Goose me

Pucker Up and I took a Few Minutes To Ourselves today, allowing J to handle his own kids without any silent backseat parenting from me; honestly, he's a good deal calmer with them than I would have been today. Pucker however? Yep, she's mine, and she's due for a Good Run with perhaps some Subversive Training thrown in for good measure.

High Five is firmly under our belt - rather, the spare tire she currently sports hanging over where her belt disappeared - so we've moved on: recall without a leash, from far far far away, as well as recall while ensniffed in something far more interesting than my voice.

Both times? Excellent.

I got bold. Really bold. Went for heeling. Off leash heeling.

Not our strong suit on leash, and certainly not off, but hell, I was taking a breathing moment, I'd love to come home triumphant. Broke out handfulls of treats from hell (seriously disgustingly fattening - and they smell horrific) - viola', she heels.

I'm soooo proud!!!

So yes, I'm at a middle school, while on vacation - it's raining for God's sake. Pouring, really. No one is out. No one at the playground. My car's the only one squatting in the parking lot. Just Pucker and I, having a chat with the Big Guy upstairs about the state of our lives, our relationships, what we'd like or hope for them to be, knowing that really, the best way to hear God laugh is tell Him your plans. I'm pretty sure I head a guffaw.

Either way? Spiritually, we left fufilled. Popped into the car, nipped home to show off our new prowess to J, in the living room, where he's laying on his back, covered with a beach towel. Kids? Strangely absent. We show off our newest acheivement. Jonathan croons the "good girl" routine at her, reaches over to pet her face, peels back his hand with this funny look on his face. His fingers are green.

Grass is green.

It's not sticky.

Goose poop however? Is both green and sticky.

Fuck.

She's standing on the bloody persian rug in the family owned beach house where we've "forgotten" to mention when we said we were taking the Whole Family along, we meant her too. I'm going to kill her. I watched her the whole, entire, I mean every second of the time we were there time, and she did not roll. Not one time. Nor did she make any motions toward rolling. I noticed once she had something in her mouth; I told her to drop it, it was MINE, so she did. Never occured to me to look for goose poop.

There were no geese. If no geese, why look for poop?

Am I stupid. Evidently in the four seconds it took for this frizzy haired desparate mother of three coming to exspend some of her wee progenies energy, she announced that there were no dogs allowed at this school, she rolled. Several times.

Okay, so the kids have been a bit of a trial, and honestly, I was kind of spoiling for a fight, so I gave her one: first off, the sign says nothing about animals. Alcohol? Yes. Skateboards? Yes. Roller blading? Yes. No to all of those things in this playground. Not once, not even in photo form, does it say no fucking dogs.

She got snotty. It's a school rule.

Oh hell no. She's picked on the wrong mom today, my friend. I would understand her being a complete bitch if my dog peed in the playground (next to it, not IN it - completely separate) or had she poop-walked her way under the slide, or in the tire jumping thing on the ground spread way too far apart for any pre-schooler I've ever seeen. But clearly, as an Outside, what do I know?

I know pets are allowed here. In fact, I carried on (hey, once on a roll, best to just let me finish) I could easily have trained a pony here, a goat, allowed a cow to graze, or meandered through with an entire family of freaking buffalo. I'm not drinking alcohol. My pets don't drink alcohol. I am not rollerskating, skate boarding, I'm not running with scissors, as well as most any other "school rule" I can think of. I'm simply enjoying a moment out with my pet, my well-behaved non-screaming pet, allowing her some time to roam, beagle around, practice her heeling, recall, high five, as well as some new idea I've had towards agility. (She totally sucks at jumping up on things, but it's early yet)

Meet Pucker, the Most Perfectly Behaved Dog On Earth. Who is sitting, ladylike, right at my left side. Just. Like. She's. Supposed. To.

Unlike, ps., those hellions you brought here.

Naturally, one should heed the old adage - be careful what you say, you may have to eat those words later - I didn't have to eat them, I had to bathe them. No douche at my disposal (trust me when I say J may like me a lot? but I don't think THAT much) so I asked for any vinegar.

What IS it with people owning the most unusual forms of vinegar on the planet? GRAPE FUCKING VINEGAR.

Fine. I'm desparate. I'll take it. I'm already in the freaking tub with Rolling In Poop On The Sly Ass Dog Of The Year, in brandy new underpinnings - both top and bottoms! Snakes and bastards. I washed her with shampoo (useless endeavor, I realize) til J found grape vinegar (I'm still stuck on who in the name of all that is holy owns GRAPE vinegar?!) to douse said beast. And me. Thank God I'd not shaved my legs this morning, as I'd thought about doing.

Rain= no shaving. Shaving + vinegar = Bad Idea.

Shucked all wet clothing, slipped into flirty skirted suit bottoms, tee and sweatshirt, as we were goinig Netting, at the end of the street. I caught several beautiful rocks. The kids and Jonathan? Found all sorts of fish, jelly fish and shit I won't even go near less touch. They got attacked by some unsuspecting underwater seaweed.

I got attacked by some very unhappy, overly aggressive geese.

Most likely the same fucking geese that shit about three blocks away on a field.

I digress. Two stunningly gorgeous swans (trust me here, flattery gets you absolutly no where with swans) and their three babies (HUGE babies - damn big babies if you ask me) - wings went up, honking came on, I threatened to stick my size eight pink thonged foot right up her ass if she got any closer to me (all this while backing hastily towards the stairs, while also screaming JONATHAN at the top of my lungs - unnecessary, really, he was say, 10 feet away) - I'm telling you, she was totally going for the flirty skirt of my suit bottoms. Jonathan says not. They were looking for bread.

Since they were eating other blowing foliage, it stands to good reason they were after my skirt.

I knew I should've worn the other one.

They left, I got braver, went in up to my knees, doing my usual - hunting down cutie rocks - bent over, flirty skirted backside out to all and sundy......fucking swans return. Honestly. If I didn't have food the first time, and I wasn't thrilled to see you? I'm certainly not going to pull a loaf of bread out of my brandy new (pink, if you're wondering) bra to feed you, especially as you've simply no manners.

We returned; rinsed off sandy feet, got settled on the couch for movie night.

Something smells funny.

yeah......................................that'd be Pucker.

Smelling of goose poop.

Just goes to show: for every good deed, I'll get shit on.

Packing it in

Do you see me packing? For the Cape? For myself?

Me neither.

Fox, on the other hand, I've packed, down to his toothbrush, extra socks, all I need do is find the other trainer he's using as water shoes (I dare you to find water shoes in for a wide foot - double dog dare you) get his beach smelling backside in the shower, and off to a fitting for his tux.

Now, for myself, it's not as though I'm traveling to a 5 star resort. I need (on paper) several pairs of short/skirty items I can either loll around in, or traipse through some high shopping centers (read: Christmas Tree Shops and the grocery store) a couple of suits (like a real woman only packs one, sheesh) some shoes, toiletries, and I should be golden. Things to remember?

Pink floppy sun hat.

Sunglasses.

Some form of Hair Taming Devices, as humidity and I? Not a good mix. You should know that by now, but whatever. This is not, say, the wedding trip, where I need to put some Serious Thought into what Fox and I are wearing. The best part of this whole endeavor? Fox will be in MAINE. Yes, that's right, 5 whopping hours from me, so the likelihood of my needing his clothes to match is not only slim? It's none.

One would peek into his bag, see that the outfits are mostly interchangeable - one Dressy Shorts with Collared Shirt to be worn IN PUBLIC - knowing my child? That's not what he'll do. He'll upend the entire bag, close his eyes, his hands grabbing the two most ill-suited items to wear together, not only flagging himself as a tourist, but one who clearly dresses in the dark.

Or, worse, he'll fit right in.

Oh man, I hadn't even though about that part.

Again. Focus. Why do I care? I won't be seen with him. It's an All Boy Vacation, involving things I either won't do, wouldn't be caught dead holding, or with so few Bathing Experiences my hair would curl.

I don't need help with that. My hair's a curly disaster right now on any given day as it is.

So really, all I've left to contend with? Myself, and Fattypants. Somehow, I doubt I need all five suits (one I don't even wear as the ass is worn through, but HELLO, it's Lilly, so obviously I need to keep it, everyone knows that) but which one do I leave at home? The one where the ass is so big it hangs like elephant legs? But it has a skirt that covers that. If I take the other one with the little flirty skirt, the skirt is shorter, showing off the left side that tends to travel northward, when I least expect it. Say, in front of company at my back. Or, God forbid, when I bend over to pet the dog, pick up trash, turn off a hose.....a plethora of opportunities really.

My goal is to tan, not tan my hide.

Either way, Fattypants is packed. (Not hard, but I'm counting it as an accomplishment nonetheless - I look far more productive that way)

Perhaps I should rely on my tried and true method: wait until the absolute last moment, throw things willy-nilly in a bag, and be surprised myself at my clothing choices. Worked quite well so far, in the past; no need to think it won't now. Right?

Right.

Excellent. I may not be packed yet, but now??

I have a plan. Good enough for me.

Blood.

On.

The.

Bed.

Hmmmm. Not. Good. News.

First, I suspected one of Foxy's numerous football related nicks, scratches, lacerations just shy of needing stitches popped open (or was picked, let's be real here, he's an 8 year old boy). Or, he got a bloody nose.

Is. Not. Fox.

I know for a fact it's not me. How do I know this? First, I just do, and secondly? If it was me, I certainly wouldn't be sharing it here. Hell. I don't even let J talk about it. It's one of Those Things Best Left Un-Spoken About. Okay?

Fucker Up and Shoot Me? I don't think so. I'd checked her over the first time I got on this merry-go-round of Blood Origination, found nothing. No bloody noses, no scratches, wrestling match marks from when the three of these idiots hung out together. Yes, I checked to make sure there wasn't some sort of horrible Not Completely Spayed Thing going on, and the bitch was in heat. She's not. (Oh, thank God thank God thank God). Not her teeth; she was happy to have me check once she saw there were no tooth brushing implements in my hands. Huh. I didn't really give her memory enough credit I suppose; she does indeed recall the Eating Of Bone Incident that ended with Minty Mouth Washing.

Checked Fox again, peeked at my ankles - yep, good shaving still generally involves blood shed - not me. Could have answered my own question; shaving is on list for tomorrow, so obviously, that which may wait until then? Does.

When all else fails: Back to Pucker.

Further inspection ensued. Broken nail? Would be enormously painful, I can so vouch for that. All nails intact. Actually, come to think of it, they need to be nipped. Not in the mood at the moment.....she doesn't find a paw-dicure as relaxing as I do, even when gets the whole massage thing going on. I don't find nipping my dog cum enraged octopus relaxing in the slightest.

Now, I'm totally stumped.

Pucker's sitting pretty on the bed, her back feet right next to each other, weight on one hip, so delicate, so regal. She honestly is quite stunning. Even if I weren't just the teensiest bit biased. Admiring her facial structure, her gorgeous oft complimented coloring, silkiness of her ears, she switched positions on the bed.

There was blood on the bed. Steeling myself with a good, fortifying deep breath, I lifted the tail. Did I mention how pretty her tail is? Seriously? I already did? Because honestly? When I peeked under there, I had a stroke, so I'm tying to focus on how sweet her sashaying wee bum looks prissing along. Nothing detracted from the cold, hard, hanging truth:

My. Dog. Has. 'Roids.

Tiny grapes are hanging out of her ass. All this time, I labored under the impression she was simply taking herself for a solo ride on the orgasm train...not so. She was grooming her newest anal accessories. Looking back? Yeah, I suppose I should have noticed she was straining a bit on the go, but not so much that she was grunting. I totally would have paid attention if there was detectable grunting. Hmm, come to think of it, she was rather dancing more about, walking further in the puckered and ready position prior to say, lift off, if you will - but she does have that nasty habit of teasing me it's time to go. Thinking back further? Two walks and nary a log. Highly concerning.

We immediately went outside. Walked. As in, Right This Very Moment. Not sure what walking will do to minimize 'roids. I thought about putting on the Poop Gloves, shoving them back from whence they came, but I'm not sure that's a vet recognized therapy. I suppose, (big gulp to keep from making horrendous gagging noises) I could go to CVS and get Preparation H, shrink them. I don't want to. More importantly, what on God's Great Green Earth has she jammed up in there?

Thankfully, she and I shared a cup of strong coffee (hey, sometimes you need a little encouragement to go The Library, you know?) this afternoon. Got the old pipes cranking. I expected some of the Usual Suspects........so when this cylindrical sort of clear plastic thing started to ease it's way out? Tampon applicator leapt to mind. She was passing the big end first - thank heavens - breech applicators are a real bitch to dislodge. She'll occasionally need assistance. I wouldn't really ask how I know that either. It's not a pretty story.

Not tampon applicator.

She got into my lower bathroom cabinets, evidently helped herself, taking the evidence of destruction with her. Four tail arced in the air moments later, a blasted douche applicator finally slid out. A bit mangled, but mostly intact. The plastic twist top dropped in another log roll a few feet later.

She's enormously, painfully swollen, but relieved.

There is NO WAY on Earth I'm going into any pharmacy around here, or in a 25 mile radius. First, I buy cases upon cases of douche. Now I'm purchasing Preparation-H. Can you imagine what these people will think?

Lonely sheets

New Year's Resolution?

Clean out house, clear out all unused items, ones that don't mean anything to me, are simply there to collect dust (especially given how often I enjoy indulging in that chore)- as well as the ones that mean too much to me, but in very unhealthy ways.

In a dresser upstairs, live sets (and I mean sets) of sheets, unmatched but very soft pillow cases, towels - essentially, extra's of things that I know would be better suited elsewhere - somewhere perhaps, they'd see the light of day. Oh, it's constantly on my list (rather nearest the bottom, right next to cleaning out the lint trap in the dryer - though thank the good Lord above I did that - I nearly burned my own house down it was so full) along with finishing organizing the storage room in the basement (yeah......right up there with dusting) - there's always More Important Chores to accomplish first.

Laundry and putting it away leaps to mind; I'm not feeling in the mood to leap currently. They're washed, fluffed even! folded, look especially lovely all divided up my human to whom they belong; they simply have no interest in hopping into their drawers, or worse, onto their hangers.

Ah, yes. My point. I knew I had one in here somewhere.

After a particularly long night, the other night, I realized that there's also a reason to hang onto things. Seriously, there is.

Phone rang, at 3am (ish) - I'm quite pleased I didn't answer with "are you missing a limb?" - as a friend was calling to ask to stay the night. With her hubby, son, two dogs, and one frog. The frog is still here, ps. I don't know what to feed a frog. Or if I have to change the water. Or if I (oh, please say no) have to allow crickets in my house. Her house caught on fire. (I immediately pictured my stupid overflowing lint trap) I didn't even hesitate before saying yes, of course, I'll leave the light on for you.

Who says that? Only the guy from Motel 66. Seriously.

I had beds made up with fresh linens, glasses for cold beverages at the ready, extra water put out for incoming puppies, (well, full grown dogs, really) skipped the bra thing - it was THREE AM. I do not need a bra at 3am. If it's that off-putting? Trust me, they'll go elsewhere. I highly doubt after their house and everything they own in it essentially goes down in flames, they're not going to notice the fact that my knees have nipples.

Gussie, the big dog - I hate to list his breed, for so many people are put off by the pit bull - the funny part is, he'd swear he's a Malta-poo. Or some other fluffy, lap dog breed. How would I know this? He climbed in my lap, regardless of where I sat. He didn't seem to mind the no bra thing. Jackie? He's been a bit intimidated by me (mostly as I'm soooo not intimidated by him - the whole Alpha thing) snugged up to my legs, leaving Pucker guarding her kennel as though either one of them could possibly fit in it.

She graciously allowed them to sniff it out; before prancing in her prissy fashion around the house, handing out the guided tour. Yep, we have Nervous Pee in the hallway, some more in the living room; a Nervous Dump in the downstairs Library. I give whomever it was credit: easy to flush, that one.

The house? Demolished. Nothing left. Shampoo. Conditioner. Ziploc baggies. Dog food. Dishes. Towels. Soap. Clothing. Shoes. Sheets, towels, pillow cases. Not sure why I'm hung up on the Ziploc baggies. But I am. No home is complete without snack size, lunch size, quart size baggies. I'm sure they'll get those.

Do you see my point yet?

That's right. While other mom's in town are securing take out gift certificates, or one to the grocery store, CVS, whatnot, I've enough linens for their entire house. That's why they were still in that drawer. Waiting. Shower curtain. I don't know if she'll need one of those in the trailer that's being delivered for them to live in while figuring out what to do with the house, or about it, or .....whatever.

I wasn't being lazy not popping them into a bin to go overseas somewhere; they had a Higher Purpose, those linens. Okay, so the pillow case that's so soft it's fabulous, in bright orange and green weird looking flowers? I'm gathering, they won't mind. It's so soft that yes, I've used it. I can vouch for it's softiness. Honestly, softiness trumps ugliness any day of the week.

So does Kindness.

Mag's called, we were chatting, and she says to me, quite possibly one of the greatest compliments ever - certainly one I'll always hold dear:

"You said yes, without a moment's hesitation, because that's who you are. It's not in your nature to turn people away, I suspect, even ones that weren't always the kindest to you: that's not who you are. "

I'm touched by her words; perhaps more than she'll know.

Plus also? (yes, K, I realize how much that phrase bugs you - but it's so.....me)

Those linens have a home. The right home.

There are moments, when you realize, that those things occupying space for no apparent reason, have a reason. You simply don't know what it is yet.

Now, if only I can find as fitting as reason to keep dust.

Failures

Does anyone else notice that their day sometimes passes by in a blur of failures?

Not necessarily huge failures; one massive failure hardly ruins an entire day.

No ma'am.

Ruining an entire day takes some serious talent; a talent evidently I possess in spades. I forgot to do something, I said the wrong thing; I spend too much time in Christmas Tree Shop in the Total Crap aisle - let's face it, it's hard to tell there which aisle that is - I stick my foot so far into my mouth I'm choking on my knees. Neither of us slept well, but I'm the one who fell asleep watching the news while the kids were swimming, so he had to be the parent that stayed up. (for the record: nap was delish)

I started helping with dinner; only I forgot, because I was writing, to restart the carrots, that'd been put on hold because he had to run and get milk for the Hamburger Helper we served, with Pigs in a Blanket, and my famous carrots. Ahem. The ones I forgot to finish cooking. Meant I'm not helping set the table, get the kids dished up, drinks - argh. Skipping the medal I won't be receiving for serving the Dinner of Champions.

I forget to tell J that Fox is showering at my house tomorrow before church; when originally I'd said he was bathing tonight; so he ran the tub anyway, when I went home to shave my legs, only to return, and have him say that "probably would have been a great idea if I told him I excused Fox from bathing tonight" - yep. Sure would. I'm impatient with the kids - yes, that's true: I prefer, GREATLY PREFER, children who listen the first time to me. That Mother of the Year award?

Nope. Not me.

I'm the one who fed the dog an entire ear of corn - FINE! YES! I should have realized she'd eat the fucking cob too - but I didn't stop to think about it. She threw it up one the rug. Every child had to tell me the dog threw up, where she threw it up, why she threw it up - all the while, I'm cringing, as it's in J's house, trying to grow smaller, smaller, smaller - only, you know, tall enough to reach paper towels to clean up the throw up on rug. The one I had three maps to, in case I didn't know. It. Was. On. The. Rug. The. Throw. Up. From. Pucker.

Perfectly good corn. On the cob. Sweet yellow and white kernels, lined up with military precision. It's not like I buttered it for her or anything. I'm not that bad. But I looked at it as food going to waste - I simply cannot do that. Instead, I need save it, knowing it will rot, in the hospice I call a fridge because then? THEN? At least someone had the opportunity to salvage a meal from the leftovers from my son's meal. I'm not outright limiting someone's ability to forage in my fridge for food. Or J and his kids meals.

Naturally, he totally doesn't get that. Nope. He can completely nonchalantly toss uneaten - TOTLLY UNTOUCHED FOOD - into a garbage can without a moments hesitation, as he knows no one wants it. He'll be gone next week, so who is going to eat it? I don't eat sausage, even when the casing is off it (omgomgomgomg I can't get past that it's a cat's intestine, or some other animals innards filled with the junk meat no one would even grill so they grind it up to stick in some other unusable body part) - even that? I tried to bag it up to save. Threw up the "perhaps you'll want it with eggs tomorrow for breakfast?"

The looks said it all.

My saving things in my fridge on the off chance that Brangelina will pop by on her way to another starving country to grab my leftovers? Highly unlikely.

Keeping food until it turns, so I feel like it's ready to be thrown away? How does that not clash with my germ issues? I'm......okay.....with keeping rotting food next to perfectly fresh, gorgeous fruit? Ummm.............duh. The aging leftovers have their own shelf. No one puts food like that next to anything you're going to eat.

Holy. Shit.

I'm hoarding the Soon To Die Leftovers.

Excellent.

At 9:29pm, I'm officially drawing a close to the hours of the day, marked by failures, big, small, only seen by kids, only seen by J, or only seen by that lady in the Crap Aisle who heard me say something was total crap, but she was holding it....

With my luck?

I'll fail to fall asleep, lying there, eyes like pie plates for hours.

Reliving every single failure of the day.

If I'm still up in an hour? You can find me, gloves on, head in hospice, cleaning out the leftovers I failed to reheat and serve, ones I've allowed to wither, die, and grow mold.

Then?

I'll have failed, with a purpose.

Going low

New low reached:

No longer baking for stress relief in my own real live ovens, I am now also baking (do you see the fire engine red face, extending to my collar bone? - or, clavicle, should anyone want to be sure I'm still studying) on FARMVILLE.

Yes.

It's mortifying enough to admit I'd addicted to Farmville.....I run to it when stressed out and overwhelmed the way some other people hit the bottle, snort cocaine, over eat...whatever their particular form of stress release is. I'd've possibly taken kick boxing back up; sadly, the jaw issues limit my ability to beat the ever living snot out of things (say, a punching bag, for example) or run the thirty miles a day I'd need to to work out some irritation. Honestly, I switched back to cleaning and organizing, only to find that sure, the house looked better, I feel better having company drop by unexpectedly (not that there's that much of that either) but it's not.....enough.

I'm back to baking.

I've done zucchini bread in copious amounts; thank goodness Football Moms enjoy it, or I'd have it coming out my nose. Cup cakes disappear to neighbors - cutie decorated ones? Not sure an irritated moment. Great whopping pile after pile of hand kneaded dog biscotti? Yeah......... more irritated in general.

Yesterday, I was at a meeting; it got particularly stressful, for everyone there, and what do I do?

Open to Farmville, start planting, working towards the new coffee cake recipe I've unlocked, the vegetable tart (that I might actually try to eat in "real" life) - yes, I can admit I hoard money on there; I'm nearly up to $2M. No, I don't need to be told I'm working out some of my current issues on Farmville: I plant, I harvest, I watch the time, so none of my crops wither and die; God forbid something else in my life withers or dies. Fox helps take care of the animals - because he wanted one, I allowed him to get a virtual dog - another foolish choice, I've got to make sure the damn thing gets fed everyday. All the other animals? They get little candy corn over their head to say they've been fed by the game, the dog? Demands dog biscuits, only friends may gift you.

Christ.

The whole point? Somewhere I wasn't pulled at, any responsibility on my shoulders!

Now however?

They gave me my very own Bakery. OMG. I have four ovens going at once; a multitude of recipes going I'd never be able to pull off in my own pint sized kitchen, miniature invisible sous chefs chopping, sorting, washing, hulling - that right there, having a series of servants - I mean helpers - quite relaxing. The fact that I get to tell them what to bake and when, how and for how long? (okay, some of that the game picks - but seriously, I get to tell them what to bake)

Soothing.

Everyone resorts to something in times of stress: death brings out the hams and sugar products, weddings bring out bitchy brides, sugary cakes and presents, mid-year stress?

Virtual sugar. Virtual hard labor digging in dirt. Planting. Weeding. Assisting other's farms (ahem, it pays me extra money and gas for my accumulation of vehicles -ones I picked out) plus also? There's shopping. Ran out of raspberries? No biggie. Hop into the market stall, and pick fresh, organic grown and loved raspberries. Coffee beans. Peanuts. I grow so many staples, so my invisible farmers won't starve, people are constantly stopping in to buy things from me. I'm not a walking pariah.

My pink rose garden? Soooo gorgeous. Gals opening spas? They come to me. They lust after my hand grown (uh.....kind of) pink roses, red tulips, bright yellow sun flowers.

Here?

I can't fail. I can make millions. I'm in charge.

Juvenile, I realize.

Though, I have admit: now that I've gone here?

It's quite possibly the lowest I can go.

Soaked. And. Pissed.

Who was that complete boob who said it was better to pissed off that pissed on?

I'd so love to wring his neck.

Now, the guy who found out there was more than one way to skin a cat? I'd love to meet him - honestly, if ever there was a Hero, he's one. (May Bitch Kitty Rest In Peace - insert sign of the cross here - no need to piss off the Greater Pet Gods any more than apparently I already have).

Fucker Up, (I'm starting to realize I may be renaming her - bless her heart, she even comes to that now) pooped on the floor last night (twice - but she cleaned up one of them herself, save for the crusty bits stuck to the floor) - irritating enough. I'd noticed, in that part of my brain that kind of has that niggling suspicion I'm missing something, but can't figure out what, registered it was only poop. Took some noodling around to light the bulb.

Yes, I realize that's bad enough.

However. When that bulb finally lit? I had only one thought:

Where was the accompanying whiz? Dropping logs that size is always accompanied by a startlingly large lake of pee. I looked. Nothing doing. Not in any of the usual spots anyway. (the ones where the floor is beginning to, uh, stain a wee tad) I put together the sofa bed, went to return the two cushions to their rightful spot, only to find that that's where the Goddamn lake lurked. The sofa cushion absorbed it. Pucker pranced right up to them to sniff them, as though they weren't hers, and perhaps, some alien dog dropped through an AC vent to besmirch her floors - she should totally check that out.

HELLO!

It's YOUR OWN pee! It smells of YOU.

Do you notice I'm yelling? Me too. Most likely, so do the neighbors. Or anyone within a five mile radius.

I'm totally pissed. Yes, I can wash these two pillow covers. They're that micro-suede they should handle anything fabric - but here's the rub: it shrinks. No one bothers to point that out. Then, the cushion itself, needs to be sprayed with Nature's Miracle, and bask in the (thankfully) bright sunlight we're lucky to see today.

There is one sliver lining to this morning:

Found out that the only way to flush (do you see J cringing? I think I do) logs the size of Yodel rolls is to allow it to soak in bog (a lovely Irish expression I picked up from some Football Moms - sounds way better than toilet) until loosened. I wouldn't recommend this method in the front powder room where everyone who visits my house stops to drop their own deposits, as everyone (and I mean everyone) who stops by here for some reason feels the urge to poop. The bog digesting process can take up to 20 minutes, and honestly, diet dog food does not produce an aroma I want to subject my lovely friends and neighbors to.

So instead, I highly suggest lugging logs to the upstairs bath of your son, who never uses it anyway, and leave the stench for someone who might enjoy finding said prizes in that bowl. Hey, I figure if he enjoys leaving them so freaking much, he clearly must enjoy finding them. Either way, heat rises. Poop is warm. Therefore, aroma of bog digesting logs remains on the second floor, bypassing the Visiting Floor entirely.

I'd have visitors. I swear I would.

Except now, thanks to Baroness von Whizbanger, they've no where to sit.

Wishing on a flushing star.....

Know what I wished for on my birthday candle? (okay, I made three wishes, but I'm only sharing one, as I already realize it will never come true)

I wished that Pucker would stop shedding.

As proof of the folly of this particular wish, the stupid bitch leapt atop me this morning, proceeded to not only sneeze directly in my face (yeah, good morning to you, moron) but shake, leaving a veritable snowstorm of fur behind. On new sheets. From the kids. Thoughtful kids. Stupid bitch.

I bought a brush.

She loves the massage part of the "brushing"....no fur attaches itself to tines of brush, nor falls onto deck. Hmm. Suspicious. Purchased Shed Ender; fails miserably. I'd return it, but she ate the box, so that's totally out of the question. Had I gotten it at PetSmart instead of Target? Returning might be an option - they totally understand the Well Chewed Box Return. So how is it possible that brushes, combs, vacuums, lint rollers all fail to detach a single fur from her well furred body, yet a simple sneeze releases such a flurry I cringe?

Explain that.

I've hoovered the floors so many times, followed by fantastic I'm still so in love floor cleaner, flushing wads of this stuff down the toilet (again, allow me to repeat: RJ TOLD ME TO. Since he also owns a hardware store, I'm guessing here, he totally knows what he's doing) - one of these days, the damn thing won't flush anymore, and it won't be RJ yelling at me. Laughing perhaps, not yelling. He won't have to fix it.

We all know who that will be.

At that point? J may very well wash his hands of the entire issue. I'll have to beg in the Big Guns: I'll be forced to call that gf in VA, whose bath I assisted in destroying - I mean - renovating, so she and her wonder kids and pets can come assist me in some toilet replacement. Including that really icky sticky wax ring thing. (ewww) Wall painting. Light fixture removal and replacement. Perhaps, this time? I won't even stick a drill through my hand.

Then again, let's not get ahead of ourselves.

She's two beagles, (or at least two beagle mixes, I can't totally recall) so I'm sure she completely gets the whole WTF on the Fur Front. If she even remotely cleans her floors as I do? SHE flushes plenty of fur as well. As we cemented a friendship over grouting tile, I figure it's only fair to ask her to help.

It'll be a sad day, I realize.

Admitting Fucker Up And Shoot Me took out a wall corner, down to the steel re-inforcement, my favorite shoe, the corner of the bottom stair, several army men, Lego guys and pieces, tampon applicators, six toothbrushes, 32 pairs of undies, three bras, four socks along with a host of Other Totally Inedible Items is bad enough.

Taking out a toilet?

That's a horse of a different color, now isn't it?

So I closed my eyes, facing (thank God) only one candle atop a Baskins Robbins cake, made three wishes.

One flushed, two to go.

35

Woke up this morning 35.

Looked around to see what changed:

Fox counted I have six white hairs on the tip top of my head. (thank you for pointing that out)

House looks (sadly) the same as I left it the night before. (fuck)

Interior of car still smells of football cleats and gear, even though they've not been in there for two whole days now.

ALL my teeth are buzzing, not just the back ones.

In short?

The only thing that's changed is that now I feel old(er).

On the bright side? In the past year (what I recall of it anyway) I've ended yet another career, started about four others. Trained the ever-living-daylights out of my dog, learned to take the high road, even when my feelings are so hurt I can hardly stand; no matter how much I'd love to wear some of those sexy low cut bras, my gals just aren't having it, and I still cannot shave my legs without bloodshed. My true friends are still here, I'm teaching them sign language - best of all? A friend is showing me how to swear in sign. How cool is that?

Naturally, with that goes the fact that I'd finally decided I wanted another baby, a bigger house, bigger dogs - only to realize that perhaps it's not that someone else doesn't want one in general, maybe they don't want one with me. I still don't totally understand my son, (from what I've heard, that is an entirely unobtainable goal) my Blackberry, or why it is exactly that I cannot get my X's head off my left thumb. (My current theory: I'm cursed) The big important questions still loom; I'm hardly whipping out my 50 Years At A Glance Calendar.

Don't ask me what I expected to feel upon realizing I'd made it another entire year; I'm not sure. Wiser, perhaps. (Might as well take my advice, clearly, I'm not using it) More mature. (hardly) Yes, I can honestly say I've gotten better at standing up for myself - though somehow, I highly doubt telling off a baby doctor intern at MGH truly counts. If you're going to go that route however, be sure to ask them point blank, in the I'm Simply Enquiring Tone " Is your Malpractice Insurance paid up? Just wondering" - the facial expression alone is worth it. So it's a hollow victory: I was the one she misdiagnosed. Left rotting in pain while she said I was fine. No one said I had to be gracious. Let's face it, being a snotty, sarcastic ass is one of my finer talents.

There was cake.

There were presents.

My son was the first one to wish me Happy Birthday - I doubt I'll ever get tired of hearing his little voice being the very first one to wish me that.

Yeah..............I could'a skipped that whole conversation on the white hair too; but at least he's honest.

Feels odd being 35.

Good thing I've an entire year to get used to it.

Third Degree

Twins: leaving for Cape vacation at noon sharpish. (let's be honest, anything involving children rarely occurs at the Sharp Time)

Fox: birthday party, departure: 12:15, arrival home: 5pm or after.

A three-fer! Quite the rare occurrence.

Do you know what this means?

A real, honest to God, date. Of the Let's Get Dressed In White, as we've no Sticky Gooey Fingers to worry about, or spilling soda, juice boxes, dog paws, mud, grass, or bike grease to worry about. IMAX 3D movie discuss, tickets nearly purchased, for some reason, we held off. Call it intuition. Call it Divine Intervention. Will be only Divine Intervention I'd see today.

J's mom and I have things in common: we both enjoy tea, crossword puzzles, and sadly, our most in common trait? We can take down a vehicle in one sitting. Not just any old thing either; always always always a special order part. I'd like to think we've other things in common, however, today, the trend I'm noticing? The pair of our abilities in breaking things, blowing things up, requiring a good deal of J's time to undo damage? Staggeringly similar. Frightening, really.

Long story short? All dressed up with nowhere to go.

No biggie. Still have afternoon. Should really eat something, as meds for jaw tend to do better on a full stomach versus empty (i.e., I may not be comatose should he get out early enough for us to go sit outside, have a cocktail or snotty coffee.....) so I raided fridge. Located cheesy rice with tiny re-hydrated broccoli, loosed lid (see? learning that closed lid= explosion) popped into microwave. Busied myself with brewing a hot cup of coffee, pondered my options: perhaps I'd get a little studying in, or read some more of my book I'm quite enjoying - nearly cannot put it down while I waited for ding.....with a great flourish, microwave was opened, little tupperware container lifted out.

Was so bloddy hot I dropped container onto stove, where lid flew off without so much as a snap in warning, splattering hotter than hell rice in my face.

Okay, fine. (add a big huffy breath) Also nailed hands, arms, and neck; but those were individual grains of rice, not the whopping great gob of it glued to my face.

Did I mention, MY FACE? Right above nose, near left eye. Lost several eyebrow hairs. (most likely the ones I may have plucked anyway - that is NOT the point) Did the WTF dance, as tupperware continued it's fall from grace to splatter stove front, floor, side of fridge, legs and feet - though still leaving enough for lunch. Trying to focus on positive.

Screw positive.

Even Pucker Up hid in her kennel, howling all the way.

Serious in unison howling in our house.

Took several swipes at attached rice to dislodge, threw into sink, yanked on cold water, plunged in hands and arms. I might have doused my face, but seriously, I do have perfectly dried hair. Whipped open freezer door, slapped ice pack on face, all with speed generally seen in Batman comics. Figured I'd second degree burned everything. Steam being notorious of second degree burns.

Til pain in face abruptly stopped.

Is. Not. Good. Sign.

Have yet to peer into mirror, to check out just how bad damage is; who knows, maybe J will simply meet me in the ER, we can have an Adult Discussion while a plastic surgeon stares in horror at my face.

Have steeled myself. Going for mirror.

Please hold.

Both better and worse than originally feared. Noticed rice and cheese sauce decorating for once, perfectly blow dried hair. Hair I'd not doused with water, as was finally finally finally looking great. Drat. In the plus column, the redness faded slightly... overtaken by crusty white outer layer, similar in appearance to chicken pox. Or Foot and Mouth disease. Or herpes.

Or, you know, like some great heaving boob burned herself on fucking flying rice.

Skipping ER, though if this were Fox's face, we SO be going - it's not that I'm not as important as he is. Nope. Sadly, it's worse than that. I'm too embarrassed to tell anyone other than J what happened.

I can only imagine the incredulous looks, the calling in of the interns, (damn teaching hospitals) laughter bubbling in tightly controlled gasps from all attended, the question, asked over and over....

'Cuz you do realize when you show up looking like this?

They always give you the Third Degree.