Many of you have asked for a doggie update. Just how is my own personal Brady Bunch-style blended family getting along?
If you asked me this yesterday, I would have said that everybody is great. Big Doodle and Lady Doodle are all mellow-like. Foxie Doxie is busy securing the perimeter of our new backyard. And Lil' Frankfurter? Well, he's still the devil. But he's cute.
So, you know, we're working through it all. Everybody is getting along.
But ask me today how the pups are doing? And I will tell you this:
I have a stress fracture in my foot. This means that I have only four - yes, four - pairs of shoes that don't cause excruciating pain. Of my extensive shoe collection, I have FOUR pairs of shoes that I can wear. And only three of those pairs are suitable for Corporate Behemoth.
Four pairs of shoes. Got it?
So, this morning, when I was getting ready for work, I noticed something shiny on the floor in front of my closet. And inside my closet.
Dog pee.
I figured Lil' Frank had peed. But no such luck.
Lady Doodle - she of the ginormous bladder - peed in my closet.
Now, we're afraid she might have a UTI, and we're taking her to the vet. I am a compassionate person.
However. She peed in my closet. Oceans of pee. And those four pairs of shoes that I can currently wear? One and a half of those pairs are now in the garage, awaiting some sort of dog urine stink purification ceremony. This ceremony might involve being pitched in the trash. But whatever.
My Guy was obviously handling me with kid gloves. "Babe," he said, "we can totally buy you new shoes. You need shoes."
This is a kind offer. But it's the principle of the thing. You just don't go peeing in a girl's closet, especially not on a Monday morning. Seriously.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Facebook is crazy and so am I, episode 5287.
This week, one of my FB friends has been posting like crazee. The perpetrator? My first love, the college boy who broke my heart into a gazillion pieces.
The posts in question? Photos of his newborn daughter. Comments gushing about how he didn’t think it was possible, but in the first 4 hours of her life, she got even more beautiful. Photos of them snuggling. He was lit up like a Christmas tree.
It was really sweet. My heart was glad for him.
And then it occurred to me: he had sex with someone else!
My Guy’s response?
“Yeah, but he was thinking about you the whole time.”
Bwah ha ha!
When I thought the world was ending when that college boy broke up with me 17 years ago? I had no idea just how worth it the wait for My Guy would be.
The posts in question? Photos of his newborn daughter. Comments gushing about how he didn’t think it was possible, but in the first 4 hours of her life, she got even more beautiful. Photos of them snuggling. He was lit up like a Christmas tree.
It was really sweet. My heart was glad for him.
And then it occurred to me: he had sex with someone else!
My Guy’s response?
“Yeah, but he was thinking about you the whole time.”
Bwah ha ha!
When I thought the world was ending when that college boy broke up with me 17 years ago? I had no idea just how worth it the wait for My Guy would be.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
A grouchy bride by any other name ...
So. I did not change my name when I got married. No new last name. No hyphen. Still the same old Cha Cha.
My last name is super, super common, so it wasn't about keeping the name alive. It was more about keeping me alive. Everything is changing ... my name didn't need to.
My Guy? Not super thrilled. But supportive. I can dig that.
My parents? A bit befuddled. They asked me a few weeks after the wedding if I'd really kept my name. When I answered yes? Complete and total silence.
Umm ... thanks?
But for the most part? It's been no big deal. The worst of it?
Let's say you're a huge big-box retailer who makes a pretty penny on bridal registries. You were already on my list because you sent me an e-mail at 4 p.m. the day of my wedding, telling me to hurry up and buy stuff from my registry that wasn't purchased for us. The day of the wedding!
But I digress.
So, let's say you throw a gigantic Fulfill Your Registry You Crazy Bridal Bitches Event. And the store is closed and only brides and their bored husbands can get in.
As a very generous gift to my husband, I attended this insanity alone. I checked in so I could trade in my nasty, dog-molested comforter. The guy at the door smiled at me. "What's your married name?"
So I told him. And then I ... umm ... got what is for me a little snotty, but for normal humans is probably still insanely polite. "I didn't change my name."
He couldn't find me. The other lady walked over. She couldn't find me, either. They asked My Guy's name. They looked for him ... and found him.
They'd filed my registration - for which I had RSVPed, with my name - under my husband's name.
Bed Bath and Beyond? While I'm thrilled you replaced the comforter that my dogs destroyed? I sort of hate your guts for being so fucking stupid. It's 2011. I am not the first woman who kept her name. And if I personally RSVP for your stupid event? The name I give you is probably the name I'm going to give you again when I show up. Just a heads-up.
You make millions of dollars every year from weddings, which are an etiquette minefield. You might consider brushing up on your Emily Post.
My last name is super, super common, so it wasn't about keeping the name alive. It was more about keeping me alive. Everything is changing ... my name didn't need to.
My Guy? Not super thrilled. But supportive. I can dig that.
My parents? A bit befuddled. They asked me a few weeks after the wedding if I'd really kept my name. When I answered yes? Complete and total silence.
Umm ... thanks?
But for the most part? It's been no big deal. The worst of it?
Let's say you're a huge big-box retailer who makes a pretty penny on bridal registries. You were already on my list because you sent me an e-mail at 4 p.m. the day of my wedding, telling me to hurry up and buy stuff from my registry that wasn't purchased for us. The day of the wedding!
But I digress.
So, let's say you throw a gigantic Fulfill Your Registry You Crazy Bridal Bitches Event. And the store is closed and only brides and their bored husbands can get in.
As a very generous gift to my husband, I attended this insanity alone. I checked in so I could trade in my nasty, dog-molested comforter. The guy at the door smiled at me. "What's your married name?"
So I told him. And then I ... umm ... got what is for me a little snotty, but for normal humans is probably still insanely polite. "I didn't change my name."
He couldn't find me. The other lady walked over. She couldn't find me, either. They asked My Guy's name. They looked for him ... and found him.
They'd filed my registration - for which I had RSVPed, with my name - under my husband's name.
Bed Bath and Beyond? While I'm thrilled you replaced the comforter that my dogs destroyed? I sort of hate your guts for being so fucking stupid. It's 2011. I am not the first woman who kept her name. And if I personally RSVP for your stupid event? The name I give you is probably the name I'm going to give you again when I show up. Just a heads-up.
You make millions of dollars every year from weddings, which are an etiquette minefield. You might consider brushing up on your Emily Post.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Some things? Just not meant to be.
My Guy and I were slumming it for a good long while. Really slumming it. You know what I mean.
Yes. We were using his Bachelor Linens.
I think we can all agree that any bedding - sheets, blankets, what have you - purchased and used by an unmarried man are a bit ... lacking. Lacking in everything except dog hair.
We have a queen-sized bed, and all of my not-as-slummy bedding is for a full-sized bed. So, we used the pilled sheets and blankets of My Guy's single past. And, of course, the comforter with a giant hole, courtesy of his dogs. All of this bedding was blue - but varying shades of not-going-together blue. Bachelor blue.
The great thing about getting married is that people give you stuff. And you get to tell them what you'd like. As you might imagine, what we really liked was bedding.
We were thrilled when we received a down comforter, a sheet set, and a duvet cover for our wedding. I carefully washed the duvet and the sheets, and was so thrilled to pull the bed together. We slept like royalty!
For three whole nights!
And on the fourth night? Foxie Doxie peed in the middle of the bed. It was evidently important for him to mark his territory. We were, after all, still getting used to being a 4-dog household.
Funny thing about a down comforter: when you rinse it free of urine in your bathtub at 11 p.m. when you're really super tired? It turns pink. And you wonder if you're hallucinating. But the next morning, when you remove the comforter from your shower rod and drape it over the back of your couch because you don't know what else to do with it? It's still pink.
So, we could get the comforter cleaned. But we didn't have the opportunity.
No. Because the day we left the comforter draped over the back of the couch? The labradoodles decided it was a dog bed. They slept on the comforter, and dragged it around the house, and finally ripped a giant hole in it.
The house was filled with goose down.
And yes, we just can't have nice things.
I gathered down in Ziploc baggies, figuring I'd restuff the comforter. My baggies of down were tinged grey, thanks to black dog hair - a painful reminder.
So, the wounded comforter sat, safety-pinned together, in a locked, dog-proof room. Finally, this weekend, I got out my iron-on patches and my baggies of down and dog hair, and patched the formerly fine linen. But a funny thing happened when I was getting ready to force the comforter back into its plastic packaging for summer storage.
The packaging said "15-year warranty."
I think you share my "no fucking way" response.
Except.
Except I called Bed Bath and Beyond at 10:30 on a Saturday night. And the nice lady agreed that of course, they would replace the comforter. Really? Really!
So yesterday? At the madhouse Fulfill Your Registry You Crazy Bridal Bitches Event? They replaced the comforter!
Huzzah!
But ... it's summer, right? So, I also bought a lightweight coverlet that's not so warm. A lovely coverlet in a pale champagne color.
It was on the bed less than an hour before I found blood on it.
Foxie Doxie had a bloody lip.
Which I did not give him.
Ahem.
Yes. We were using his Bachelor Linens.
I think we can all agree that any bedding - sheets, blankets, what have you - purchased and used by an unmarried man are a bit ... lacking. Lacking in everything except dog hair.
We have a queen-sized bed, and all of my not-as-slummy bedding is for a full-sized bed. So, we used the pilled sheets and blankets of My Guy's single past. And, of course, the comforter with a giant hole, courtesy of his dogs. All of this bedding was blue - but varying shades of not-going-together blue. Bachelor blue.
The great thing about getting married is that people give you stuff. And you get to tell them what you'd like. As you might imagine, what we really liked was bedding.
We were thrilled when we received a down comforter, a sheet set, and a duvet cover for our wedding. I carefully washed the duvet and the sheets, and was so thrilled to pull the bed together. We slept like royalty!
For three whole nights!
And on the fourth night? Foxie Doxie peed in the middle of the bed. It was evidently important for him to mark his territory. We were, after all, still getting used to being a 4-dog household.
Funny thing about a down comforter: when you rinse it free of urine in your bathtub at 11 p.m. when you're really super tired? It turns pink. And you wonder if you're hallucinating. But the next morning, when you remove the comforter from your shower rod and drape it over the back of your couch because you don't know what else to do with it? It's still pink.
So, we could get the comforter cleaned. But we didn't have the opportunity.
No. Because the day we left the comforter draped over the back of the couch? The labradoodles decided it was a dog bed. They slept on the comforter, and dragged it around the house, and finally ripped a giant hole in it.
The house was filled with goose down.
And yes, we just can't have nice things.
I gathered down in Ziploc baggies, figuring I'd restuff the comforter. My baggies of down were tinged grey, thanks to black dog hair - a painful reminder.
So, the wounded comforter sat, safety-pinned together, in a locked, dog-proof room. Finally, this weekend, I got out my iron-on patches and my baggies of down and dog hair, and patched the formerly fine linen. But a funny thing happened when I was getting ready to force the comforter back into its plastic packaging for summer storage.
The packaging said "15-year warranty."
I think you share my "no fucking way" response.
Except.
Except I called Bed Bath and Beyond at 10:30 on a Saturday night. And the nice lady agreed that of course, they would replace the comforter. Really? Really!
So yesterday? At the madhouse Fulfill Your Registry You Crazy Bridal Bitches Event? They replaced the comforter!
Huzzah!
But ... it's summer, right? So, I also bought a lightweight coverlet that's not so warm. A lovely coverlet in a pale champagne color.
It was on the bed less than an hour before I found blood on it.
Foxie Doxie had a bloody lip.
Which I did not give him.
Ahem.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Like a birthday, but better.
I have been delightfully, thankfully downgraded today.
Remember when I was Super Champion of the Universe and Queen of Growing Huge Breast Cysts?
Uh-huh. No more! Instead of being a gold-medal winner, I'm now the pleased owner of a lowly participant ribbon in the boob cyst Olympics. I might even be picked last if somebody was putting together a team for competitive cyst growing.
It's boobtacular!
At any rate, today was my scheduled recheck. Two ultrasounds, coming right up.
I tried to act like it wasn't any big deal. But really? Really, I was terrified. And pissed as all hell. I've been short-tempered most of the week, but I think we all know that I wasn't really mad about the dishes or that bad driver. I was angry about this interruption to my life, this evil little reminder that holy crap, I just might be mortal. This is sooooo unfair!
My Guy took the afternoon off to take me to The Breast Center. And, per usual, we were totally the youngest people there by, like, a gajillion years. People treat you extra special kindly when it seems like you might be A Really Sad Case.
But I'm not really sad. I'm really thankful. Because my fibroadenoma hasn't come back. And the formerly huge cysts are now teeny tiny. The tech remembered me, and called me "honey," and remembered how she'd had to grab a special wand to get an accurate image of the three-inch cyst before it was aspirated. And today? She celebrated with me, and assured me that 2:30 wasn't too early to get a drink, and told me that the restaurant across the street serves great margaritas.
Once My Guy and I got back to the car, I wasn't sure whether to cry or throw up. So we got ice cream instead.
Remember when I was Super Champion of the Universe and Queen of Growing Huge Breast Cysts?
Uh-huh. No more! Instead of being a gold-medal winner, I'm now the pleased owner of a lowly participant ribbon in the boob cyst Olympics. I might even be picked last if somebody was putting together a team for competitive cyst growing.
It's boobtacular!
At any rate, today was my scheduled recheck. Two ultrasounds, coming right up.
I tried to act like it wasn't any big deal. But really? Really, I was terrified. And pissed as all hell. I've been short-tempered most of the week, but I think we all know that I wasn't really mad about the dishes or that bad driver. I was angry about this interruption to my life, this evil little reminder that holy crap, I just might be mortal. This is sooooo unfair!
My Guy took the afternoon off to take me to The Breast Center. And, per usual, we were totally the youngest people there by, like, a gajillion years. People treat you extra special kindly when it seems like you might be A Really Sad Case.
But I'm not really sad. I'm really thankful. Because my fibroadenoma hasn't come back. And the formerly huge cysts are now teeny tiny. The tech remembered me, and called me "honey," and remembered how she'd had to grab a special wand to get an accurate image of the three-inch cyst before it was aspirated. And today? She celebrated with me, and assured me that 2:30 wasn't too early to get a drink, and told me that the restaurant across the street serves great margaritas.
Once My Guy and I got back to the car, I wasn't sure whether to cry or throw up. So we got ice cream instead.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Umm ... hi.
I’ve been looking for signs that it’s time to start writing again. Evidently, I am not the sharpest crayon in the box – the average signs didn’t faze me.
First? I broke my foot.
OK, sort of. I have a stress fracture that makes me gimp around and moan about how much my foot hurts. Also, I have been directed to sit on my ass and put ice on my foot. This makes me moan about how my entire body is atrophying and I’m getting fat. I’m depressed.
And yes, My Guy is one lucky, lucky fellow.
You might think that sitting around doing nothing would propel me to sit around and do something – something like blogging. You would be mistaken.
Tuesday? I sort of forgot to brush my teeth. Luckily, I realized my mistake before leaving the house. However, I then managed to get toothpaste all up in my hair.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and thought, “I would totally blog about this if I were blogging.” But then I went about my day, actively not blogging.
And yesterday, when My Guy got up at 5 a.m., and he managed to go back to sleep but I didn’t? And then I played outside with the dogs for a while, and then I realized that I should water the plants in the front yard?
I took a calculated risk and decided that given the time of day, I’d be safe in my front yard in my super fancy sleepwear – a t-shirt and pajama pants.
I did not count on the hose exploding, soaking me and my very pale-colored pants. Nor did I count on my next-door neighbor watering the same time I was.
As I attempted to hide my braless, pantyless, possibly transparent fashion misstep, I thought, “Dude. I should totally blog about this.”
But I didn’t.
Until now. I’m getting back on the horse. I’ll bore you with tales of stuff that’s happened in the last 6 weeks. And I’m taking requests – what do you want to read about? Help a sister out – I need to get back in the blogging swing.
First? I broke my foot.
OK, sort of. I have a stress fracture that makes me gimp around and moan about how much my foot hurts. Also, I have been directed to sit on my ass and put ice on my foot. This makes me moan about how my entire body is atrophying and I’m getting fat. I’m depressed.
And yes, My Guy is one lucky, lucky fellow.
You might think that sitting around doing nothing would propel me to sit around and do something – something like blogging. You would be mistaken.
Tuesday? I sort of forgot to brush my teeth. Luckily, I realized my mistake before leaving the house. However, I then managed to get toothpaste all up in my hair.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and thought, “I would totally blog about this if I were blogging.” But then I went about my day, actively not blogging.
And yesterday, when My Guy got up at 5 a.m., and he managed to go back to sleep but I didn’t? And then I played outside with the dogs for a while, and then I realized that I should water the plants in the front yard?
I took a calculated risk and decided that given the time of day, I’d be safe in my front yard in my super fancy sleepwear – a t-shirt and pajama pants.
I did not count on the hose exploding, soaking me and my very pale-colored pants. Nor did I count on my next-door neighbor watering the same time I was.
As I attempted to hide my braless, pantyless, possibly transparent fashion misstep, I thought, “Dude. I should totally blog about this.”
But I didn’t.
Until now. I’m getting back on the horse. I’ll bore you with tales of stuff that’s happened in the last 6 weeks. And I’m taking requests – what do you want to read about? Help a sister out – I need to get back in the blogging swing.
Monday, May 16, 2011
What's happenin', hot stuff?
Not blogging. That's what's happening.
I think I crammed a few month's worth of conversations and general social interactions into one weekend: our wedding. Since then, I've been pretty hermit-like. And while I'm sure there are whispers that newlyweds sequester themselves away for sexytime? I'm here to tell you that it's because they are damned well tired of talking.
Also? They are starting to feel sheepish about not having started writing thank-you notes. Or even ordering said notes. Ugh.
But today? Today, I have an excuse for not writing thank yous. Today is my birthday. Today, I am 36 years old.
Yep. I guess I can no longer claim to be in my early 30s. But I did get carded last week, so that's totally a bonus.
This is sort of a crappy birthday - I will be honest. My Guy, Poochie and I painted the exterior of our house this weekend. It was cold. I wore three t-shirts, a sweatshirt and a parka. Oh, and pants. I was wearing pants, too. But it was shit-ass cold. And in the middle of it? Well, God has a funny sense of humor. Somebody rented My Guy's house - totally out of the blue. A total blessing! But the funny part? The renters want to move in on Friday. And My Guy is in lovely Sandusky, Ohio, all this week.
Ha ha ha.
So in the midst of painting? The three of us dropped our drop cloths, rented a truck, and packed up and moved the rest of My Guy's stuff out of his house.
Why yes, he had had several months to pack up that stuff and move it out.
Ahem.
I'm exhausted, but at least I didn't have to catch a plane to Cleveland at 7 a.m. Instead, I just have to sit around and sulk about my pooooooor birthday all alone in my dirty-as-sin house.
Which, if we're being honest? Since I'm still sort of hiding from the world? Isn't that bad.
But I did have a moment of introspection in a stall of the ladies' room today at Corporate Behemoth. The year I was 35? I got engaged, bought a house, moved, had boobie problems, sold a house, got married, and assumed parenting of two additional dogs.
What in the world could 36 possibly hold to beat that?
And if you mention a baby, I will beat you with a stick.
I think I crammed a few month's worth of conversations and general social interactions into one weekend: our wedding. Since then, I've been pretty hermit-like. And while I'm sure there are whispers that newlyweds sequester themselves away for sexytime? I'm here to tell you that it's because they are damned well tired of talking.
Also? They are starting to feel sheepish about not having started writing thank-you notes. Or even ordering said notes. Ugh.
But today? Today, I have an excuse for not writing thank yous. Today is my birthday. Today, I am 36 years old.
Yep. I guess I can no longer claim to be in my early 30s. But I did get carded last week, so that's totally a bonus.
This is sort of a crappy birthday - I will be honest. My Guy, Poochie and I painted the exterior of our house this weekend. It was cold. I wore three t-shirts, a sweatshirt and a parka. Oh, and pants. I was wearing pants, too. But it was shit-ass cold. And in the middle of it? Well, God has a funny sense of humor. Somebody rented My Guy's house - totally out of the blue. A total blessing! But the funny part? The renters want to move in on Friday. And My Guy is in lovely Sandusky, Ohio, all this week.
Ha ha ha.
So in the midst of painting? The three of us dropped our drop cloths, rented a truck, and packed up and moved the rest of My Guy's stuff out of his house.
Why yes, he had had several months to pack up that stuff and move it out.
Ahem.
I'm exhausted, but at least I didn't have to catch a plane to Cleveland at 7 a.m. Instead, I just have to sit around and sulk about my pooooooor birthday all alone in my dirty-as-sin house.
Which, if we're being honest? Since I'm still sort of hiding from the world? Isn't that bad.
But I did have a moment of introspection in a stall of the ladies' room today at Corporate Behemoth. The year I was 35? I got engaged, bought a house, moved, had boobie problems, sold a house, got married, and assumed parenting of two additional dogs.
What in the world could 36 possibly hold to beat that?
And if you mention a baby, I will beat you with a stick.
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