BEFORE: Joseph and his "very well endowed" balls - according the Vet.
AFTER: Not the best picture but you can see he was not in the mood to try for a second one.
Drugged up and ball-less and sporting a stupid blow up Cone of Shame, the dumb dog still wants to play. He's like a drunk frat boy that thinks he still has coordination and good looks on his side. He doesn't. He's a sloppy mess. A ball-less sloppy mess.
And to add to the joy, we have to put eye goo in his droopy eyes three times a day. Not drops, GOO! And goo plus drool plus a stoned ball-less dog equals goo smeared all over every thing at eyeball height.
Husband, of course, pulls out a random reference that no American would know - "Joe looks like a flowerpot man." I'd never heard of a flowerpot man so I googled it. (bill and ben the flowerpot men) WHAT THE F????
I know now why Husband is Husband. I mean, there's a character in Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men named Weed. Yup. And he apparently just wiggles about wailing, "Weeeed." Not to imply that Husband is a stoner, he is so not! - but that his sense of humor was built on that, talking flowerpots and a wailing Weed.
I'll leave you with that. I'm off to manage Ball-less Joe. And I will be peppering my conversation with occasional shouts of, "Weeeed." just because.
It is possible I'm a bit sleep deprived...
Our first dog – inherited from Brother – was named Morgan. Morgan was always doing very stupid things. At the time, I had a co-worker named Morgan who was also always doing very stupid things. It got confusing during “Tell me about your day.” story time with Husband because he was never clear which stupid Morgan I was speaking about. Hence dog Morgan’s new name, Morgan the Dog.
When we got Tigger the Dog, she was called Sabrina. Husband was not a fan of shouting, “Sabrina! Come!” And TTD was not a calm and princess-like a Sabrina should be. A name change was in order. We went with Tigger, which we thought was an appropriate choice because of her ADHD manic personality. She was and is a bouncy, bouncy, neurotic mess of a dog. But, we had to add ‘the Dog’ part because she was so not a “bouncy, bouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun.” stripy lion. People were confused that she wasn’t a cat. People have a hard time with the different.
And now we have Pepper, who is a dog but seems to be partly schizophrenic. And thinks she’s a cat. She’s independent like a cat. She is wicked smart, like a cat. She has weird bathroom habits like a cat. And, she is affectionate like a cat – until she’s not. Then she’s a wild lion, all teeth and fur. And those teeth are sharp. Not that she’s bitten us; just that she shows them and you can see the gleam off the shiny poky tips.
It’s getting confusing over here. Anyone want a cat?
I’m having an afternoon visit with a new friend. What if I say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing or spill my wine or break her great grandmother’s priceless urn and scatter her ashes over her expensive Persian rug. I have no idea if she has a Persian rug or her great grandmother’s ashes in an expensive rug but I’m currently devoting time to worrying about it.
See, I’m good at worrying. I really can take a little thing and make it into hours of angst and anguish. I’ve tried all things to calm the crazy down. I’ve meditated – which is just more quite time to let the mental carnival go wild. I’ve tried coming up with solutions for all my ‘What if…’ scenarios. I’ve tried writing them down so the worry is out of my head and on paper but… nothing works. In fact, the only thing that seems to calm me is to shave my head – which is not practical at all times. So, welcome to my crazy train. Grab a seat near the window and settle in for a brief look at the wackiness in my head -
At the flea market a few weeks ago, I was bit by something on my arm. Husband said I’m never to say ‘bit’ and ‘flea’ in the same sentence but he’s a wack-a-doodle. And it wasn’t a flea. It didn’t itch. It hurt. A lot. Like, a really bad bruise under the skin, hurt. And it still doesn’t itch. It still hurts. But now, there’s a hard little lump that hurts when I poke at it. Like I’m pretty sure I have a large spiders nest IN my arm cooking a family of baby spiders that will pop out of my skin in the middle of the night and proceed to swarm my body and the bed.
This morning, when Husband was out of the room for 10minutes, Joseph and Tigger the Dog took this perfectly good dog bed, shredded it and strewed its insides all over the room. What if when we’re not looking, Joseph or Tigger the Dog decide to see what is inside Pepper’s wound? I don’t think I could handle coming into a room covered in Pepper’s innards. I might have to move.
What if Donald trump does actually become president. And the USA really becomes more Us vs. Them than it already is right now and we end up in a war with the rest of the world and– I can’t even finish the thought. I’m hyperventilating and the world is slowly going dark. My doc said to keep my heart active but I don’t think that’s what he meant.
Which brings me to my heart, what if, when they did my EKG and my ultrasound and said that things were okay, they were lying and all it’s going to take to send me into cardiac arrest is one big scare. Or a laughing fit over Joseph shaking himself silly? Or that final bowl of chips and chocolate? And then, when I’m lying dead or dying on the floor, what if the dogs decide to eat me? I’ve seen it happen on NCIS and CSI and Criminal Minds and Bones, that animal ravaged body that’s unrecognizable and oozing. That’s not going to feel good. And then, what if I don’t die but I’m in a bloody coma when the forensic team is in the house looking for clues to my battered body’s mauling, what if they are going through all my stuff and find something embarrassing. I still have, somewhere, the candy bikini I bought for my first valentines day with Husband as a joke. That is a twelve years old candy bikini that’s never been worn – or should that be ‘used’. Not sure what’s worse. What if they find that vile of sperm (!!! LONG STORY) my boyfriend sent me many years ago? I’m pretty sure I tossed it long ago but what if I didn’t. What if it’s tucked in the back of some box in the closet and then Old Boyfriend gets questioned and Husband starts wondering why I kept it and won’t believe me when I tell him that I didn’t think I had and he divorces me and I have to heal my broken dog-chewed body alone…
What if I never find the special thing that makes work feel like fun. What if Confucius was lying to us and there is no such thing as ‘Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.’ What if I’m just piece-mealing my days with this and that because I can’t find my special purpose that makes me bounce out of bed in the mornings? Or what if I found it but didn’t see it because I was so worried about life or love or money or whatever?
What if Husband dies and I have to figure out what to do with his stuff. Like find a buyer for those damn microphones he keeps blathering on about. And I have sort through all that stuff he cannot throw away but is really crap but what if it’s not crap and I should keep it or find someone who really wants the rubber thingumabob that goes to the electronic thing that I don’t know how to work? I don’t even know what he’s done to make the TV work.
And worse, if he dies, I have to find a new person to get used to and what if I can’t find one that can calm me down from the manic stages and prop me up on the dark days and generally make farts funny? Worse that that, what if he dies and leaves me with three dogs?
What if I am never able to calm the crazy merry go round of ‘What if…’ thoughts that pollute my mind and I’m destined to lie awake at three in the morning planning for the worst. Coming up with my own ‘choose your own adventure’ answers to whatever the world might throw at me.
There’s more, soooooooo much more. But I’m starting to panic and I’m pretty sure that heart attack is forthcoming and so it’s best I go eat chocolate and pretend I’m sane and the sun is shining and focus on things I can control. One shaved head coming up…
This is a general housekeeping post about things I’ve not shared that you might find entertain or interesting or I just feel like blathering on about –
Joe Boxer – who we mostly call Joseph now because it is so not befitting his face which makes us laugh. There is something wrong with us – Joseph is Sixty-four pounds!!!! This is BIG NEWS because about forty days ago, he weighed forty-eight pounds. The dude is huge now compared. HUGE! We’ve also discovered that a Thunder Shirt calms his toddler wiggles down and generally makes the household a less chaotic mess on days when running about outside isn’t an option. He's still traumatized by weather and thinks when we take him out for a pee; we're kicking him to the curb. Really HATE the woman who did this to him! Anyway, despite having some sort of infection that has landed him back on the fart-inducing pills, he’s set for ball removal on St. Paddy’s day. Husband thinks that he won’t walk as funny with those balls gone. I think Joseph is meant to look funny, balls or no balls.
Pepper is recovering from her wombectomy. I’d say, "recovering nicely" but I think we’ve failed miserably in the “keep her from running, jumping etc.” The Saturday after the surgery, we had her stashed in the bedroom with her stupid blue inflatable Cone of Shame on. When we drove up, we could see she was on our bed and we watched her jump down and runt to the window to bark her hello to us. It’s just gotten worse since then. She’s like a sixteen-pound dictator. Fail. I mean, who was dumb enough to let us have three dogs. We keep breaking them. I see a visit to the Vet in her future and a vicious tongue lashing in ours. I've told them they should just go ahead and name a room after us; we've been in there so much lately.
Tigger the Dog is less mean girl these days. She has either come to terms that this is our life now or she’s biding her time till Joseph eats one of Husband’s guitars or precious microphones and goes away. She is fascinated by Pepper her and now Pepper is now the growling mean girl when TTD gets too close. But there’s been no blood drawn in weeks so counting it as a WIN!
Feeding time has gone from utter bedlam to the somewhat controlled chaos of elementary school lunchtime. Still not enjoyable, totally messy and filled with shouting but no one ends up in tears and snotters now. And by no one, I mean me.
I’ve amended the tattoo that I got in January and didn’t regret but didn’t love. More on that later - just not hiding my wrist and explaining the whole thing to everyone who noticed the mess anymore. And Husband is no longer telling me to “Stop looking at it. It hasn’t changed!”
Speaking of Husband, he is still Husband. I got home at 9pm to a sink full of dishes and the dishes I’d washed at 5am still “drying” on the mat. BUT I had the chips he'd bought me to eat and he’d been as sweet as pie to the “almost 4 years old” kid I’d brought by the house to meet the dogs. He let her play his pretty drum set and even did an impromptu jam session with her, she played the sponge bob guitar and he played the Congo drums. AND he said nothing about my dinner of chips and green tea and cake. I’ll keep him.
Like how I snuck that one about the tattoo in but still haven’t shared pictures? Yeah, I’m not usually vague like that but I’m having computer issues. Mainly that I can't find the pictures of what I wanted and what I got so you can see why I'm happier with what I have now. I shouldn’t have a computer because I can’t operate them and Husband's “its so easy.” means I’ll screw it up and hide files and pictures in some secret location I can never find again...
Finally, yesterday on a trip to the Zoo, I got to second base with a bird! That is his tongue IN my ear. He even nibbled not so gently on the skin tag on my neck.
AND THEN today I got a text from the mom of the twins. They were "playing ej" which means carrying a big bag of random things to make a project with. So dang proud!
Really, where can I go from here but down?
WARNING: a little Husband bashing here. I suppose I need to preface it by saying I love him, I can’t imagine my life without him, he is my everything. He’s wicked smart and funny and weird and whacky and I love him. BUT by 8am this morning, after I’d already spent two hours doing things he could have done yesterday when I was at work, he was not my favorite person. I mean, I’d filled TWO Target bags with dog poop picked up from just the front yard. And this was after cleaning the kitchen, washing yesterday’s dishes, emptying the dishwasher, washing AND drying the towels, feeding and watering the dogs and taking one garbage and two recycle bins up the hill to the curb.
Last week, at a party, someone was telling Husband how talented he was. “You can play the guitar and the piano and the tambourine, is there anything you can’t play?” And I, plastic wine cup waving in my hand for dramatic effect, I pursed my lips and loudly said, “I know what he can’t play, the dishwasher.”
He’s irritating and picky and life with him involves driving around looking for “Husband approved” parking spots and eating before going to parties or having him turn into a hangry rat on the way home. It’s making excuses about his weird OCD habits and listening to him blather on about microphones and speakers and cars and the stupid little details that I could care less about.
And yet he says things, funny rude things that will have me in stiches. I mean, I am constantly getting one upped by his snark. The other day when I was nagging him and something vital that I can’t remember, he turned to his friend and said, “I’m sorry, ej’s on a 15mile nag-a-thon.”
And when I told him it was a good thing he was funny, he said, “If I weren’t funny, I’d just be good looking.”
And then, the other day he said this to the dogs, “You’re like a needy girlfriend. One who is so cute when you first meet but says “I love you” too quickly and then follows you around and annoys you and you can’t get rid of her.”
Though he might nag me about what I put in my face and challenge my thought pattern constantly and really irritate the freckles off my face, he’ll do something so sweet like send me this text on his way home.
This morning, despite my full on ratty behavior toward him via text, I found a bag of chips and a package of Oreos on the counter. He loves me. Dork.
A bag of chips followed by a cookie or two for breakfast really does wonders for the grumbling “Husband is an ass” conversation I was having while picking up pounds of dog poop at 7am. I guess I’ll keep him.
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