Thursday, February 26, 2015

In which I learn about true superpowers.

Last night, I had to change the sheets at 11 p.m.

We had gone to bed early. My Guy was reading, and I was in that weird twilight that can best be described as "It's freezing in our bedroom and I've been traveling and I'm exhausted and I can't talk to anyone else or do anything for anyone ever, ever again so don't even ask if I flossed before coming to bed."

Big Doodle snoozed in his dog bed. Lil' Frankfurter snored in the bed between us, his doting parents.

And then? There was some sort of explosion.

Lil' Frank leaped from the bed and started gagging. The husband and I were both immediately wide awake, overcome by the nastiest, fartiest smell ever. And then My Guy realized there was some sort of stuff all over his shirt.

It was also on the sheets. The stench was remarkable. And we couldn't figure out what end of Lil' Frank it had come from.

It didn't really matter, though. Our number 1 objective was to strip the bed and the shirt immediately. We cleaned everything up and calmed Lil' Frank down. The foul smell lingered, but I was so tired that I didn't exactly care.

Today, Lil' Frank was still fragrant. And his little booty? Well, you know. I took him to get his anal glands expressed. Best day ever!

Except! The vet tech brought him back to me with a bit of a shrug. "They were mostly empty," she said. "It was like they'd just been expressed."

I looked at her blankly, then the light bulb went off. I explained the previous night's adventures.

"Oh, sure," she said nonchalantly. "If there was liquid and smell, he probably expressed them himself."

Let's just let that sink in for a moment. Lil' Frank, who weighs 8 pounds and can't even go up and down stairs, expressed his own anal glands. In our bed. And his little ass explosion so terrified him that he catapulted off the bed and almost threw up.

To be fair, I catapulted off the bed and almost threw up, too. But I have opposable thumbs.

The Westminster Dog Show needs to add a new competition. Screw agility and best in breed. The real test of a dog is its ability to clean its own butt.
Resting comfortably with a clean backside.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Operation: Eff Yeah, I'm 40!

When my dad turned 40, we threw him a funeral.
A family friend was an undertaker, and he filled our living room with white folding chairs. There were plant stands holding dead flowers, and we even had that little stand with a guest book. My dad came home from work to find all his friends seated in the living room, crying softly while looking at a Skippy Peanut Butter jar full of fireplace ashes.

And then us kids were shipped off and they tapped the keg.

But yeah. A funeral.

I'm turning the big 4-Oh in a few months, and it doesn't feel like a death at all. It feels kind of badass. Like I'm just getting smarter and stronger and more interesting and well on my way to knowing exactly what everybody needs to be doing because I'm so smart and they would be lucky if I told them what they're doing wrong. My inner old lady who doesn't give a shit is alive and well. I like her.

So, I'm trying to decide how to celebrate my birthday. I turned 21 during finals week, so my big "party" was having a morning exam, downing beer at lunch, sleeping it off in the afternoon, and then studying all night. When I turned 30, my life was basically in the toilet, but my parents and friends conspired to throw me a wonderful, humbling party. It was lovely.

Now, looking at 40? I don't need a party. I want to go someplace special with My Guy and do something empowering. Maybe hiking or kayaking or getting a really nice coat at a deep, deep discount. The possibilities are endless.

Well, the possibilities within the continental United States, anyway.

What should I do for my birthday extravaganza? How have you celebrated big birthdays? Any advice? Operation: Eff Yeah, I'm 40! needs your input.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

Noted, mostly without comment.

I feel like all I write about anymore is all introspective and borderline sad. So, to cleanse my palate, I will tell you about my husband's comment after a particularly delicious dinner at a Mexican restaurant.

My Guy: "That was awesome. Put those extra chips in your bra and let's go."
Ladies and gentlemen, my husband. Who mostly married me for my purse, and the fact that most of my clothes have pockets.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Not a resolution. A realization.

Every year, my husband gives me pajamas for Christmas. He started this tradition when we were dating, and I find it incredibly sweet that once a year, he girds his manloins and heads to Victoria's Secret for me. He thinks that's the only place on the planet that sells women's pajamas.

This year's pajamas are particularly comfortable. They're like long underwear, and I've worn them approximately 120 hours in the week since I received them. These jams manage to make me feel sporty, comfortable, warm, and svelte, all at the same time. My Guy for the jammification win!

So, my week of jammified comfort left me ill-prepared for finding an appropriate outfit for New Year's Eve. We were meeting friends for dinner at a nice-but-not too-nice restaurant. I knew that if I were a guy, I'd wear slacks, a shirt, and a sweater. Basically, I'd dress like my dad because he always looks appropriate.

But I'm a woman. Dammit.

So, I stood in our freezing-cold closet and attempted to cobble together an outfit that was nice but not "I'm 22 and headed out to the bars." Something that was a bit more festive than I'd usually wear, but not trying too hard.

I looked at my dress pants. Some of them were literally dusty. Now that I no longer work for The Man, my days are spent in jeans and yoga pants and the fleece pants that My Guy and I lovingly refer to as "couch pants." But for a very chilly New Year's Eve, I figured that dress pants might be just the ticket.

So, the dress pants I bought 10 years ago don't really fit anymore.

They fit, but they create a slight muffin top that's kind of a confidence crusher.

The last two and a half months, I've been working out like I've never worked out before. Not working out like a madwoman, but just working out beyond just hitting the treadmill. I haven't lost weight, but I'm fitter. I'm gaining muscle. And I'm thinking that maybe that number on the scale is just what I'm supposed to weigh, since all roads seem to lead back to the same number all the time.

But I have a closet that has lots of clothes that are ... a little off. They're from a previous life when I was 10 pounds lighter, 10 years younger, and living a life that isn't at all where I am today.

So, last night, freezing in my unheated closet and trying to figure out what I could wear to dinner besides my ever-present pajamas, it occurred to me that I could cull my closet. I could donate those clothes that are no longer just right. They could be a blessing to someone else.

But that would mean admitting that the part of my life those clothes belonged to is really, truly over. It would mean announcing that yes, I wear t-shirts and torn jeans and am no longer the type of woman who wears dress pants, even on special occasions.

Truth be told, I never really liked wearing dress pants. But they just seemed so grown-up. It was like trying on being a fancy, corporate lady. Like being Day-to-Night Barbie.

I'm not a fancy, corporate lady. And I'm so much happier now that I'm not trying to be. It looks like my new year's realization is that it's time to hand off the dress-pants baton.

I threw on a favorite dress, purple tights and a pink sweater that totally didn't go together but made me happy, and called it good. Because, as Bill Murray chanted in that famous scene from "Meatballs," IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Being the second wife.

I've got it good. I realize this.

My sweet husband was married before, but his first wife sounds like a fairly nice human. I've never met her - she lives across the country, and they didn't have kids, so it's not like there's an awkward drop off / pick up scenario multiple times a week.

I got a fantastic guy with a bit of a broken heart and some random housewares. Basically, I got leftover wedding gifts, wedding gifts for which I did not have to write thank you notes. Pretty much a win.

When we merged households, I rather subconsciously got rid of stuff from Before. If we had duplicates of something, I chose to keep mine rather than keep his. I wouldn't admit it, but I was trying to purge his first wife from our house. Sure, I'd keep the towels from her bridal registry, but I'd use them on the dogs. I sure as hell didn't want them hanging in my bathroom, reminding me that I didn't come first. I didn't want to admit it, but I was a touch insecure.

I've mellowed in the 3 and a half years we've been married. Maybe because my initial purge was so successful, or maybe because I got over my fear of being devoured by marriage, of ceasing to be myself, of somehow being in competition with this other woman.

I did have a run-in with a leaky wooden salad bowl that left me cursing her name. But other than that? My Guy's first wife isn't on my mind. After all, I've already outlasted her. This means I won, right? (What did I just say about not being in competition? Hmm. I don't recall.)

But Christmas is a tiny bit different. My sweet husband loves holiday decorations, and brought what can only be described as a shit ton of Christmas ornaments into our marriage. About 99.99% of these ornaments came from his first marriage.

We put them up. I will admit that they aren't my favorite, but they're Christmas ornaments. It's not like you can actively hate a Christmas ornament, unless it plays music incessantly.

But there's this one ornament.

It's a gingerbread man. And on the back, written in Sharpie, it reads, "Our First X-Mas 2004."

I hate this ornament. Why should I want an ornament that celebrates my husband's first Christmas with someone else?

Now, I was once in a relationship where I was supposed to pretend that I had hatched the moment we started dating. I wasn't supposed to talk about past relationships. It was a reflection on my boyfriend's insecurity and narcissism, and it was somewhat debilitating. It denied me as a fully formed human.

I sure as hell wasn't going to impose such craziness on my husband. Sure, let's put up all those ornaments you bought with your ex! They are important to you. Look how loving and accepting I am!

Except that one ornament. I hate that ornament. It surpasses my capacity for grace.

Our first 2 Christmases together, we hung the gingerbread ornament and I wanted to say something, but I didn't. Instead, I sulked just a teensy bit. Oh, woe to the second wife!

But this year? I pulled the ornament out of its bag and opened my mouth before I could even think about it. "This ornament makes me sad!" I exclaimed, holding that shady gingerbread man up for My Guy to see.

He looked at me blankly.

I turned the ornament over so he could read the inscription.

He looked at me blankly some more. Then he said, "Was that Foxie Doxie's?"

And then I laughed like a hyena.  No, the ornament didn't belong to my dead dog.

I spent years being hurt about an ornament that he had no knowledge or appreciation of. And I kept my mouth shut about it. But when I finally said, "No, this was from your first marriage," My Guy just laughed and shrugged. "Throw it away," he said.

But then I laughed some more, feeling crazy and free. "No! I don't want to throw it away now," I said. "Now, it's hysterical!"

OK, maybe not the funniest thing ever. But a reminder to go ahead and open my big mouth, and to realize that maybe my assumptions are a little off-mark. And maybe I can chill out just a bit. It's just marriage - it's not that serious.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

In which my dead dog gets the last laugh.

I tried something new and crazy.

I did the kind of cleaning where you actually move stuff. Like, instead of just vacuuming around things, you move the things, and vacuum in those spaces, too.

I understand that some people do this regularly. I don't know these people.

So, anyway, I tried this new fancy cleaning. It left me feeling virtuous and slightly better than everybody else. Well, until I moved something and found dog pee.

Yes. I moved a metal storage bucket that's permanently next to the bookshelf in my office. Because sometimes, you just have stuff that belongs on the floor, and it's fine, and that's just how it is.

Unless you live with a dog who marks, a dog who does not like stuff on the floor, even furniture.

My late little Foxie Doxie was one such dog. He believed that all furniture should levitate off the floor. If it didn't, it was fair game, and he claimed it. And by "claim," I mean "peed all over."

So, the metal storage bucket thing? I picked it up and was immediately assaulted by the stench of months-old pee.

Foxie Doxie had marked the bucket. I know it was him, because the other dogs aren't markers. Lil' Frankfurter pees wherever he likes, but he's not one to mark.

But Foxie? He was an Olympic-caliber marker. And he left me one final, odoriferous gift.

I imagined him watching me from doggie heaven, satisfied that there was no doubt that the metal bucket was his. And I pictured him looking nonplussed and trotting away when I bellowed his name.
The smell was ... ridiculous. The puddle had just sat there, melding with the bucket and the floor. Steam mops, baking soda, and cursing were required.

I miss that little devil.

Also? This is why you should never do the kind of cleaning where you move stuff.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

My phat dachshund.

I am not gonna lie: I am so freakin' excited.

Lil' Frankfurter, he of the inflammatory bowel disease?

Yeah. So, he was on antibiotics, and he gained a few ounces. And then he lost them. And he was looking horrible. And shaking all the time.
I'm sick but I'm pretty.
I took him to the holistic vet. And she was basically like, "This animal is critically ill."

And then I was like, "Dude. I just lost a dachshund. I can't lose another one. Here, take all my money."

So, for the last six-ish weeks, Lil' Frank has been dining like a king on canned duck and canned pumpkin, four different probiotics (including one called "Digestive Slurry!"), and two meds. He has never been happier, as he is required to eat four times a day.

Also, since the vet told me that this dog was literally freezing, I have been free to buy him many fashionable shirts and coats. On clearance, of course. But still, I am That Lady.

Yesterday, we had a check-up. Lil' Frank is now rollin' at 6 pounds, 4 ounces. He's gained a pound. He no longer looks like a dachshund dressed as Skeletor for Halloween. He's interested in his toys. His poops are kind of normal-sized. He is a total stud.

The holistic vet leveled with me: "When you first brought this dog in, he was dying."

I tried to act all, "Oh, uh-huh," about that, but I was startled.

She went on. "I'm so, so pleased with his progress. Would you mind terribly if I wrote him up for a journal? Would you happen to have any 'before' pictures?"

At this point, I laughed. I take pics of my kids every day, so, yeah, I've got pictures.
Fat, happy, and helping mama write.
But then I got to thinking ... Lil' Frank's fame is going to grow! Maybe now I can realize my true life dream of being an overbearing stage parent. Maybe my pushiness can propel Lil' Frank into pageants, movies, or - dare I even dream! - a reality show!

My Guy was a little less thrilled with my horrendous parenting, but ecstatic about the weight gain. Our 8-year-old now weighs almost as much as I did as a newborn. Hurray!