Things I’ve Learned This Week

** A splinter in your bra does not make for happy boobs.

** The inventor of summer camp deserves the Nobel Peace Prize.

** There’s a reason for that whole “dog chewing the slippers” stereotype.  Just ask my Uggs.

** Single parents are the hardest working people on the planet.

** “The Today Show” REALLY needs to stop showing that woman who was mauled by a chimpanzee, especially at breakfast time.  Ick.

** My children plot their shits to occur at precisely the time I begin to eat a meal.

** Tortilla chips and yogurt do not make for a very satisfying dinner.

** Boxing is a rockin’ good time of a workout.

** Digging through a bin of thongs that are on sale gives me the willies.

** If there is a spider web, I will be sure to walk straight into it.

** I need a massaging chair in my family room.

** If it smells like poop, it probably IS poop.

** A full roll of Scotch tape does not stand a chance in this house.

** I can’t help it — I’m still intrigued by the weirdness that was Michael Jackson.

** My kids wanna party like rock stars at approximately 8:55 p.m. every frickin’ night.

** Our pet fish is trying to commit suicide.

** I would NEVER wait in line for hours for ANYTHING, much less a damn cellphone.

** My husband knows what’s good for him — he chose ME over technology!

** Withholding sex works like a charm.

** “Toy Story 3” is one of the best movies I’ve seen in a really long time.

** Mornings?  Can suck it.

** Despite what I might think, God does not give me more than I can handle.



Bad Dog

I gotta tell ya that it was pretty darned nice to have a small little break from the demon dog over this past weekend.  Luckily, our neighbors are always more than willing to have him stay with them when we go out of town.  For some reason that I have yet to determine, they seem to absolutely love the big, furry bastard.  They’ve owned many an Airedale in their time, so I suppose they’re used to all the shit-eating trouble these dogs tend to find themselves in.  And the beast is happier than a stay-at-home-mom at happy hour when he gets to shack up with the neighbors, too.  Perhaps, then, that’s why he’s decided to raise all kinds of hell now that he’s been forced back onto his own home turf.

From the moment the pooch stepped through the door, he’s made it his mission in life to annoy the absolute crap out of me.  Seriously, I didn’t think it was possible for a dog to bark this freaking much.  A leaf blows on a tree, and he has a damn hissy fit.  A fly buzzes by the window, and he goes flippin’ apeshit.  Can you really blame me then for fantasizing about all the things I could do with a good roll of duct tape?

The barking is one thing, but the chewing is a whole other issue.  And he decided to really go for the gusto too.  The ball-less wonder has taken it upon himself to chew the ever-loving shit out of my favorite pair of Ugg slippers.  We’re talkin’ down to the inner makings of the sole kind of chewing.  He also tore into one of the hubby’s beloved Cubs hats, too.  I’m sure that will make for a really nice welcome home present for him later this week when he finally returns.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about marching the dog right on over to the neighbor’s front doorstep over the past couple of days.  He knows just how to get under your skin and make you want to trade him in for some firewood.  That is…until you see him all curled up like this:

And your cold steal heart can’t help but melt just a lil’ bit…..

The Shitstorm

     Do you have any idea what it’s like for your nose to be used and abused by the overwhelming smell of shit when you walk in the door of your house? Well, I sure do! Last night the kids and I arrived home from their ice skating lessons to find that our entire house had the stank of a massive pile of steaming dung.  This was just awesome timing, too, since we still needed to do homework and eat dinner.  A thousand obscenities danced on the end of my tongue as I approached the disaster area.  My observant daughter must’ve sensed my irritation because she immediately said, “Mommy, you can’t get mad at Wrigley if he pooped in his crate cause you know he’d only do that if it was a real accident.”  Little did I know that it was WAY more than just a LITTLE accident.

     When we walked into the family room, we could see that the dog was going bat crazy in his crate and was absolutely covered from head to toe in his own crap.  The stench was so bad that I actually had to talk myself into not throwing up.  Nonetheless, I knew that I somehow needed to get this forty pound shit-beast upstairs and into our shower to hose him down.  (Did I mention that I have a bad back?)  So, I hoisted the wriggling furball into my arms and carried his nasty ass all the way up to the second floor, all the while holding my breath to avoid the smell.  I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed the bazillion clumps of shit out of his hair and washed him no less than five hundred times with handful after handful of doggy shampoo.  My eager to please daughter stood right by my side trying to calm the dog down, when in fact, all she was doing was getting him even more riled up.  (Have you ever noticed that your kids become even MORE annoying during stressful situations?)

     When we tried to dry him off, he became extremely agitated and starting freaking the eff out trying to get out of the bathroom.  Then, all of a sudden out of nowhere, he started shitting all over the tile floor and all over my cream-colored rugs.  My daughter tried with all her might to hold the dog so he didn’t step in the mess as I scooped up the rugs and attempted to clean the floor.  (Seriously, why do these things ALWAYS happen to me?!)  I somehow managed to drag him by the collar back down the stairs and out onto the back deck so I could tackle the shitstorm that had hit my house.  Not only did I have the bathroom to clean up, but I also had to fumigate the damn crate.  

     I’ll spare you the dirty details of just how bad of shape the crate was in, but trust me when I tell you that it was everything I could do to keep my stomach from turning itself inside out.  Thank God my hubby came home in time to help clean it out, so I finally could deal with the kids.  (Cause cooking food was EXACTLY what I wanted to be doing at that point.)  I swear I think my son was completely unaware of the tornado of activity that was going on around him the whole time as he stood there lost in his own world, happily playing the Wii. (Thanks for all the help, kiddo.)  I have no earthly idea what led to the dog’s explosive ass bombs either, but the only thing we could figure is that he ate something that wasn’t meant to be eaten in the backyard.  After all, he is part goat.  As I laid in bed last night, I had a little talk with God, and he assured me that the rest of the week is gonna be much better.  He also told me to get a butt plug for the dog.

Shit Happens


     You may recall that I’m not the greatest at relaxing.  And sadly, it takes a little old thing like surgery to allow me the chance to even try to take it easy.  You would think that would be the one time that the stars would align in my favor.  However, even after going under the knife, my time to take care of myself was sure enough cut short by the chaos that consumes my every waking moment.  Enter the demon dog, a bowl full of poo, and the very reason why I preach to my kids about flushing their butt bombs.

     One night last week when I was laid up in bed trying to shake off the pain from my surgery, I kept thinking that I heard the clinking of dog tags outside my bedroom door.  My husband was downstairs watching t.v., so I felt fairly confident that he surely had the gate in place on the stairs to keep the dog from running amuck throughout the house.  He knew that I needed to rest, and he surely would have done everything in his power to keep the commotion to a minimum, right?  Therefore, I dismissed the noise as just a delusional side effect from my pain pills.  After all, the meds had been causing me all kinds of nightmares and crazy dreams every single night, so it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea then that I might simply just be hearing things.  

     The clinking noise, however, did not stop.  In fact, it grew even louder.  Now I may have been in a drugged out haze, but I most certainly heard something clanking around outside my door.  I yelled for my husband several times but got absolutely no response whatsoever.  So, I carefully hoisted myself out of bed and hobbled into the hall.  I painfully followed the noise, step by agonizing step, into the kids’ bathroom where I was greeted by a most unpleasant sight. There in the dim glow of the bumblebee nightlight stood the very bain of my existence all hunched over the toilet.  As he lifted his furry head, water dripping from his beard, lips smacking together happily, I felt the three saltine crackers that I’d managed to keep down at dinner slowly start to rise up in my throat.  You see, it seemed that once again, my kids had taken a ridiculously large dump and had failed to flush it down.  And apparently, our goat-like dog saw this as his golden brown opportunity to help himself to a little late-night snack.

     I grabbed the little shit-eating beast by the collar and attempted to lead him back out into the hall, all while trying to avoid the puddles of dung water that had splashed onto the floor.  I repeatedly yelled for my husband but got no response, so I had to just suck up the pain and drag the dog’s nasty ass all the way down the flippin’ stairs. When I finally reached the bottom, I was made very aware of just why my husband was completely oblivious to the whole wreck of a mess that was taking place on the second floor.  He was all sprawled out on the couch, peacefully snoring the night away, while I, the recovering surgical patient, was busy trying to wrangle one fecal-loving fiend. All my shouting eventually stirred him from his tranquil slumber, and he jumped up and took over the out of control situation.  I didn’t stick around to watch the clean-up efforts because my queasy stomach had already had enough.

     The next day, we had our ten billionth talk with the kids about the importance of hitting that flush button on the toilet whenever a transaction is conducted.  But, as with most of our lectures talks, I’m sure it went in one ear and quickly exited the other.  I’m sure it’s only a matter of time till I come across yet another unflushed bowl.  And as for the poop nibbler, I’m having a REALLY hard time allowing him to kiss me with that tongue of his now that I know just where it’s been. He gave a whole new meaning to the term potty mouth that night.

Failing Miserably


     Well, I guess I’ll just go ahead and address the big fat elephant in the room.  Maybe nobody around here wants to admit it, but I seem to be really sucking ass at my job lately.  I’m trying to juggle way too many balls at once, and who am I kidding?  I don’t even know how to freaking juggle!  So, yes, this is my pity party, so pull up a seat cause you’re all invited.    

     The arrival of our literal little son of a bitch has thrown a big wrench in my ability to get a grip on anything around here.  He takes up so much of my time that I feel like I’m neglecting the kids, who are by far WAY higher up in the pecking order of importance.  I feel like I’m constantly telling them that we’ll have to play that game later or read this book another time so I can deal with the dog.  I’m totally sucking in my role as entertainer.  

     In addition, I’ve also been like a giant road block for my kids’ brain cells.  I totally missed the boat last week on an entire week’s worth of spelling activities for school. Yep, Mama Jackass somehow overlooked a whole list of homework assignments and didn’t even discover this little brain fart until over the weekend.  Oopsy daisy. Luckily, they were just at-home activities that kids were supposed to do each night with their parents, but still, I should’ve been more on top of my game.  

     Then, there’s the whole issue of trying to tame the Tazmanian Devil.  Since I was at my wit’s end with the pooch all last week, the hubs spent a lot of time trying to teach him how to not be a maniac over the weekend.  I made sure to carefully watch his technique so that I could continue with it once he went back to work on Monday. So why is it then that the dog refused to do ANYTHING I asked him to do even though I was doing the exact same thing my husband was doing over the weekend? Does he have something against me or what?  I swear if he had a middle finger, I know for certain that he’d totally be flipping me off.  The dog is clearly trying to tell me to eff off.  All he does is bite me and step in his own shit.  

     Then there’s my inability to be even somewhat of a semi-pleasant wife lately.  I am so frustrated and exhausted by the end of the day that I end up falling asleep by the time my tush finally makes that long-awaited contact with the couch.  I even turned down my husband’s offer to take me on a date over the weekend and opted to order out sushi instead.  How lame am I?   Yeah, I’m just a barrel of fun these days — being with me lately is only slightly more fun than a sharp stick in the eye.  Good God, am I turning into Kate Gosselin?!  

     So, to summarize my efforts around here:  kids = failing, dog = failing, husband = failing.  My report card looks pretty pathetic, don’t ya think?  I am flunking out big time with everything and everybody.  I gotta snap outta this and get back in the driver’s seat cause I am not a fan of spinning out of control.  It makes me dizzy.

Changing of the Guard


     I know I may complain about him being sloppy and about how much he procrastinates, but I gotta hand it to my hubby for steppin’ up to the plate this past weekend.  He must’ve realized that I was at the absolute end of my very frazzled rope with the new puppy and him being out of town ALL last week.  It was WAY more stress than I had envisioned, and I realize now in hindsight that the timing could not have been worse. I was like a shaken up bottle of Diet Coke just waiting to blow my top.

     Since I was so sleep deprived, the hubs took it upon himself to get up with both the dog and the kids at the first sign of day on both Saturday and Sunday.  He even herded them all to the backyard so the house would stay nice and quiet for me.  Good man. Mama needed her sleep, especially after that little rendezvous with Benadryl (necessary for the itchy bumps the dog hair caused me) and one too many glasses of Chardonnay.  He also spent a significant chunk of time trying to work on training the dog, only to come to the same conclusion as me — that we have, in fact,  purchased an insane baby alligator.  

     Now, that’s not to say that everything was all sunshine and rainbows.  The kids, of course, decided to make up for lost time with Daddy and show him how well they’ve learned to let things go in one ear and straight out the other.  I could hear his frustration mounting over having to repeat the same damn thing about two hundred and fifty thousand times.  Of course, I just sat back and observed because we all know that payback’s a bitch.  I was so glad that he was getting a little dose of just what all he’d been missing — one big happy, albeit apeshit, family.  

     I had to just overlook the fact that my kids were running around the backyard still wearing their pj’s well into the afternoon.  And I had to just bite my tongue and turn the other way when I saw that the pile of crap on the kitchen counter may very well have rivaled the Sears Tower in height.  And I had to just let it roll off my shoulders when my husband came back from the grocery store with quite possibly the cheapest toilet paper ever manufactured — seriously, we might as well just wipe our asses with sandpaper.  None of these things could overshadow the fact that the man was giving me a much needed breather.  I was so beyond grateful to have any kind of break whatsoever from the constant chaos that has become my life.

     My gratitude was only compounded after I ran into a friend of mine on Sunday who was complaining about her lazy husband.  She was out trying to run errands and said that he was literally calling her every three to four minutes to tell her to come home and feed the kids lunch.  She was on the verge of tears as she told me that she was really sorry but she needed to run.  I stood there in awe at the audacity of the whole ordeal.  Could the dude really not slop together a flippin’ pb&j for the kids?  Seriously, any moron can do that. Thank God my husband can not only make a mean pb&j, but he can also fire up some chicken nuggets in the microwave like nobody else’s business.  Now, he may not sail the boat exactly like I do, but at least he keeps it afloat long enough to give the captain a little catnap.

Dog Days of Training


      Am I awake or asleep?  I’m not really sure lately since they feel kind of the same. My days have turned into a complete blur now that we’ve added this furry little creature to our mix.  I feel like I have literally just been going through the motions trying to keep myself from collapsing on the sidewalk.  The hubs has been oh so conveniently out of town this week, so I have been on my own to drive the crazy train that is my life.  And best believe me when I say that I am barely hanging on by a string.

     It is truly like we have a newborn baby in our house again.  I was perfectly happy to be well past that stage in parenting because I’ve kinda grown attached to my sleep these days.  However, lately I have been awakened multiple times a night EVERY STINKIN’ NIGHT by what sounds like a squealing pig being transformed into bacon.  I honestly feel like I no sooner close my eyes than I have to pry them open and take said “pig” out to pee. And as soon as I return him back to his crate, I get another encore presentation of this ear-piercing protest. All of this new morning chaos has the added bonus of my kids now waking up even earlier than normal.

      I then get to juggle the kids trying to play with the puppy who only wants to bite anything and anyone in his path with his razor-sharp little teeth, all while making sure that he doesn’t decide to pop a squat and diddle on the carpet somewhere. Naturally, the kids get upset when he nips them with his little fangs (those suckers hurt like a mother!), and I only can catch him about eight times out of ten from peeing on the sly.  Our morning routine was crazy enough without throwing a wild little beast into the mix, and now, it’s flat-out batshit nutty around here.

     Yesterday, I was so crazed trying to get the kids out the door for school, that I didn’t even realize until almost three in the afternoon that I was still wearing the same tank top that I had slept in the night before.  I did somehow manage to throw on a bra, because, you know, I’m classy like that.  I just literally have not had time to do anything.  I thought I had the world’s smallest bladder, but apparently, this dog has me beat.  He has to constantly be taken outside to pee, so any errands I run have to be completed within two hours time.

     Then there’s the whole feeding issue.  He must still be all freaked out by a new environment because he’s not all that jazzed about eating his food.  The breeder suggested we mix in a little bit of yogurt or cottage cheese to try to tempt him, which I’ve tried doing just to get him to hurry up and eat the damn stuff.  I’ve got places to go and people to see!  So, you can only imagine how happy I was to come home yesterday afternoon to find a crate full of barf as a result of the cottage cheese experiment.  

     And since poop scooping was not really part of my physical therapy plan, my back is totally taking a beating from having to bend down so much.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to pick up mushy puppy turds from the grass? Let’s just say that we very well may have some bald spots in our yard now. And I learned the hard way that I need to take a flashlight with me when I take him out at the ass-crack of dawn because I will otherwise find myself on a rather shitty scavenger hunt trying to hunt down all the tiny logs he dropped in the dark.    

     And I’ve gotta wonder if my neighbors REALLY want me to tell them when they ask me how it’s going.  The extreme look of exhaustion on my face should be a tip-off that they might just get an ear full if they do, in fact, ask.  I find myself envious of people who have older dogs who seem to be more chill.  I wish we could fast-forward through all this beginning insanity and get to the point where we can actually enjoy the dog.  In the meantime, I’m thinking about asking ours if I can borrow his crate for a while — I could really use a dark little place to hide away and snooze.  And I promise that I won’t even pee in it.