According to Husband I have two horrible habits: I leave used dryer sheets around because I think they help with odors and I cannot for the life of me close a drawer or cupboard all the way. The second is only dangerous when it’s a high cupboard and Husband’s head connects with the corner of the door. The first is really just annoying to Husband and a little bit untidy but not at all dangerous.
Well, not until we ended up surprise fostering two dogs, and one of the pair, the particularly emaciated one, decided that one of my dryer sheets was a good thing to put in his belly. His body, though desperate for nutrients, decided the dryer sheet wasn’t one and attempted to poop it out. Dryer sheets don’t poop out easily. Nope, they dangle and hang and tease and cause the poor pup, who has already had a pretty traumatic month, to run about, trying to escape the poop covered dangling dryer sheet swinging from his ass. And chasing a traumatized pup around with a poop bag trying to pull that sucker out does not inspire a calm clean result. It’s a glamorous life I lead.
The poor pup’s name is Joe and he’s a year and half old Boxer who, along with his cohort Pepper the 3yr old terrier, showed up on a friend’s doorstep on Monday. After some sleuthing, our friend found out that Joe and Pepper were given up because their owner had fallen on hard times. And then the person he gave them to was arrested and thrown in jail and Joe and Pepper fell on hard times. As far as we know, they’ve been on their own in the cold Tennessee winter for a little more than two weeks. That includes the 9.5 inches of snow we got last week with the 14-degree temps. Poor Joe’s balls – and he still has them and they are LARGE – poor Joe’s balls are snow burned and he’s covered with little sores all over his terrifyingly gaunt body. Ms. Pepper has a very enlarged vulva, and an unfortunate penchant for humping Joe’s head. In case you haven’t guessed, neither of them has been fixed and both of them having that snip coming but the Vet has advised waiting until the antibiotics are finished and both have plumped up and healed.
This is Joe the Boxer and Pepper the Terrier.
And this is Tigger the Dog doing her best to ignore Joe the Boxer and Pepper the Terrier.
Tigger the Dog is having a hard time with this visit that doesn’t seem to be ending. In fact, I was speaking to Mom about the dogs and Tigger the Dog was having one of her fits of high pitched dying animal whines and Mom asked if we didn’t just want to give her away and keep Joe and Pepper. !!! Husband is mad that I actually considered it. Tigger the Dog is still not speaking to me about it but that’s not unusual. She’s Husband’s dog through and through and I’m just the baddie that gives her baths and takes her to the Vet. Pepper and Joe let me bathe them without a sound and they snuggled us after.
The odds of us being able to keep them all are slim but every time I look at poor Joe’s ribs or sores or old man face, I can’t imagine letting him go. And Pepper, with her cocked ears, her little fast feet and absolutely trusting face, oh does my ovary hurt to think about them out in the cold without food for days and days… Ouch. There it goes again.
Anyone interested in a dog? Or two? Or three?
Don’t let the medical issues and poop dryer sheets scare you off. Both Joe and Pepper are the sweetest dogs I’ve ever met. They are just so snuggly and gentle and so in need of love. They are house trained and very obedient and don’t bark, whine or whimper. They just follow us around, their big round eyes making sure they know where we are at all times. They just need a good home with love and food and a welcoming family - not a pissed off Lab with the tendency to Chewbacca sing when things aren’t going her way.
And they definitely need a home without loose dryer sheets lying about. Those things can be deadly.
On Sunday, Husband and I made my first rolled snowman. And he was not a thing of beauty. He was misshapen and lopsided and was – according to my 3.5yr old twin judges – missing a carrot nose. But he was the first snowman I’ve ever made by rolling the snow around. And I loved him.
Lumpy sat outside all of Sunday and Monday, looking dorky and simple. Then, Monday night, the rain came and all the snow melted and Lumpy’s head fell off and rolled to the side. By the time Tigger the Dog and I went outside Tuesday morning for her morning pee, the grass was green(ish) and all that was left of Lumpy was his dumpy body with the stick arms and his awkward mess of a head lolling to the side.
A sad sight to be sure.
To me. To Tigger the Dog, what was left of Lumpy was a threat. An evil being that needed to be barked to death. At 6am in the morning. And bark she did. Fur on end, ears plastered back, teeth barred, she barked the heck out of Lumpy.
And got no reaction.
So she went at Lumpy from the other side, crouching, hackles up she growled and snapped. Still nothing.
Well, nothing from Lumpy. I was laughing so dang hard, I stumbled off the front steps and almost became one with the ground. Tigger the Dog spent five minutes barking herself stupid over two misshapen lumps of snow and I spent five minutes standing in the front yard in my pj's, hair sticking out in every which way, crying from laughter.
The point of this story: find the stupid in your day- be it a lopsided snowman or a absolutely mental dog barking her silly head off at said snowman. Find that stupid and have a moment of laughter that brings you to your knees. Because, why else are we here?
Four years ago, I decided to end the battle with the tumors in my womb and get a wombectomy– and yes, that’s totally a medical term for what I had done. A celebration was had, especially for my bank account for no longer having to pay the damn luxury tax on tampons and the like every month – AND YES, THAT’S A THING! Anyway, ever since my wombectomy, my lone ovary pitches a fit every once in a while to let me know it’s still there and still thoroughly pissed I took out all its friends.
It’s not a totally productive fit, like in the old days with its bloody scourge and week long of suffering for all around me but it’s pretty damn debilitating. Because, every month or every other month or on a Tuesday when the temp is below 30 and it’s snowing and the moon is hiding from the cold – whenever Lone Ovary decides it would be most inconvenient for me, it gathers its remaining hormones into the most obnoxious form possible; Mr. Migraine.
And for three days, I moan and whimper and try not to wake the monster or move my face or my eyeballs or breathe, for Mr. Migraine is evil and vicious and cares not if I have things to do.
Once, it attacked me in Scotland and stayed around taunting, spitefully disrupting plans in London and preventing a daytrip to Paris. Once, it knocked me down on the only pretty day in winter, forcing me to lie prone on the couch attempting to remove my eyeballs with my fingers. It is evil and rude and I am not a fan.
And the medication I could take to shut the sucker up, to make it useless and ineffective is just as destructive to my system. As it beats the migraine senseless, the caffeine and whatever else rushes around my body sending my heart into dancing palpitations, tremors to my fingers, waves of nausea to my tummy and an unfocused squirrel to my brain. My dyslexia flares up to an almost hysterical stutter; I cannot spell a word let alone make a sentence and talking, well, it’s a feat best left to others. If it weren’t for spellcheck, this post would be a mass of consonants and vowels at an electronic rave. And, as I lie awake at 3am, every thought, fear and worry spins around the revolving door in my totally stoned brain.
For four years, every month or every other month or on a Saturday when the temp is above 70 and the sun is shining and I have plans to play outside – whenever Lone Ovary decides to send me Mr. Migraine, I am forced to choose between lying comatose on the couch moaning and slowly dying or medicating my brain and body to an utterly useless state of stupid.
Lone Ovary wants me to regret celebrating the wombectomy with such ferocity and joy. To feel guilty about every giggling fit I have had in the period paraphernalia aisle as I danced on by without opening my wallet. And that smug little smile that I cannot hide from my face when I see them pouring the blue liquid onto a pad on TV, I am regretting that. Lone Ovary and her friend, Mr. Migraine have a way of making me wish my womb back in me.
Because when Lone Ovary is sleeping in her dark deep cave, life is good. So what if I’m a chipmunk on crack or a whimpering dying mess of pain for three days? At least it’s only three days every month or ever other month or when the sky is blue in January and I have to work. That’s better than seven days every month of throbbing bellyaches and worrying about leaks and the emotional roller coasters of tears. Or, as it was for me before the joyous wombectomy, a gruesome bloody battle with my body every single day for months on end.
Today I am fragile, still dizzy from the drug, still worried that the cloak of pain from Mr. Migraine will cover my jittery brain.
I’m driving with my friend to go work on my secret project, which is my resume but isn’t my resume but very well might be my novel. Apparently in this dream I’m writing a novel that could be a resume and a cookbook. Oh, and I’m a Lion.
We’ve been driving awhile as my friend tells me what I should do with my resume novel cookbook and I hem and I ha and generally don’t say anything concrete. Neither does she. We’re driving on this two-lane highway through these beautiful rolling green hills with a lovely bright blue sky above us and it’s not Tennessee and it’s not California but it’s like both places but better.
Suddenly I spot a pair of Killer Whales tumbling ass over teakettle down a huge hill to our right.
“Did you see those Killer Whales?” I ask my friend.
“Nope.” She says and we keep driving for a while.
“We should go back.” I tell her, calmly. “There must be something wrong if Killer Whales are tumbling down a hill.”
So we go back. Then we’re back at the bottom of the hill hunting for the Killer Whales that are hard to find in the suddenly-there forest. It takes us a while but we find them and put them in the passenger well of the car in a cup of water. They are real life Killer Whale size but they fit in a cup of water because – well, just because. We drive them to my friend’s house because she has a swimming pool big enough to put my new Killer Whale friends in.
Then we’re at my friend’s house which looks nothing like my friend’s real house but this is a dream and I’m apparently a Lion with Killer Whales in a paper cup so I’m just going with it. We’re at my friend’s house and her sister is there with a new Kitten. Which is absolutely nuts - the Kitten, not the fact that she has one. And this Kitten is on the ceiling and dancing and then it’s floating all over the place, being hyper and totally Kitten like but floating about as is does it. We leave the Killer Whales there – not in the pool but hanging out at the kitchen island drinking fancy drinks and using squirt bottles to keep themselves hydrated.
We drive off but then I worry that the Kitten going to get out of the garage so I drive back – its just me now - to let my friend know that her garage door is open and suddenly there seems to be a raging party happening inside the house. The party is at the crazy things getting broken point just before the cops come and…
Then I woke up.
So, let's analyze that mess. It has been a thoroughly unproductive weekend. The kind of weekend where I actually have to count showering and eating as a win. Apparently my dreams are reflecting my discombobulated state – though I’m not at all sure where the Killer Whales came from. Or the cookbook novel. Cause I don't cook. And have no idea what to make of the Lion and the floating kitty cat. I was not drunk or otherwise inebriated – unless you count bad food decisions as a form of inebriation. Which, maybe I should since I ended up dreaming about Killer Whales in a cup...
Anyway, weird start to the day.
Oh, and this wonder was left for me in the fridge by Husband yesterday.
Husband is and always will be 12yrs old.
And apparently, I will always laugh despite how immature he and his vegetable body parts may be.
Wait! I have vegetables in my fridge - double win!
Attempting to work on the Whaleshark Studio page today has distracted me from writing. Or rather, it has only made me want to write curse words. All of them! ALL BOLD AND IN CAPS!!!
Seriously, Tigger the Dog is hiding from me and Husband is pretending he's asleep so he doesn't have to do the required tech support I married him for. UGH!
When I can form more than the sentence, “Why the @$%#$%@ is it doing that?” I’ll be back with random blurts and embarrassing stories.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me