The Gift That Keeps On Giving

The past few years my love life has been disappointing to say the least.

I have felt like something was missing. That something was the love of a good man. But the “good man” proved to be a very elusive specimen. Who knew that I was just looking for the right thing in all the wrong places.

On that note, let me be the first to introduce you all to George! Our meeting would have never been possible had it not been for my amazing friend Carlie, who blessed me with this birthday gift! Thank you my dear

He is everything I could have hoped for and more (or I suppose I should say and less… the instructions clearly state: “WARNING: This is not THAT type of inflatable and therefore coitus is not recommended”. Yeah, so what! What he is “missing” in some areas he makes up by being a wonderful companion). He is only about 3 feet tall, but I am not one to judge someone just because they don’t fit the unrealistic standards of what society says is attractive. Like having real hair, or a pulse.

Here are just a few photos of George and I living it up. Not only is he a tender (often to a fault) lover, he is also a wonderful cook, has great stamina while working out, is great with the dog AND the kids, and gives great foot rubs in the tub :). Jealous girls? Get your own damn husband! The very best part is that my kids started calling him “Dad” the very first day without ANY prompting at all. Shit sugar, we’re a family!

Great things can come in small packages (NOT always the case)

Who knew something so plastic could be so romantic?!

George has some serious skills in the kitchen

A true sweetheart!

 

It Gives Me A Special Feeling

This one thing seems to sum up my week pretty well:

Today I sat on the steps of my porch, just to catch my breath for a minute. My dog, Gator, came up to give me a big wet kiss. It was at that moment when I realized that he must have recently eaten shit. I’m not sure if it was his own or not, but it seemed like the perfect ending the past 5 days.

 

Bastard in the Bushes

 

Although it is a subject that my dear friend doesn’t appreciate, or is comfortable with, the fact that this issue haunted me in my dreams last night and is still on the forefront of my mind makes me feel the need to ‘purge’.

My 3 year old niece, who lives in Tucson, AZ, was bit on the hand by a rattlesnake yesterday.

She’s not doing as well as hoped, especially after receiving treatment so quickly. The swelling that started in her hand has traveled up her arm and into her shoulder. She’ll live. She’ll be OK. But whether there will be permanent damage, or to what extent, is still unknown.

And because I’m such a dork, and have always been fascinated by venomous and dangerous animals, I’ve done the research even before this event. And I know that this may not have a pretty outcome. I wish I hadn’t seen the pictures of rattlesnake bite victims.

What bothers me the most is that there is a little girl who is suffering (thank God for morphine). And I am completely helpless to offer anything but phone support to my most beloved sister.

Stupid Arizona. Stupid snake.  

 

Zoo Time Frolic

The best thing about Presidents Day is that there is no school for the kids. The BAD thing about Presidents Day is that there is no school for the kids. On these types of holidays, I feel pressure to not only care for their basic needs, but actually entertain them and do something a little special.

Hogle Zoo was the place we ended up, and here are the pictures to prove it.

 

 

This female elephant is pregnant! I was even misquoted in Tuesday’s SL Tribune about it. OK, not really misquoted, but the writer totally got my name wrong (at least he got it my son’s name right).

This is the almost 3 mo. old baby giraff… SO cute!

 

My Life IS SOOOO Hard… Sniff.

Actually, I’m not really all that aggravated. I had a pretty good day. BUT, I thought about one thing that was bugging me, which led to another thought of dissatisfaction. So instead of letting this crap rattle around in my head all night, I’ll spew forth the objects of my discontent for my huge following to read. Here’s my bitch list (yes yes, I know, my life really isn’t that hard… shut up):

1. I’m sick of winter. Not like “oh, this winter thing is so played out” sick. I HATE IT. I’ve been obsessing about all this work that I want to do in my yard. I’ve picked out a bunch of perennials that I want to buy. I want to fill the bird feeders. I want to actually complain about being hot instead of bitching about the constant state of my butt being cold (among many other body parts).
2. I want a hot tub (yes I just stomped my foot and stuck out my bottom lip as I typed that). My close friend has a hot tub. And now that I think of it, another friend is also a proud owner of a spa. It’s not fair! And I even created the lamest “blog” ever created in the entire lame blog world just to BEG people to give me money to buy a hot tub. It is not the king of dip shit blogs… It is a GOD! Except that no one… and I mean NO ONE… ever visits it. And I mean EVER. Anyway, yeah, I want a hot tub.
3. People in movie theaters are stupid.
4. I don’t have a huge following.
5. I don’t want to hurt feelings or burn bridges, but I STILL don’t want to date. And I’m going out on a “non-date” Thursday night. Uggg.
6. The giraffe at the zoo today flatly refused to wrench it’s neck over the enclosure to lick my outstretched hand. Bitch.
7. I didn’t get into the Moab 1/2 marathon. I’ve participated in that race twice! You’d think that “veterans” should get first dibs. I think that “lottery” races are a bunch of bullshit.
8. I don’t look like Giselle Bundchen.
9. My dog is gone
10. My toad died this weekend … Oh wait…
11. I have to clean the sick tank that the dead toad was floating in.
12. I had a really good “last meal” last night, and because of my stupid workout routine thing, I couldn’t even eat the leftovers. Now my so-called “friend” is devouring all MY delicious leftovers.
13. As I was checking out the weird skin tag on my inner thigh this evening (and contemplated just cutting if off, but stopped myself when I remembered how it bled like a mo’fo’ the last time I tried something cute like that), I hit my shin on my razor ass sharp corner on my nightstand. Which leads me to…
14. I want dressers from IKEA. But I’m too damn cheap to spend $300 bucks to buy the set that I want.
15. I’ve been peeing tons lately. We’re supposed to drink all this damn water to ensure good health, but at what cost? It seems I must threaten the safety of my clitoris in exchange for proper hydration.
16. There is drama in my softball circle. People… IT’S FUCKING SOFTBALL! It’s not like we’re fighting to save the rain forest. For the love of all that is holy!
17. I’m now involved in a small claims case. Just the thought of NOT winning pisses me off. OK, I guess it’s a little early for anger now. I should probably watch a lot of Judge Judy just in case.
18. Despite my many attempts, I’m still the Transitioner.
19. I have to pee again.

I know, boo f’ing hoo. I must admit, I feel much better.

 

I See Rainbows

  

Red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue…

Puppies. I love puppies! I believe that there is something VERY wrong with people who don’t like animals, especially puppies.

Sure, she still pees and poops in the house, attacks my children, and eats cat shit.

But Chloe also has a special taste for chalk, play-dough, and crayons. It makes picking up the dog crap in the yard so much more entertaining. I never know what color I’m going to find.

Especially exciting are the rainbow turds. It’s like magical fairies from Barbie’s Mermaidia have made my yard their personal litter box.

 

More than just a dog

In May of 1995, while shopping for used CDs at a strip mall in Salt Lake City, I met Shela. She was an 8 week old Lab/Beagle puppy, and probably the CUTEST dog I had ever seen. Not just the way she looked, but her personality as well. The shop owner said she’d been running around the area all morning. She had no tags or collar. I left my name and phone number with a few of the stores in the area, and took this black ball of unearthly adorableness home. The adoption of my first child was complete.

She was 2 years old when her ‘father’ and I got married. Some people thought we were a little freakish about Shela. If freaks let their dog sleep under the covers with them, call the doggy-sitter daily while on their honeymoon to check on their most beloved pooch, or actually have their ‘family’ picture taken with Santa Clause, well then yes, we were freaks. But in our defense, Shela really was the best dog known to man-kind. She never chewed or destroyed things. She NEVER bit anyone. She had this amazing personality…everyone loved her.

Once the ‘real’ babies came, my relationship with Shela changed some. She went from the first in line to the red headed stepchild…still loved, but no longer in the forefront of our minds. That is, in all reality, how it should probably be. But I can’t help feel some regret now that she is gone. She was wonderful with the kids…ever tolerant and always patient, even when being sat on, poked, pulled and harassed. She was a huge part of our family. She was with us before we even became a family. I can’t imagine my life without her, and I can’t help thinking that I should have done more, especially these last years. I should have played with her more, taken her on more walks, scratched her head instead of searching for a new myspace song. But I cannot change the past. I can only look back on the 12+ years of memories with the coolest dog ever, and feel blessed and grateful that she was a part of my life for so long.

If the last year has taught me anything, it’s that things don’t always happen the way I thought they would. My best friend and spouse (now ex) has become a stranger to me, friends have come and gone, and I’ve been faced with choices and situations that I thought I’d never have to confront again. Such is life. Shela did not go the way that I had expected, or rather, hoped. She did not die in her sleep. She did not have a wonderful day to then drift off into darkness peacefully. She struggled, fought, and despite my efforts, may have suffered. But I was with her until the end. She died in my arms. And THAT, my friends, I wouldn’t change for anything. It was a honor to be with her when she took her last breath. Yes…she was just a dog. But she was a dog that I gave my heart and love to, and in return, she gave me her everything.

 

A tale of two pussies

When one (one being me, the omnipotent ruler of Megatropolis, whose opinion in this forum is really the only one that counts) thinks about a cat, the words lithe, graceful, nimble, and stealthy come to mind. I’ve had my share of cats. I’ve owned cats. I’ve worked with cats. I’m not ready to judge the Cat Fancier’s Association’s 2007 Show and pour myself into the required lace and polyester pantsuit, accessorized by gold and cubic zirconium jewelry and Easy Step 1 inch healed pleather shoes, but damn it, I know cats. My current feline collection consists of Phoebe and Peter. Phoebe is an adorable mix of this, and dash of that (which is my way of saying that I have no idea what breed she is). She has beautiful big green eyes, and a sweet disposition. Peter is a one year old fairly large (and definitely fat) black cat who is both fun and a royal pain in the ass. The favorite lounging area for Peter and Phoebe is the window above my desk. Not only is this the prime piece of real estate when it comes to cat napping or bird-watching, but it’s also the ‘catch-all’ for every note, bill, nail file, and other knick knack that I neglect to file or put away.

When Phoebe wants to lay in this most coveted spot, she quietly and gracefully jumps up on the desk, and maneuvers around the obstacle course that I’ve created (which is often made up by my purse, a glass of water, or an empty–or nearly empty–cereal bowl). Nothing is disturbed. Each paper, pen, and dust-ball remain untouched. She delicately moves into position, and the bird-watching and sleeping begins.

Peter, on the other hand, has all of the elegance of a lumberjack hitting on the local transvestite after 3 pitchers of beer at happy hour. His routine of getting to the ’spot’ consists of him meowing at me loudly, and then jumping up directly onto the keyboard of my computer. After leaving no less than 1/2 pound of fur between the keys, he waddles…yes, waddles…directly THROUGH whatever happens to be in his path. If there is a cup or water bottle out, he will undoubtedly knock it over. The bowl of cereal? While I was eating said cereal, it’s a guarantee that he was sitting at my feet crying and begging. Did I mention that he is fat? Yeah, he’s got a gut that rivals Elvis’s in his final years. Anywho, once I release the cereal bowl from my grip, Peter moves with impressive speed, despite his girth, and is on any remaining milk like Rosie O’Donnell on pie. Peter doesn’t just lap the milk. He eats with intensity and purpose, and there is a messiness to this feast. I have known milk to travel 2 to 3 feet when under Peter’s rule.

Once he’s ravaged anything edible, he moves with resolve to the ‘it’ place. Peter manages to tromp over every piece of paper that is on my desk. He then moves past the stapler, which of course is overturned after his fat ass pushes it off of the window ledge. He finally comes to rest, which is signaled by him placing his enlarged derriere directly on my hole punch, and his front half on Phoebe, who has been sitting there for 4 minutes, seeing as she was actually able to jump up on the desk on her first try, and being the sensible cat she is, bypassed the cereal bowl.

I’ve recently been accused of favoring Phoebe over Peter. I don’t think that it’s a matter of me loving her more than Peter. I think it’s more about Phoebe needing me more. She lives for attention from me. And she is amazingly sweet…with me. For all of her positive attributes, she does have her faults. She isn’t a big fan of the kids. That’s a nice way of me saying that she down right HATES them. I can’t imagine why the presence of 3 young children, who pursue her with nothing short of the dedication comparable to that of a hound hunting a fox, would cause her malice towards them. When they walk into a room, she either bolts or flattens her ears, revealing what I can only assume are her plans to smother them in their sleep. She never bites, but is not above a growl or a hiss. Peter, on the other hand, is so very sweet with the kids. Even when being picked up by his legs or neck, he is calm and complacent…as willing as a sorority girl high on Ruffies. He may be obese, and he may harass and wake my 4 year old in the middle of the night, and he may have a creepy obsession with my daughter’s Polly Pocket dresses, and he may attack my nipple when I bathe (don’t ask), but he’s a great cat, and a member of the family. I’ll take him over crying over spilled milk any day.