I am a terrible pet parent (anyone want to adopt?)

So, because I am a glutton for punishment, I am fostering a dog.  One of my cousins saw said dog in the shelter, and one of the volunteers said that if he was not adopted on that day, he would be euthanized the next day, because he had been at the shelter for just too long (9 days, including his 72 hour hold for being a stray.). Knowing what a sucker glutton for punishment softie pushover compassionate person I am, she texted me the photos of the dog. Said puppy, who is for the moment named Boozer, is a 7 month old Beagle/Boxer mix.

So, not being able to turn down a cute snout, I agreed to foster him until he could find his forever family. Because I figured I could work on training him, get him straight medically (neutered, shots, HW preventative) and since the older kid is in school most of the day, and we have a much older dog who is a perfect gentleman, I assumed he would help me train the puppy. Easy breezy, right.

I fear I have once again over estimated my ability to handle stress.

  This is the photo sent to manipulate me. How could I say no?

The Husband person trying to hold him still for a photo.

First off, He and the Evil Genius child have decided they are best friends. I would not be surprised if she has decided that when she is supreme leader of the world, Boozer will be her vice supreme leader. She likes how he seems to follow her every insane and baby talked command. She also likes that he is teaching her how to annoy the living crap out of me.

The supreme leader and her right hand man, plotting how they will end that big purple menace.

I can not tell you how many times I have caught her trying to smuggle him things he does not need. Like red pens, for example. In return, he is teaching her how to dig holes next to the fence, and chew on my shoes. I have yet to see him do these two things, but she was not doing them before he got here.

He also has decided that since he still has testicles (for the moment), it is his job to challenge the other men in the house. This has resulted in him attempting to pee on the husband every chance he gets. It has also resulted in him peeing on our old gentleman dog’s special bed. Every. single. time. I put it back together after washing it. Yeah. I am not pleased. I know it is normal for a puppy. It just drives me nuts that excluding these two exceptions, he is potty trained.

“Later, I will pee on you. But for now, please, draw me like one of your French girls.

I think what I am most upset about though, is that I was once again wrong on how much I could handle.  Turns out, I suck at this multiple kid, multiple pet, one of which is a baby, thing.  I want to find Boozer a home. Quickly. Not because he is bad, but rather because I am no where near as good at juggling things as I am.  I mean, I guess in theory I am alright. No one has died, my house is not filthy and covered in pee, and I have taught him several important lessons on dog manners.  But in all honesty, I have had him a week, and I am just exhausted. I am ready for him to find his people. That is where I hope you all come in.

If you know anyone in the DFW area that has been looking for the perfect dog to grow up with your kids, here he is.  Boozer is a big, goofy oaf, who loves playing with children. He is also sweet and gentle and loving. He loves the be the big spoon to my year old Evil Genius child’s little spoon.  He is very submissive, and he is very gentle.  He has a touch of separation anxiety, but does well if you remind him to be quite.  He is crate trained and house broken, save for typical pee marking that I have already mentioned and will probably disappear after he is neutered. You looking for a great dog? Give me a shout.

Obligatory doggie smiles to make you fall in love.

 

 

Just keep drinking

Things have been insane here. Between two cases of strep throat, a stomach bug, preparing the older of the minors for Kindergarten, and a ton of other things, I have been as busy as a one legged man in an ass kicking contest.

On top of the daily crazy, my husband has decided that he wants to take the civil service exam, to possibly start doing police work again. While I know he was a fantastic police officer, and I know that police work is his first true love, I would be lying if I said I am totally cool with it. This world seems to get crazier by the minute, and I just hate the thought of him being in even more danger than he is right now, while at work.

We were invited to our neighborhood’s annual block party last weekend, and in usual fashion, I quoted too many movies. So on one hand, the old black guy two houses down loves me for my ability to quote the movie Friday, and my knowledge of Dr. Dre’s classic album, The Chronic. The other hand, the majority of my neighbors think I am weird. And not very fun, I guess. The entire night made me feel old and crazy.  And cause a large amount of anxiety when I got home, because I observed my son behaving the same way I do, and I observed the other kids acting like he was nuts.

You know, now that I am writing all of this out, maybe I can see why my husband would prefer a job where people will shoot at him.

I think there is an idea for an original SyFy movie here.

I saw this the other day, as I was running errands. If you can’t tell, the majority of the stickers say storm tracker. The one that is not about storm tracking, however, is the little one next to the license plate. That one says ‘Zombie Outbreak Response Vehicle’.
Is it just me, or does that sound like a fantastic idea for a new SyFy Original movie? Let’s see…
Zombie Tsunami
Hurricane of Corpses
Dust Storm of the Dead
The ideas are limitless. LIMITLESS, I TELL YA!!!!!
All I have to say is, when this becomes a thing, I would like my check for the idea made out to my husband. For tax purposes.
Also, this is why I love Texas.

How Do I Do It?

I seem to have run into a problem, regarding the spreading the news of my blog. I really want to share with everyone, “Hey, I am writing a blog about the subtle joy I find in cursing, drinking and calling my lady parts by funny names. Please come check it out, and tell me what you think.”, but I don’t feel like I can.

The issue I am having is this: I doing a moderately decent job at fooling people into thinking I am not completely bat shit insane.  So what happens if some of the people who I keep my creepy away from decide to check it out. What if Mrs. Nevillbottom from my church’s Lady Worshippers group decides to check out my writing, and not only is she scandalized by my love of the word ‘fuck’, but she decides she doesn’t like me anymore, and will not allow her husband to eat anything I make at our church potlucks?

Or my mother? I mean, I don’t care if my mom reads this. She gave birth to me, she knows the nature of my crazy, because she is the one that gave it to me.  But what if she decides to ask her friends to read it?  Am I somehow responsible if it somehow embarrasses my mom?

But the thing is, I am kind of tired of trying so hard to seem normal. To keep the humor I find in the things around me to myself, no matter how many blank stares I get when I explain that every time I sing, “Praise Jesus Christ whose power uplifts”, I think “Praise Jesus Christ who Power lifts”, and I imagine Jesus at the gym, all buffed out, tribal tats on his biceps, being all, “Yo, my brethen, wouldst thou spot me?”.

Because let’s be honest. That shit right there is funny. It is delightfully sacrilidge!

Does anyone who has been blogging for a while have any tips about dealing with this sort of thing?

Don’t Call Me Mommy (Blogger)

Last year Jenny Lawson, aka The Bloggess , made the comment, “If I didn’t push you out of my Lady Garden, do not call me mommy.”, during an interview about ‘Mommy Bloggers’.

For some reason, it really resonated with me. I did not even have a blog, but I must admit I constantly had to fight the urge to roll my eyes anytime someone who was not my child called me any form of ‘mommy’.  Even when they made the comment to try and show me support, or to make me feel like a part of their club, or the sisterhood of the wrecked vaginas. I know they mean well, but it leaves me feeling icky. I mean, yeah, I am a mom. But I am not your mom. And I am a whole bunch of other things as well. Like a decent cook. And a collector of hat boxes and vintage luggage. And a lover of  night cheese and cheap booze. I am a multi- talented lady.

So I was not surprised when people, upon hearing I had started tinkering with a blog, started asking me for a link, and saying, “Oh, I can not wait to read all the cute stories about Wild Heathen and Evil Genius!”, assuming I would be using the blog as a catalog of the cute stories my children create.

Well, this post is to let those people know, they are going to be very, very disappointed. I will not be writing about my children for several reasons. The first one being, I am not personally a fan of blogs centered around the child. I just can’t get interested. One of the reasons I started this blog was in hopes of fine tuning my writing style, and recapture the fun in my OWN life. I want to recapture the joy I used to have in abundance, that I know have a hard time remembering. And the Second reason is simply, my children’s stories are not mine to tell. I am constantly saying I am so thankful that the internet was not a ‘thing’ when I was growing up, because I would hate for their to be that much evidence of what a mess I was.  So, in saying that, I think it would be wrong for me to share stories about the kids, that they may grow up to be embarrassed about?  I remember one time, in seventh grade, my mother told my boyfriend at the time this horrible story about how I had been attacked and pooped on by a seagull. I was mortified. So naturally, when we broke up, his asshole little friends (whose names I never forgot, and who if I ever become the supreme leader of the Earth, will be made pets. For sharks.), encouraged him to tell everyone. Until the day I transferred to a new district, I was known as “the Seagurl”. It was awful and horrible, and I am still a bit annoyed with my mother for telling that story, knowing how embarrassed I was by it.  So in that spirit, I don’t feel comfortable sharing the trials, and silliness that belong to Wild Heathen and Evil Genius.

All that being said, I do plan on posting more often. And my husband, who has given me permission to write about him, has promised to encourage me to step out of my comfort zone, and work on bettering myself, and sharing the insanely goofy stories I will surely collect, because that is just how my world works.  I mean, the kids might be mentioned, for example, how EG was the ice breaker for the guy who thanked me for not aborting babies, or about the time WH inspired a very rousing rant from some woman about the evils of feminism. I can’t leave them out in that respect, because they are the cause of the truly fucked up, and odd effect. but stories that are all and only about them, will not be here.

I am not a mommy blogger. I am just a girl, who enjoys writing. I am not very good at it, but I enjoy it, and I make my husband laugh, so hopefully I can make others feel something positive with my stories. I also promise to sprinkle obscenities liberally through out my writing. And advance warning, I will totally say offense shit like, all the time. Yeah. Titty Sprinkles.

Moving sucks

This is not a real post. This is just to say my husband and I have moved recently, and if I am completely honest, I would love to just take napalm to all of these fucking boxes. Which is probably why God did not give me incredible wealth. Because I would blow it buying new stuff for every new place. And I would live like Howard Hughes.

Yeah.

Who invited the weird chick?

I kind of feel like this is what everyone is thinking whenever I walk into a room.

Don’t get me wrong, I am okay with it. And I see it as a joke when I am at home. But I would be lying if I said that I sometimes I wish I was NOT the chick who spoke in movie quotes when she got nervous, or started doing weird dances when she was at a loss for words. It is a difficult way to be. Most folks do not understand why I am the way I am, or the reasons for my odd behavior.

The truth is, I suffer from terrible social anxiety. And the movie quotes, the odd dances, and the random giggling, is my defense mechanism. They all keep me from showing the ‘real me’.

What my husband finds funny about this is, when he met me I had none of these issues. I was fearless. I was the kind of girl that I DREAM of being today. I was thin, pretty, admired, popular, and busy.  One of the things my husband loved about me was my ability to appear ‘above it all’, as he puts it.  I was so different from who I am now.

Not that I am complaining. I mean, sure. I wish I was still cool. But hey. I am too old to be cool, I suppose. I will take my social anxiety, thankyouverymuch.  Sure, the isolation sucks, and sure I miss the perks that came with being a bold, beautiful creature. But the more therapy I receive, the more freakish I become. So I suppose I  am just becoming the person I was suppose to be had I not had the daddy issues and other abuse in my life. Right?

Bad pet owners make me feel stabby

I have to get on a soap box for a moment. Please keep scrolling if you don’t want to hear it. Pit bull owners, People are trying to ban your dog, based on the reputation the breed has gotten for being vicious. Knowing this, if you love your dog, you have a responsibility to be a responsible pet owner. That means thorough training. Having your dog spayed or neutered. Keeping your dog on a leash at all times in places that free run is not encouraged. It means doing your very best to be a good ambassador for the breed. 
I do not let my old, perfectly trained, 50 pound dog run loose, because I understand that some people may not know how to behave around a dog, and may do something that would cause my dog to attempt to protect himself. So why on earth do you think it is okay for your young, 75 pound pit, that has a habit of enjoying the game of knocking down the kids in the neighborhood and trying to show his dominance over them, to run free? From my window, just today, and just when I looked out randomly, I saw this dog: Jump the fence and bust open our back neighbors trash, as well as pull their back screen door off the hinges. I saw him chase two kids, who thank goodness made it into the house without him barrelling in. Like he did that time he was chasing my dog. I saw him knock over the basketball goal. and chew on the hoop. My dog has had to do the potty dance all day, because every time I tried to take Shadow out, Your dog came bounding up the stairs, to invite himself in. All of these times I saw him, one thing I never saw was you. You are letting this big, strong, untrained, un neutered, beast of a dog run loose with zero supervision. 
I can not begin to tell how furious this makes me. As a dog lover and a bully breed advocate, it makes me sick to know that I am watching what I am sure is a terrible tragedy in the making. It makes me sad to know there is NOTHING I can do to save that poor dog from what I am sure will be his inevitable journey as yet another strike against the breed. But Also know, that if something tragic DOES happen while I am around, I will tell everyone the truth. As soon as you get done telling the cameras that he was a good dog, well trained, you can’t believe this happened, blah blah blah., I will be right behind you, telling all of those same cameras that what you said is a lie. That the real culprit is YOU for refusing to be a responsible pet owner. I will shout from the roof how irresponsible you were, and how that poor dog never had a chance. And I will also be telling everyone who listens about how I have called the city shelter to know avail, and exhausted every single avenue I could think of, barring bringing him into my home and smuggling him away. And while it won’t help your dog, I will do my best to bring to light the responsibility of the pet owner in these situations.

I know how badly this is written. I will probably come back and edit it once I am not so freaking furious. I just needed to get it out before I went over and told my neighbor what a cuntastic douchenozzle I think he is. Because the dude fancies himself a thug, so I wouldn’t put it past him to do something harmful, cowardly, and expense causing against my family. 

I hate my neighbors.

This is not a real entry. I just feel the need to say I wish I was still a young chikaboom, with big speakers.  Because I would totally put them face down to the floor, and pay these idiots back for all the crap music they force me to listen to.  They listen to their awful music so loud, that it rattles my windows.  Oh! To have large speakers, with tons of base.  I would blow them away with some Tupac, and Old school Dre.  Because their is nothing better to win a music battle than some old school gangsta rap.

 

Says the dumpy white girl.

Well shoot.

I think I am going to become one of those crazy old people that claims they don’t go to the doctor, because the doctor always finds something wrong with them.  Yesterday I went to see my doctor, because of an ear ache.  I walked out with a order to have testes run for Lupus and RA.  What the fuck?  

It started innocently enough. He asked me why I was hobbling, and I told him that my body hurt, but that I was managing my pain fairly well. Then he asked a bunch of questions completely unrelated to my wounded ear. After a while he said, “Yeah, I do not think that is what you think it is. This sounds like it could be RA. Possibly Lupus. “

I am so freaking annoyed by this, that I can not think of a single funny thing to say right now.  I think this may be Douche bag Jesus’ way of getting back at me for spilling the beans about his bad attitude.