, however, just might Love Gina
Dear pedestrians, While I realize that auto traffic must yield to pedestrians, I feel the need t point out that this law refers to pedestrians already in the crosswalk. This does not mean that it’s a particularly wise idea to fail to look both ways and step into the street, assuming that this law will protect you from speeding traffic like some sort of super shield. Because if you step directly out in front of me and I kill you – sure – I’ll feel bad. Really bad. But you’ll be dead nonetheless. If you see that jogger – let her know. Love Gina
Dear flag-shirt-wearing jackass driver, If you put as much though into things like traffic laws and stop signs as you clearly did to the application of those 16 “W” stickers, perhaps you’ll increase your life expectancy. Because if you continue to drive like that, you’ll either die in a fiery crash or some bitch with PMS and a liberal streak will beat you to death. Love, Gina
Dear parker, It’s a pull-in space! And you’re driving a Chevette. Are you seriously having that much of a problem? Love Gina
Dear Boy, You are waaaaay too young to be turning into your father. Please pick your underwear up off the bathroom floor. If you take up snoring, you’re outta here. Love Mom
Dear Girl, If you are going to get out of bed and wander the house in the wee hours of the morning, you really need to let someone know. Because I had a heart attack, died, came back to life and spontaneously combusted this morning when I found you missing from your bed. I’m too old for that. Love, Mom
Dear mr b, Just because you don’t hear it, smell it or see it, does not mean that it does not exist. Recall, if you will, that you are deaf, blind and have a seriously fucked up sense of smell. And the next time you resort to the age-old, good old boy, misogynistic, bullshit explanation that “[I;m] crazy”, I will be forced to kill you. Love, Gina PS. Smoking is ugly.
Dear Bass Thumper, The volume and tone of the bass is clearly inversely proportional to intelligence. Since my skeletal system is vibrating, you must be a serious mental midget. If you weren’t so obviously disturbed, I might beat your woofers with a club. You know, if I had money for lawyers and damages. And a club. Love, Gina
Dear Spider, Get out! I hate you, Gina
Dear Dog, You have very few jobs in this house. And while, admittedly, you are doing a fine job of “Barking Your Fool Head Off”, you are failing miserably at “Spiders.” Shape up. Love, Gina
Dear Cat, See Dog. Also – spring weather is not a license to jackassery. The “Let Me In…Psych!” game is getting old. I’ll let it slide if you get cracking on those spiders! Love, Mom
Dear Polling place worker, Seriously? You are seriously that stupid?? Ok, then. Love, Gina
Dear Litterer, You are an asshole. But on Earth Day? Super Mega Giant Asshole of Assholery. Love, Gina
Watch American Idol on “Songs from the Year You Were Born” Night. Nothing makes you feel like an old geezer quite like being reminded that some of these people (All but one of whom are chronological adults. And several of whom are married) were just being born while you were out drinking and smoking and having sex. Well, expect for that one guy. You may have only been ten when he was born. You know, if you were telling your age (which everybody knows anyway).
How to be a diva. Or perhaps, Mrs. Howell:
How to be the next Mickey Hart*: *OK, clearly, I don’t know many drummers and I narrowed it down from Phil Collins (who makes me want to stab myself), Rick Allen (who only has one arm and who wants to wish that on their kid?) and Tommy Lee (and speaking of things one doesn’t want to wish on their kid: Pam Anderson, Hepatitis and crabs)
How to crack you mother up (and simultaneously make her feel guilty for her vocabulary):
“Bean – why is the dog barking? Can you look and see if someone is coming”
“OK, Mom. Stop barking! There’s no one coming, you jackass
How to put your foot in your mouth while watching a commercial for Moment of Truth:
“Asking a question like ‘have you ever regretted marring your spouse is unfair.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a rock/hard place question. No one wants to admit it, but everyone has thought that at some point in their marriage”
“I haven’t”
Jeez – next you’ll be telling me that not everyone has plotted their spouse’s death. And set up their BFF as an alibi (Hi, Hedge!)
(For the record, I think he’s lying. I know I’m a bitch.)
How to be the world’s worst photographer: Take Easter photo with “Cops” on in the background… Because nothing says, “Jesus Lives” quite like a televised drunk driving arrest.
Forty-sdjhfkjsdhfkjsdh year old mom of 2 - a 15 year old boy and a 8 year old girl. I love them very much, but they drive me crazy. I'm married and work full-time. I'm not sure which of these is the most exhausting, but probably the husband.
I'm opinionated. I'm outspoken. I'm loud. I'm an over-sharer. I think Tom Cruise is a jackass. I like to say jackass. I like to swear, period. Fuckers.
I love to read. I struggle with my weight. I love my job. I dress my pets up and ridicule them regularly. I am not afraid to cut my hair and I don't understand people who are. I hate getting old. I love to laugh. Make me laugh, OK?
