Coming full circle with poop and puke.

Big Doodle is a good-time kind of dude.

He hasn't met you yet, but he loves you. He wants to be with you all the time. He wants to share everything with you.

This is why Big Doodle always tells me when he's gotten a drink. More often than not, I have gooey, wet patches on my legs, because he's oh-so-thoughtfully let me know when he's quenched his thirst. He has an impressive, sponge-like beard that really gets the message across.

So, it was no surprise last night when Big Doodle sauntered over to the couch and put his wet chin on my lap. But it was a bit of a shock when he coughed.

It was loud. And it was productive.

My 90-pound labradoodle coughed up a rabbit turd. Onto my person. And then just sauntered on his merry way.

At first, I thought, "Oh, look! A tapioca ball from bubble tea!" But then I realized that Big Doodle hasn't ever had bubble tea, and probably didn't drive to the Chinese restaurant to get me a bubble tea because, dude, he doesn't even have thumbs, much less a driver's license.

Then, I had to face the fact that my child had coughed up shit onto my person. And that shit was buoyant, and literally bounced off my shoulder and into my lap before I managed to catch it with my bare hand.

So, that meant multiple poo contact points, plus poo in hand.

My Guy, ever helpful, could not stop laughing. He also couldn't stop laughing when, throughout the evening, I kept turning to him and asking, "Did the dog really puke poo onto my person? Did that really happen?"

Yes, yes it really did.

Like most moments in life, this made me appreciate my mom even more. When I was about 7 years old, I felt compelled to tell her that my stomach was upset. Except that when I opened my mouth to tell her, I kind of barfed all over her ... and the tablecloth she was cross stitching for my cousin's wedding.

You know how you can't wash pre-printed cross-stitch fabric because then the pattern will wash off?

Yeah. We had a long talk about how sometimes, it's OK to take action - like throwing up in the bathroom - without telling Mom first.

Somehow, my mom got the vomit off the tablecloth and finished the cross stitching, and no one was the wiser. My cousin's marriage didn't last, but, well, that can't necessarily be tied to me puking on her tablecloth, now can it?

So, Mom? I'm sorry for the surprise puke attack. At least I hadn't been eating rabbit turds. You're welcome. And I'm sorry.

The week that was.

Monday
Monday is trash day. Big whoop, right? Well ... it has a special significance now. My Guy and I have realized we never see our neighbor Creepy Chuck putting out trash cans. Like, ever. Like, the trash truck never stops at his house.

The husband and I are now obsessed.

Maybe Creepy Chuck just takes his trash and dumps it somewhere. But in my fantasy, he has an entire room of his house that's just garbage. I wish there was an adult I could report this to. Instead, I'm concerned that I will end up being That Neighbor on the local news who is all, "He was quiet and kept to himself ..."

Tuesday
I was going to drop off an old printer at the local thrift store. However, that plan kind of had to wait, as there was an armed robbery at the thrift store.

Evidently, 2 guys came in with guns and demanded cash. And when 1 of the guys tried to shoot his gun? The bullet fell out of the gun and rolled across the floor. Because I guess you use a second-hand firearm to rob a thrift store?

Also? I can't imagine that a thrift store would be a high-dollar robbery target. But, if you're still at the point where you try to shoot and the bullet rolls across the floor, maybe it's good to get some practice in before you go big-time.

Wednesday
I cleaned up 1 too many puddles of pee. Guess who's back in his industrial strength anti-indoor-urination suit?

Oh, Foxie. You rock those Overalls of Shame. Also, you kind of look like Super Mario. I want to kill you, but you're so cute.

Also? I'm sorry I made up that mean song about you wearing The Overalls of Shame and a maxipad and about how you should be really embarrassed and how no ladydog was going to date you now. I was being a bully. But I'm also just really, really over cleaning up your pee. You aren't incontinent. You're just an ass.

Thursday
It's March Madness, meaning that it's the time of year when My Guy and I agree, again, that we must become friendly with the family several houses down the block. Every year, they host an open house orgy of days-long basketball watching. Literally 20 cars line the street, and you can hear the cheering throughout the neighborhood. It seems so fun.

This year, spring break coincided with the party. This meant a gaggle of 10-year-old boys playing basketball in the street, complete with 2 dads in referee shirts. It did my heart good.

Friday
I've mentioned the player piano in the lobby of the building where I work. It's a beautiful baby grand that evidently has a very limited range when it comes to songs it can play magically by itself.

"Rosanna" by Toto is a good song. It's not as good when performed on player piano. And it really doesn't hold up the 20th time you hear it on a player piano in the span of 3 hours.

The hallway from the lobby to the office where I work acts as kind of a sound vacuum. And I sit right by the door. So, when I sit at my desk, I hear the piano, loud and clear. Meet you all the way! Doo doo doo! Rosanna!

I finally cracked under the pressure.

I didn't want to be suspicious, so I didn't Google "Honda Accord vs. player piano" at work. But I Googled it at home ... because they never check the personal laptop, right? You know what came up? That Honda ad with Michael Bolton. Sadly, there's no research on Honda Accord/player piano showdowns.

Basically, the takeaway is that Michael Bolton sent me a sign. A sign that I need to push the player piano into parking lot and ram into it with my car. Because what else would he say? He wants to be my soul provider? No! He wants me to run over that fucking piano before it desecrates 1 of his songs!

And that, my friends, is why it's good that the weekend is here.

I got your scary right here.

I get some random-ass e-newsletters. Sometimes I signed up in the hopes of getting a coupon (I'm not cheap, I'm thrifty.). Other times, it's obvious that my poor, innocent e-mail address was viciously ripped from a professional directory or my blog.

I have 1 simple request.

If you're going to farm my blog or BlogHer for my e-mail address, please take the time to actually read my blog, and make sure that I might conceivably (heh) be interested in your e-newsletter.

Scary Mommy, I'm looking at you.

As far as mommyblogs go, this one looks pretty righteous. There are sections for folks trying to conceive, and folks with babies, and folks with kids with allergies, and the whole deal is a nonprofit that fights hunger. Right on.

But seriously? You just look like a jackhole when you send a Scary Mommy e-newsletter to the barren lady. The barren lady who has no recollection of signing up for the e-newsletter, and who doesn't take Ambien and so is not prone to such unconscious online shenanigans.

Sigh.

I will unsubscribe. And I'm not even really mad - I'm just disappointed. I'm disappointed that it's assumed that because I'm female and I'm in my 30s that clearly I also have kids. Because to have value as a human being outside the realm of female reproduction and nurturing other people? Well, that would be redonkulous!

And then there's the photo my cousin posted to Facebook. It shows all 8 of us grandkids, circa 1982. The hair was feathered and we were tan as hell. And we were so full of it - you could tell just by the photo that once we were free from posing for the paparazzi that we would have such fun together.

I couldn't stop looking at the picture. And when I saw my gorgeous little niece this weekend, I couldn't help but apologize to my brother. His daughter won't have cousins on this side of the family.

Yeah. Sorry my ladyparts are broken! Hope it doesn't inconvenience you too much!

To his credit, Poochie was just like, "Uh, yeah, it's fine. Here, hold the baby." And then we all drank more beer. Well, the baby didn't drink the beer. You know. Because even as the clueless nonparent, I know that babies can't drink beer while they're still nursing. Duh.

Most of the time, not being a parent is just fine. But there are days. Scary days when my brain goes a tiny bit bonkers.

Marriage is a process.

Where have I been?

Well, I've been in Michigan. It was cold.

I got to make eyes at your favorite president and mine, Gerald R. Ford.

Don't we make a cute couple?

Jerry's presidential museum is the coolest. It's basically like, "Gerald R. Ford was the greatest human ever. Gerald R. Ford invented oxygen." And by the end, you're like, "I laughed. I cried. It was better than 'Cats.' I'm going to see it again and again."

Also, stopping by the museum gift shop gave me the opportunity for what educators call "a teaching opportunity" and what I call "training my husband."

See, My Guy is brilliant in many ways. But knowing which former presidents are alive and which are dead? Well, it's not his strong suit. We once got in a fight over whether Nixon was alive or dead. And I was all, "I remember watching his funeral my freshman year of college." And he was all, "I have no recollection of this at all." And then I was all, "That's because you were, like, 12."

Sometimes, when you're married to a younger man? You look old and crotchety even if all you did was know that Nixon is dead.

So, at Gerald R. Ford's presidential museum gift shop? I bought my husband a bookmark with all the presidents on it. And we can draw an X over the ones that have passed on to the ol' oval office in the sky.

I really wanted to buy the presidential flash cards. Imagine - hours of flipping through cards, just like when we learned multiplication tables. 4 x 8? 32! Millard Fillmore? Dead!

However, I thought that might be a tiny bit too pushy. Also, the flash cards were $10, and the bookmark was $2. So, I went with the subtlety of the bookmark / Sharpie combo.

My sweet husband laughed, and was appreciative of his gift. He then proceeded to tell me that he was pretty sure Jimmy Carter was dead.

If feelings had a flavor, this would be umami.

Today, I went to the breast center for an ultrasound on the ol' boob.

Best day ever!

I went because, well, the section of my right breast where all the action is (read: lumpectomies, cysts, general bad behavior) is more painful that usual. My doctor wasn't overly concerned, and I wasn't until last night. Then, my dark little imagination went absolutely wild with fantasies that basically all ended with me having a very rare, "Alien"-like cancer that would surely spell death and destruction for all womankind.

Imagination is awesome!

But I went today, and I forgot the doctor's order. I called My Guy in a panic from the hospital parking lot, and he was poised to somehow Batsignal it across the sky to the breast center. But they had the order, so it was fine.

And then the lady in the office said, "Your last mammogram was last February. You need another mammogram."

And I said, "I think my last mammogram was September 2012."

And she was all, "I think you need a mammogram."

And then I was all, "I'M ONLY 38! CAN'T YOU TELL BY MY LUMINOUS, SUNSCREEN-PROTECTED SKIN? BACK OFF, BITCH!"

And then it turns out that she was looking at the wrong file because I have a fairly common name, and I decided not to kill her because I didn't want to break a nail.

But it made me angry. For the gajillionth time: This is not fair. I'm only 38. I've already had 3 or 4 mammograms. I've had 2 lumpectomies. I've had so many cyst aspirations that I've lost count. And today, the next-to-the-last day of the month? The tech told me that I won "Biggest Cyst of the Month." Which actually made me laugh.

The tech. Oh, I love her. She makes everything OK. And everything is OK - the cysts are all cystacular, and I can have them aspirated if I want, but there's no desperate medical reason to be jamming needles into my boob.

So, yay.

I have a tiny bit of a cold, and it's making me feel like no human has ever suffered the way I'm suffering. Add in some boobtacular fun, and I have a full-blown "poor meeeeee" going on.

Except ... that I've left the breast center before and cried in my car. I've been in those chilly rooms where the doctor has come in to talk to me about my options. Today was a piece of cake, and a total blessing.

I hate that I'm supposed to be thankful for this.

I hate that the way the other lady in the waiting room looked at me when the nurse verified that I didn't need to remove my deodorant because I wasn't getting a mammogram, but something else - something probably way serious and horrible.

I hate that the lady in the office didn't apologize for sounding the fake alarm about my need for a mammogram.

I hate being a very special case, like I'm going to guest on a very special episode of "Blossom" and then never be heard from again because nobody wants to be reminded week in and week out of a very special case. We all want to believe that everything is fine.

I want to believe that everything is fine. And today, it is. And for that, I should be delighted.

You're phat. Now fatten up.

Sometimes, when you're a dog, your mom can be really mean.


Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.

Your mom gets mad when you poo inside the house, even if it's really cold. And she takes you to the vet. And she expects you to let the vet do horrible things like pet you and coo to you even as you shake and look away.

Yeah, the vet's been nice to you for 6 years. But the guiltier you make him feel, the more treats he parses out.

But back to your mom. She's horrible.

She's worried that you have dropped from your healthy weight of 7 pounds down to 5. She notices that you're always cold, so she layers you in various t-shirts and jackets, including one that looks like a Christmas tree.

This is what exploitation looks like.

The vet and your mom can't figure out why you're so thin. Your mean mom has started pureeing all of your food with chicken stock, in the hopes that it will help you absorb the nutrients. All of the vet's tests came back fine. He's not sure what to think, either. Maybe pureeing will help.

You eat like a champ. Unfortunately, you poop like a champ, too. It doesn't seem like much goes on in between.

Somehow, this is all your mom's fault because she's so mean. And it serves her right that the day after the vet gave you so many treats, she picked up a treat off the floor with her bare hands ... only to find that the treat had been through your system already. She picked up poo. With her bare hands.

She's starting to think that your weight loss started about the time you actually began answering to the moniker "The Little One." Your mom and dad call you and your canine pals all sorts of names. Roo-Roo-Noodle and Giant Noggin don't respond to their nicknames.


Someone doesn't put a lot of stock in the words of the "humans."

Nickname? Dude. I barely know my name. I love you!

But you? You're different.

You're messing with your mom on purpose. You're smart as hell, and you don't give 2 shits about what your humans might want.

But maybe, just this once? You'd consider packing on some pounds?

Le sigh.

Thanks.

Olympics? Play on playa, play on play-ahhhh!

Oh, Winter Olympics. Or, as my brother used to call them, Bolympics.

My Guy and I have been watching the Bolympics off and on. Basically, he said, "I'm embarrassed to admit that I only care about the figure skating. I hate to skate and I'm straight. What is wrong with me?"

Well, I think the issue is that we are not winter sports people, and it's hard to get really passionate about a sport that involves skiing and then shooting a gun. I have enjoyed the snowboarding, though, and was a bit astounded that all the long-distance skiers literally collapsed right after crossing the finish line. Watching it made me tired, so I went to bed.

But I have tuned in enough to have, you know, some insights in to the 22nd Winter Bolympic Games.

• I can't help but think that poor Bob Costas wouldn't have that horrendous eye infection if the water in Sochi didn't look like toxic urine.
• If I were a Winter Bolympian, I would totally do the skeleton. Now, granted, I'd need the padded bra to end all padded bras. But I like sledding face-first, and I already have a super-awesome human-interest story for NBC Sports. Bob Costas could visit my hometown and talk about how my Bolympic dreams started in my parents' front yard. And then NBC could do an entire package about my family sledding in our front yard and how regularly running your sled into a tree builds character and perseverance. Of course, the segment would end with my mom being all teary-eyed about me being a Bolympian, because that's what the Bolympics are about: making moms cry.
• Even though I like to pretend I'm not quite as emo as my mom, if one of my dogs were in the Bolympics? I would cry non-stop out of pride. And I'd probably wear the most obnoxious red, white, and blue outfits ever made because, like my mom, I have kind of stopped giving a shit. Now, if only we can just get the IOC to acknowledge peeing in the house as an Olympic sport with a canine division ...
• Anybody out there think of "No Diggity" whenever they hear Ted Ligety's name? Bob Costas mentions Ted, and suddenly I'm all, "Ted Ligety! Got to bag it, bag it up! Play on playa play on play-ahhhhh!" And then I dance around and think I'm soooooo cooool.
• My Guy and I have actually spent time researching all the terms used by the ice skating commentators. Triple Salchow? I knew what you were for 30 brief seconds before I forgot. But, you know, we're trying. We have, however, determined that there is evidently a crotch shot quota for all female skaters. They have to twist and show their crotches to all areas of the arena in order to earn points. I generally don't like sports that require ladyscaping - it just seems so unfair that you have to be really good at a sport and really good at waxing. This is also why I'm not a pro beach volleyball player.
• And as if flashing your ladybits weren't bad enough ... can we all just agree that the female skating commentator is just mean? She seems gleeful when somebody messes up. I kind of want to go back to the beginning of the Bolympics and count the number of times she describes someone's performance as "devastating," and not in a good way. More like in a, "that was so bad they are going to stone him when he gets back to his village" kind of way. I can barely stand up on skates, so I'm just going to love everybody and give all the skaters a 10, whether they flash their privates or not, OK?

I do not know why NBC hasn't hired me to do color commentary on the Bolympics. Clearly, it's a travesty.

If you were a commentator for NBC, what would you talk about?