A Story in Pictures: The Dog Edition

(Alternate title: Our Dogs are Sliding Dorks.)

The Return of the Fish Tank of Horrors

Three weeks went by. A whole three weeks in which nothing bizarre happened in the Fish Tank of Horrors. Then, I went and opened my mouth (well, technically fingers) to Trannyhead, and you know what happened.

A new kind of bizarre.

First of all, how about a couple of updates?

Belly and The B*tch (the maroon clownfish): I had full intentions of returning The B*tch, really I did. She was all bagged up, with the bag just floating in the tank, carefully rigged so that she would get fresh water and manage to stay alive. All I had to do was whisp through the house, grab her bag, and whisp down to the store. I figured I would do it tomorrow. And a day passed by. I thought, "tommorow." Then another passed by. Then yet another. And a few more after that. (I'm really good at procrastinating.) Then a weird thing happened: she figured out how to escape. And? She did not tear Belly to shreds. Apparently, spending a week in a plastic bag taught her to cool her jets. So Belly and The B*tch are now co-existing in the Saltwater Fish Tank of Horrors. They still don't like each other, but rather than acting like a couple of gang-bangers, they now act like an old married couple. Every once in a while they cross the line and end up in some sort of domestic dispute, but mostly they are OK. I think that means that Belly has grown a pair of cajones, but it's not like I'm about to personally inspect his nether regions and confirm.



The Worms: Have vanished. Like, totally. The last time I saw one was about two weeks ago, and I caught that bugger and let it die a slow painful death. I attribute the disappearance of my biggest obsession to two things. For one, a while ago I figured out where a large number of them were living and picked off over a dozen in one day. I enjoyed every second of it, too (imagine maniacal laughing--yup, that's me!). Around the same time that happened, we bought a new fish named Darryl (he is a Strawberry Pseudochromis). Darryl is a known worm eater. He was the fourth in a long line of attempts at buying a worm eater, but he has managed to survive. The worms have not. BWHAHAHHAHA!

Speaking of Darryl, here he is:



In front of Darryl is the newest addition to the Fish Tank of Horrors. That white squiggly line on the glass appeared on Tuesday. Upon close inspection, I realized it was eggs. Yes, EGGS. Cause, you know, I absolutely needed to have eggs magically appear in the tank when I had no freakin' idea what put them there.

Of course, I did what anyone would do when faced with a emergency fish tank mystery on their hands, I asked Dr. Google the marine biologist. First he told me I was smoking crack if I thought they were shrimp eggs (wishful thinking, and not of the edible sort--when I wishful think of food, it involves chocolate). Then I thought, hey, maybe Belly and The B*tch have been getting it on when I wasn't looking. Old married couples do that once in a while, you know. Sadly, that also was not the case. I scoped out whether or not it could be worm eggs (shut up, Mr. Husband, I don't need to be told worms don't lay eggs, I figured that out). Nope.

(Wanna know how the worms reproduce? Of course you do. Little pieces fall off of them and become new worms. YUMMY!)

Finally, it dawned on me. Who in that tank actually spends time on the glass? The snails of course. A few clicks later, Dr. Google confirmed that we do in fact have snail eggs in the tank.

I know, that doesn't seem all that horrific.

But! What if all those eggs survive? Is it going to be like snailapalooze in there? Will they take over the tank? Will they figure out how to combine forces and lift the lid so that they can escape and wreak havoc on the Toddler's room? While she's sleeping? Or, will the eggs hatch only for the fish to decide they are hungry for escargot? None of the above?

Only time will tell.

Belly and The B*tch

It's been a while since we last checked in on the Saltwater Tank of Horrors and WOO BOY have the horrors been running rampant as of late. But, before I get into the latest in transgender woes, let's do a little recap for any newbies (and anybody who has a short attention span like me).

We set up a brand spankin' new saltwater aquarium in the Toddler's room last fall. We've had freshwater tanks for eons and have always REALLY wanted to enter into the world of brightly colored fishies and crazy cool corals. The tank has been, um, interesting all along.

First, there was a little bit of a problem with a fish who only ate little sea bugs (technically called copepods, but this isn't a Biology lesson so I don't care what they are "technically" called). He died when we went out of town and the little bugs that were intended to be his lunch took over the tank. Along with that little issue came the realization that we had a major worm problem in the tank as well (Gah! Fine. For you picky technical types, bristle worms. BIG ones.) We still have a worm problem, and you'd be mistaken if you thought I didn't spend hours every week trying to hunt those little jerks down, because I totally do. That's an ongoing OCD thing I've got going on.

Anyway, the last time we checked on the Fishtank of Horrors, I had erroneously purchased a buddy for our original fish, a Nemo fishy named Perc. Sadly, Perc's buddy, Belly, brought with him some sort of disease blah, blah, blah, the whole tank got wiped out. Much crying, sobbing, and punching myself in the face happened.

(For those in the know, we do have an isolation tank--it's occupied by a murderous brittle starfish that I need to find a home for. Neither Mr. Husband nor I can manage to find it in our hearts to just kill the thing and be done with it. So, the isolation tank is off limits unless we want to give the killer starfish a very expensive dinner.)

Anyway.

A few weeks ago, Mr. Husband went out and bought a new Nemo fishy. This time he went with one that was more of a maroon color than orange. Those clever Fish Naming Types call it a Maroon Clownfish. Alexis called it "Belly" because apparently all fish with white stripes are heretoforth to be known as Belly. So, all was well. Then, we decided it was a wee bit too boring in the tank, so I hunted down another Maroon Clownfish.

A very basic Biology lesson about Clownfish would be helpful to set up the next part of the story. All Clownfish are born as Pats. In captivity, the largest one will end up morphing into a female and all of the others will become a males. However, if you pull one of those males out of the tank and toss it in one where it's alone, it'll morph into a female. Clownfish are transgendered little buggers that can go back and forth, but being a female is the preferred state of the Clownfish universe. The main issue with them is that females do not get along with each other. At all. There will be a little jockeying when two strange female Clownfish come together and one of them will end up turning into the lesser sex, a male. It's usually a bumpy road for a day or two, but not really a big deal.

So, we had this little Maroon Clownfish named Belly in the tank. I found it a buddy. Correction: I found HER a buddy. And, the lady at the fish store KNEW I was buying a new Maroon Clownfish to put in with an existing Maroon Clownfish. Yet, she didn't tell me a VERY important detail: Maroon Clownfish are mean mo fo'ers. They are supremely racist and won't tolerate anybody of their own species UNLESS you manage to get a male and a female. I didn't buy a male.

Nope.

We ended up with two female Maroon Clownfish.

Dude, they are ripping each other to shreds. Well, technically Belly is getting ripped to shreds. The B*tch (I named that one) is the meanest freakin' fish I've ever seen. This is two seconds after I dropped The B*tch in with Belly:




That ain't fishy love. That's fishy I'm Going to Rip You Fin to Fin and then Rip You Apart Some More.

So now I have The B*tch quarantined in a kind of not cool way, but I don't have a choice. It seems that neither Belly nor The B*tch is willing to morph into a male. They would rather fight to the death. The B*tch will be going back to the store and we'll be trying to find some other sort of friend, not of the Maroon Clownfish variety, to keep Belly happy.

All this drama and all because neither Belly nor The B*tch is willing to just grow a pair and be a real man.

Filling the Void

When we lost our favorite teacher at daycare, I knew there would be some speed bumps in Alexis' life. I correctly predicted that nap time would go to hell in a hand basket without a BFF there to use as a pillow. I knew she would end up going hungry much more frequently without someone to slip her some illegal Goldfish crackers in the afternoon. I figured I should expect a new round of questioning and mass confusion regarding the whole "she knows over 150 signs and isn't afraid to use them" thing. What I didn't expect is that her replacement would be a giant pain in my arse.

Michelle was replaced last night at approximately 8:00 pm in the doll aisle at Wal-Mart. (Don't send me hate email about the Wal-Mart thing, I already know it is the axis of evil, the mouth of hell, and the cause for all that is wrong in this world. The darn place is just too convenient to ignore.) We walked down the aisle as we were headed to Health and Beauty when Alexis saw her. Baby Shell.

Alexis stopped dead in her tracks, squealed "BABY SHELL!" at the top of her lungs, and picked up the ginormous, cumbersome box. "I get Baby Shell," she said. No "Please?" No "Can I?" It just was. I tried to see if perhaps she wanted to consider one of the other dolls but apparently I am an idiot because that doll IS Baby Shell and there is no other doll on this planet worthy of Alexis' attention. Alexis drug the doll, box and all, all around the store and to the front register, hugging it close and giving it smooches on the head the whole time.

So we took the Toddler and her new best friend home and learned that she planned to drag that doll EVERYWHERE, including to bed. Whatever. No big deal. Until she woke up at 6:00.

It is customary for the Toddler to wander over to our bed when she wakes up on the weekend so that she can get up in our bed and either be one with a pillow for a little while longer or be one with a bunch of crazed furry puppets. Either option is totally acceptable, just so long as it means Mr. Husband and I get to enjoy a little bit more of that thing people who don't have kids call sleep. This morning, Alexis showed up at her appointed hour grasping Baby Shell in her arms. I plopped them both into our bed and waited to see if she was going to go to sleep or hang with Elmo and Zoe for an hour.

The answer was none of the above.

"Milk, please."

"I don't have any milk, Alexis. Here's some water."

"NO! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Baby Shell wan milk."

Off trudges Mr. Husband to fetch Baby Shell's accessory bottle of milk.

"Dank you!" the Toddler said as she shoved the plastic bottle up the doll's nose.

"BABY SHELL'S BWANKA!"

"Huh?"

"BWANKA! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"Blanket?"

"Yeah. WAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Off trudges little ol' me to find something to pass as Baby Shell's blanket since she didn't come with that handy accessory. I return with a little Dora blanket.

"Dank you!" the Toddler said as she tucked Baby Shell in under the blanket.

"TOP IT! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" the Toddler screamed as Meg shifted her weight two inches to the left, placing her stinky booty dangerously close to Baby Shell.

"Meg, move. Alexis doesn't want you by her baby."

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" I don't really know what the major malfunction was that time because my brain exploded before the second 'A' could find it's way out of the kid's mouth. This whole "nurturing" thing went on for over an hour. That's a whole hour that I could have spent sleeping, but didn't.

Real life Shell, I blame you. If you hadn't left the land of daycare bliss, Alexis wouldn't have replaced you, and I would have gotten some sleep this morning. I'm plotting my revenge right this moment.

Hmmm . . . this doll is still for sale . . . Perhaps Michelle's daughter would like it for her birthday.



(BTW, Michelle, this Baby Shell looks NOTHING like the other Baby Shell. For one, it has clothes on.)

Random Tales and Stuff

- Because my life is awesome, this morning when I went into Alexis' room, Perc was missing (again). I found him in the filters (again). He decided he would leap for joy (again). BUT! This time I was prepared. I slapped the lid to the tank down so fast the dang fish bounced off the lid with a loud thud and then ricocheted back into the water. He's probably feeling a bit woozy after the whole fiasco, but at least he didn't end up with a fur coat.

- Alexis has discovered the joy of those stupid little quarter machines in stores. I'm OK with it because for 50 cents, I can shop in peace while she plays with whatever random toy I choose for her (this isn't a democracy, she isn't getting candy, tattoos, or slime out of those machines until she's old enough to know that snorting slime will not end well). Today's choice was a little bitty Winnie the Pooh. It was a good choice because it led to many amusing Toddlerisms.

"Mommy, I eat Pooh!"

"Where's Pooh?"

"My Pooh is lello." ("lello" is Toddler for "yellow.")

"Pretty Pooh!"

Yes, I am a 13-year old boy for laughing at each and every one of those. And then encouraging her to say them again. And again.

- A couple of people requested photos of the new 'do. The problem is that there is nothing new about the 'do. It looks exactly the same as it has for the past eight years. You can just refer to the About page for a photo. Yup, I still look exactly like that. The Toddler, on the other hand, has grown approximately too many inches in the year since that photo was taken.

Write Your Own Caption (Again)

(Yes, Colleen, I am using this as a means of creating a post when I'm really just too lazy to write.)

Yes, We Have Two Dogs

For whatever random reason, apparently there's at least one of you that thinks the poofball otherwise known as Jasmine doesn't get enough attention up in this joint. There are a few valid reasons why she gets less press than the pain in my hiney known as Meg:

1. She looks like a mop. I can photograph her up close, from far away, her right side, her left side, her backside. It won't matter. She'll still look like a mop.

2. She has never once farted in such a way as to cause me to nearly throw up from the stench. That kind of thing tends to get my attention.

3. She's the GOOD dog. You know how when people have a whole bunch of kids the good one gets forgotten all the time? Yeah, it's like that.

EXCEPT, she has decided to go all renegade on me and has turned into a ROYAL pain in the hiney. Apparently Meg told her about the time Mr. Husband put a turkey carcass in the trash. Ever since the story got out, Jasmine has been checking the garbage every.single.day to see what has been left in there. While no turkeys have recently died at the hands of my husband, there has been the occasional scrap of food. You know, because that's where you put the food that winds up on the floor when the Toddler is using it to practice free throws in the living room. Using the TV as the basket. And making more than a few shots. Why yes Bert, Ernie does have a little schmutz between his teeth.

Anyway, there has been enough food for Jasmine to decide to make trash rummaging her new hobby. I have spent the past month trying to retrain her that it isn't a good idea to go dumpster diving. Yesterday, I gave up. Peeps, the cheapest woman on Planet Earth spent $70 (you must read that using your Dr. Evil voice, btw) yesterday on a trash can that the stupid dog can't get into. I want to kill her. Or use her as a mop for the rest of her life.

Here she is channeling her inner mopness:



And proving that Mr. Canon rocks the action shot:

Yeah, That Makes Sense

There's plenty of evidence to indicate that I'm not an idiot. I got good grades in school, I went to college on an academic scholarship, and I work with pretty complicated technical concepts at work. The only thing is, I am an idiot. A BIG idiot.

This morning when I went into Alexis' room to feed the fish in the saltwater tank, I noticed a crab sitting at an odd angle behind the rocks. I studied it for a minute or two and when it didn't budge, I cleverly deduced that it was not a living crab. So I moved the rocks, scooped the corpse up with a net, and gave him a proper clockwise funeral. Flusherooooo!

I didn't say anything to Mr. Husband because I have found a shrimp corpse and another crab corpse in the past few weeks, and I didn't really need to hear him tell me that I need to figure out what is wrong with the tank. I ran every water quality test under the sun this morning and couldn't find anything wrong, so him asking me if I checked the pH, ammonia, nitrates, nitrites, calcium, iodine, buffering capacity, blah, blah, blah would have just annoyed me to no end.

We spent our day out running various errands, including important tasks like buying Strawberry Shredded Wheat so that Alexis doesn't fall victim to SSW deprivation tomorrow. When we got back home, I went straight upstairs to feed the fish and turn off the light for the night. The instant I dropped a couple of chunks of frozen fish food into the tank, I noticed a little claw come swiping out from under a rock. I stared at that damn crab for a solid five minutes trying to figure out how it not only returned from the dead, but found it's way all the way through the sewer system, across the hall, and back into the aquarium. I finally decided that it was either a ghost, or we must have had a crab in the tank that we didn't know about.

So, Mr. Husband came upstairs and I told him we have a ghost in the tank. He looked at the little crab and then said, "He probably just shed his exoskeleton."

Oh, yeah, that would be slightly more logical than a ghost crab returning to a crappy little tank in the afterlife, now wouldn't it?

Now I'm trying to figure out if anything ever died, or if I've been pulling out shed exoskeletons, obsessing for hours every day over water quality, and cursing the death of a bunch of over-priced critters for no reason.

I am an idiot.

One of Those Dyson Posts

So.

I have started writing approximately three halfway decent posts only to discover that my snot-filled brain is incapable of stringing together coherent thoughts.

Hey, look, the Pens won!

Oh yeah, I was saying . . . something.

Um, yeah.

So I know I have been sucking harder than a Dyson as of late. It wasn't your imagination. I have sucky suck sucked about the writing lately.

And I'm going to suck again tonight.

I think it's vitally important that I break from this nearly coherent thought to report that the Bulldog has some wicked gas tonight. The kind of gas that will smack you in the head so hard you fall over and end up wishing you were dead just so you wouldn't have to smell.the.stench.

Ugh.

Anyway, I'm going to lock the beast with the poisonous butt in the basement and see if I can sleep off this sinus infection turned headache turned do I really have to breathe? Because ouch. Just ouch.

I will be back. It will be coherent. I will not whine.

Because I'm a really nice Dyson, I'll leave you with links to a few of my favorite old posts. Feel free to review them at your leisure.

There's the shopping one which is soon to be followed up with another similar post because the powers that be have done some things to that website that are just crying out for me to make fun of them. And every parent that buys that worthless crap.

There's also the beginning of the worm saga which is just so much fun.

I might as well bring up the fact that once upon a time I had too much time on my hands. In case you are losing sleep from wonderment, I stuck to my guns. I may have spent approximately eleventy seven fourteen dollars on Caramel Macchiatos almost every day all winter, but I didn't buy a single over-priced Pumpkin Spice Latte.

Finally, there's the origins of Helmet Head and the illustrations of how Helmet Head evolves.

Hey look! It's a cute picture of the kid with the Bulldog!

Write Your Own Caption

Coming to You from Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan

Guess what . . . go ahead, guess!

I? am blogging from the car. As in, while driving down the highway. OK, technically I'm not the one driving, but still. I don't really know why I find this so amusing, but I do. I totally should have stolen borrowed an air card from the IT department a long time ago.

Anyway, a few weeks ago I found out I needed to make a trip to good ol' Michigan. For some reason, Mr. Husband thought it would be fun to join me. So we have packed up the whole crew and are making a quick run up and back. I don't know exactly why we think it's a fun idea to spend 12 hours in the car with two dogs and a toddler for what will be, at most, a few hours out of town (most of which I will be spending in meetings for work), but whatever. Here we are, about to cross from Ohio into Indiana before we drive straight North.

If I hadn't been so enamored with the basic ability to get online while moving 70 mph, I would have been live blogging this spectacular event. As it is, I shall be so kind as to provide a review.

- Cinnabon? I hate it. With the fire of a thousand suns. I saw the heavens open up, I heard angels sing, and I felt a moment of sheer unadulterated bliss when I saw a sign for the joint somewhere back near Cleveland. It took some coercing, but I managed to convince Mr. Husband to make an unscheduled stop only to find that Cinnabon was closed. At 7:00. I don't know that I've felt this kind of disappointment in my entire life. I might cry. Real tears.

- The first hour we were on the road, I was reminded that we shouldn't take the dogs anywhere. They suck in the car. Jasmine, in particular, has tempted me to "accidentally" push the window button and "accidentally" help her stick her head out a little too far out. She seems to have decided it would be a good idea to roll around in some form of animal pee at the park today. It was all good until we were trapped in a small moving box with her. Now I can tell you she stinks more than the fact that my laptop batter is going to die in just 16 short minutes. BOO!

- I really, really, really wish I would have had the camera ready for the moment when Alexis realized she was going to get to enjoy her portable DVD player in the car. I don't know that her face has ever lit up like it did in that moment when she recognized its case and determined that it represented hours of Signing Time viewing pleasure. She's a happy camper.

- Speaking of the happy camper, she took a break from staring intently at the tiny DVD player screen to eat a piece of pound cake from Starbucks. I'm thinking that there might be something wrong with the fact that she kept breaking off a piece, eating it, shoving her hand in the Bulldog's face to get it licked clean, and then repeating the whole process all over again. Mr. Husband and I briefly considered breaking up the germy party, but then reconsidered because the toddler? She was happy. The Bulldog? She was happy. It would be stupid to interrupt that. (This is where you nod and agree and refrain from telling me all about the horrible diseases dogs can transmit to kids, mmkay?)

When You're Scatterbrained and You Know It, Go Random

I have too many ideas floating around in my head and can't seem to focus on just one, so I bringeth the randometh updates:

- Alexis has made it a habit to sleep though the night in her own little bed on the weekends and loudly meanders into my airspace on weekdays. You know, the days when I have to get up by 6:30. I'm going to pay her back for it by giving her first born child a professional drum set for his or her second birthday.

- The stupid ants continue to be a problem, albeit nowhere near as bad as last year. Despite my widespread use of drastic measures, I'm finding one or two of the little jerks crawling around in our house every day. Of course, along with those one or two lively ones are five to six dead ones, so I think that means I win. Sort of.

- A mother truckin' worm had the audacity to taunt me yesterday by poking its self out of a hole in the new aquarium. It was a big guy and I would have LOVED to have donned the gloves, grabbed the tweezers, and smashed his little booty. The only problem was that he (she? it?) was about 1/2 inch from the icky, ugly, nasty, gross, ucky brittle starfish. That starfish creeps me out far more than the worms (it's in there because their good scavengers and do a decent job of keeping the tank clean, functionality over beauty, baby) and my hands, even with gloves, absolutely positively will not be going that close to it. Stupid genius worm.

- I chuckled a little bit at Sandy's comment on yesterday's post that she was impressed that Alexis sat still that long for the daffodil photos. Heh. I can suggest that the Toddler sit in a particular spot, just like I can suggest that Mount Rushmore be moved to Alaska. Trust me, Mount Rushmore will move before that kid just sits around and lets me take pictures of her.

What really happened is that I went over to our hillside to take photos of the daffodils. I'm hoping to do a half decent job of keeping a garden diary this year, even if it is all in the form of photos. Of course the crew saw what I was up to, and all butted in like the self-centered creatures that they are. Alexis, for her part, was squealing, "Ook, Mommy, flowers!" while gently groping their delicate little blooms. I decided to use it as an opportunity to photograph her widdle hands since I'm obsessed with them. All told, she might have sat there for 37.6 seconds. Mr. Canon is a Rock Star of a camera and will take photos really really fast, so he captured a few dozen during that 37.6 seconds. When Mr. Canon does sweet things like that, it makes me want to make out with him. And hide my undergarments in his case.








Why, yes, Meg is a photo whore.

- Reminder: If you haven't entered the contest, get moving! If you have, go do it again! There are two prizes up for grabs and there will be choices involved with those prizes. Since I'm in a pleasant mood, I'll even give you a hint to one of the choices (shhh, Karen, don't tell!).

Talking Helper Monkey for Sale

There was a time in the not-so-distant past when taking the Toddler with me to go grocery shopping was sort of like like taking a rabid spider monkey who had never been out of a 3x3 cage to the grocery store, except I do believe I would have an easier time keeping a monkey happy and under control. When I started my current job, I started having the ability to run to the grocery store during lunch, so I all but eliminated lengthy jaunts through the store with the Toddler in tow. A couple of quick trips during the week was enough for us to get by. Life was good.

Last week I slacked on my quick runs to the store. As a result, we were in extremely desperate need of food. Since I was too busy to take a lunch break at work today, I had to go after work. And? I had to take the Toddler with me. I learned a very valuable lesson very quickly.

She has outgrown the spider monkey phase.

In fact? It was almost fun grocery shopping with her today. She might have even been helpful. Well, if I were incapable of seeing whatever was right in front of my face, she would have been helpful.

"Ook, mommy! Cereal!"

"Need gogur, please!" (That's Toddlerese for "Buy me some damn yogurt and nobody gets hurt.")

"Ders cheese!"

"Eggs!"

"DORA!" (Y'know, Dora is in EVERY freakin' grocery aisle now. There are Dora raisins, people. Seriously.)

"Ook, bread!"

"Yay! Beans!"

"Ook! Doggy teats!" (My Toddlerese dictionary says that means "Meg and Jasmine have requested that you pretty please with sugar on top buy some dog treats.")

Anyway, about halfway around the store, I began to ponder how much money I could make by renting out her services. There's lots of people in this world with bad vision. They could most certainly benefit from having a helper monkey yelling out food products while they shop. If I were to open up a training center for toddlers to learn to be talking helper monkeys, surely I could end up rich.

Then, of course, the game changed. Instead of shouting out every food item she could find, the Toddler started to say something entirely different. Over. And over. And over.

"You're gonna get it."

I don't know what I'm gonna get, but I think the vision-impaired people of the world might be a bit frightened of the possibilities.



(I know the quality of that photo isn't great, but I still big pink puffy heart it.)

REMINDER: The contest is still running, and the rules changed a bit. Leave a comment on the contest post about anything, and you'll be entered to win. If you're feeling froggy, try and figure out what feelings Alexis mentions in the video, leave your answer in the comments, and win an even better prize. You don't have to be a blogger to win (Jill, I'm talking to you. Seriously.) and you can enter as many times as you want.

Notes to the Girls

Dear Alexis,

There's something that I haven't told you because I don't think it's my place to discourage you from doing something you love, even if you are pretty bad at it. So earlier today when you screamed, "NO, STOP! NO! NO! NO!" at me when I started singing along with your beloved Signing Time music, I was not amused. You, my dear, suck at singing just as much as I do. Obviously, though, I am much nicer than you. Meanie face.

Love,
You're Out of Tune but Totally in Touch Mom

****************************************************

Dear Jasmine,

Why? Really, why? You used to be the "Good Dog." I could leave a plate of food on the floor and you wouldn't touch it because you were so well trained and knew what you were and were not allowed to do. So why the gummy bear are you now getting into the trash every day? Those cans have been accessible for your entire life. Why all of a sudden do you need to knock them over and inspect the contents every day? KNOCK IT OFF.

Love,
The Woman Who is Going to Beat Your Ass if You Don't Quit

***************************************************

Dear Meg,

It's not YOUR couch. Quit acting like it is.

Love,
The Woman Who WILL Sit on the Couch Without a Dog Growling at Her

Another Fakin' It Friday

Once per year, a rare breed makes its appearance: The Irish Bulldog.

Happy as a (Boiling Hot) Clam

*Caution: Random Acts of Whining Ahead*

Yesterday afternoon as we ran all over town, as we are wont to do on a weekend, I took notice of the fact that the snot running from Alexis' nose seemed to be trying to work up enough momentum to make a run for the Mexican border. I coupled that with the fact that her forehead felt like she had turned up the thermostat on that kick butt little heater she had installed before birth and, like the genius that I am, deduced that my rarely ill child actually has a cold. It's the first time in . . . um . . . I dunno, a long time. At least four months. As I knew we were long out of Tylenol or any other sort of fever-reducing magic potion, I made a run into the grocery store to stock up on some pharmaceuticals.

When I (finally) located the child appropriate drugs, I was met with labels that pointed out that OH NO SHE'S TOO OLD FOR THE INFANT CRAP now. Besides the insulting implication that I should stop referring to her as my baby (you can't make me, Tylenol), this revelation posed a problem. There were several flavors to choose from and did you know I don't do decisions? Especially not life-changing decisions like what flavor of drugs to buy my baby. I tried to think like Alexis and eventually narrowed it down to the berry flavors.

Then I noticed that -OH NO!- I had to give her the drugs in a cup. My girl is admittedly not much of a spiller, but you know darn well that if you give a generally good kid a little cup full of super-staining sugary liquid, that will be the day that she decides to pour the liquid all over the only remaining clean spot on the carpet. So again I put on my genius cap and opted for the dye-free formula.

Oops.

It took about a millisecond to discover that my genius was wasted on she who was not willing to drink so much as a drop of medicine, despite the fact that she has been known to call up her dealer in the middle of the night for a little hit just because she thinks medicine is fun. But, you know, I'm smarter than a two-year old, right? So I dug out one of those little syringes from the kitchen drawer and made it look like her old baby meds.

She didn't fall for it.

It took two adults over twenty minutes to administer one teaspoon of fever-reducer to a child who's booty hole claimed she was running around 101.8. That, my friends, was a good time.

Fast forward to this morning, and it turned out that this particular cold has decided to take up residency for a little while. Alexis' diaper was dry and her temp was over 102 degrees. So, she and I spent the day at home together. I knew I could drug her and send her to daycare, but I also knew the drugs would wear off and I would just end up picking her up early. I didn't see a reason to spread her germy love to the other kids (one of which is probably the one that gave it to her in the first place, but whatever). Besides, I wanted to make sure she drank enough liquid to grow a few humps (like a camel).

We have spent the greater part of our day fighting over medicine. I have tried diluting it in water. I have tried slipping it in a cup of juice. I even tried chocolate milk. Every time I prepare a sneaky snake concoction for her, we end up having a conversation like this:

Alexis: I want juice.
Me: Here you go.
Alexis: No, I want milk.
Me: Of course you do. Here you go.
Alexis: Water, please.
Me: You're kidding, right? Fine, here's some water.
Alexis: No, thank you.

Yeah, she gets props for the whole polite thing, but I swear on my Girl Scout cookies, she can stop with the women's prerogative crap right about now.

So right now my dear child is sitting at her little table tossing Lima beans into the air, trying to catch them in her mouth, and then getting mad when Meg the Bulldog has the audacity to actually eat the ones that fall to the ground. Alexis worships at the church of the Lima bean, so I'm not really sure why she's leaving even a tiny opportunity for anyone to steal them from her. It must be the untreated 102 degree fever getting to her brain.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy every single flavor of fever-reducer under the sun, including the suspicious looking dissolving tablets, in hopes that she will take something.

Random: Yoi and Double Yoi Edition

- After reading all your comments from yesterday's post, I'm left wondering if any of you ever get any sleep. Don't answer that, by the way. If anybody says they do, I might have to throw rusty cans of rotten tomotoes at them. Anyway, y'all are a bunch of funny, sleep-deprived, blanket-scrounging, bed-wanting fools. Thanks for the laughs and for making me feel not-so-alone in my quest to sleep without wearing a toddler helmet.

In case you were wondering, the Toddler slept through the night last night, thereby ensuring that I would not get an opportunity to test my new method of threats. I'm sure I'll get my chance tonight. (Oh, and that does not mean I slept through the night. There's still the matter of those two pesky dogs.)

- A couple of my favorite Twits already know about it, but I got a new camera. As in, I got The Camera. It took over a year for me to talk myself into spending that kind of money on what is essentially a luxury, but when we got our federal tax refund, I thought about the fact that I take pictures just about every day and that my little bud the Sony Cybershot has been known to let me down quite frequently, and I figured it was justified. Of course, just thinking the words "maybe I'll finally buy a good camera" were enough to send Mr. Husband into hyper electronics acquisition mode. He spent HOURS researching prices and features and blah, blah, blah. It finally showed up on Saturday, and now he's the only one that has used it. The same man who has taken maybe 20 pictures in the past ten years has now taken over 100 in the past few days with Mr. Canon. I haven't taken a single one. Frankly, I'm a little bit scared of Mr. Canon. He's so big and powerful and amazing. I need to read his instruction guide, maybe take him out for dinner and a movie, and get to know him better.

- Project watch what you say is in full swing. The repeating? At never before seen levels. In the past week, Meg has been called stupid and special (both adults get the blame for the former, but the latter was all Mr. Husband). The Toddler is repeating EVERYTHING. I'm going to go out on a limb and bet that the first time she repeats a real bad cuss, I'm going to be the one responsible. That's what happens when you endlessly hound your husband not to swear.

- Coaches and players come and go, but there is one man who has and will always be The Pittsburgh Steelers--Myron Cope. The voice was unforgettable and the legacy will remain forever. We'll miss ya' Cope.



(Great tributes here and here.)

More Easy Organic Dog Treats: Butt Breath Edition

I have another recipe for dog treats that I like to make. It's an extra-special one just for my beloved Jasmine, she who haveth the most rank breath in all the land. Meg may overall stink more, but since she can't reach her butt, her breath is surprisingly fresh and, dare I say, pleasant for what it is. Jasmine, on the other hand, can knock you out with one little sigh.

If organic makes you happy, then by all means, shop organic. Just don't expect the dog to appreciate it.

1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 cup water
2 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1/2 cup oatmeal
1/3 cup chopped fresh mint
1/3 cup chopped dried parsley (look for it in the spice section)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. In a large bowl, combine oil and water. Gradually add flour until the dough is the consistency of Play-Doh. Then add oatmeal, mint, and parsley. Roll dough to 1/4 inch thickness. Cut with a cookie cutter. Place on a an ungreased cookie sheet 1 inch apart and back at 375 degrees for 35 minutes, or until the bottoms are slightly browned.

Easy Organic Dog Treat Recipe

Remember the treats Alexis keeps sneaking to the dogs? Here's the recipe for them (buy organic if that kind of thing makes you happy):

1/4 cup peanut butter
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 cup water
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup oatmeal

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. In a large bowl, combine peanut butter, oil, and water. Gradually add flour until dough is the consistency of Play-Doh, then add oatmeal. Roll dough to 1/4 inch thickness and cut with a cookie cutter. Place one inch apart on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 375 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes, or until bottoms of treats are lightly brown.

About Those Prisoners

It's no secret that Mr. Husband has a soft spot for animals. When I first started dating him, he had an iguana named Chuck and a cat named George (why yes, he is good at naming pets). All he ever talked about was how he would eventually have a Bulldog. Getting a Bulldog was, for a long time, his biggest dream. I think it's pretty well documented that I am not a fan of the smelly, noisey things. I mean, I love Meg, but I don't exactly like her most days.

The road to his dream was a long one. Early on, money was the deciding factor for why he didn't have one. They aren't exactly the cheapest of pups, and Airmen do not walk around with a few thousand dollars to spend on a dog. After he got out of the Air Force, he went to college. College students also do not have a few thousand dollars lying around. All through the broke days, I reveled in the knowledge that I was safe from the attack of the Bulldog.

The drawback from having a dream that was truly not attainable at the time was that he tried to fill the alleged void with other animals. He spent his first thirty years dreaming of that dog. He also spent his first thirty years dragging assorted critters home. As a kid, his mom limited him to the occassional rodent. Once he moved out, he moved on to bigger things. Oh, there were still the occasional Guinea pigs and hamsters to be found, but it wasn't until he was under his own roof that he brought on the reptile phase.

I was not a fan of the reptile phase. There have been three iguanas (Chuck, Norm, and Lou) and a Chameleon (Ernie) under our roof at some time or another. The last of the lizards finally died this past summer. One of the happiest days of my life was when I saw that iguana cage finally make the trek to the trash, signaling the end of the era.

In the midst of the reptile phase was a brief hedgehog phase. Grommit was his name, and he was essentially a prickly Guinea Pig. Looking back at it, Grommit was the closest thing to a bulldog that we've had, other than Meg. He was a lot smaller than the Bully baby, but the prickles meant he was sitting wherever he wanted to sit no matter what we tried to say about it, he grunted CONSTANTLY, he ate all sorts of random and weird things, and the cats avoided him just as much as the avoid Meg now. I don't think anyone shed any tears when he died.

After college, it became clear that all the small critters were doing nothing to temper the desire for a Bulldog. Mr. Husband had three cats to entertain himself with, all his other small creatures, and yet he was still left wanting. So he began his full court press for his dog. That led to Jasmine. I'm sure you're thinking that a Lhasa Apso is the furthest thing from a Bulldog, and in some ways, you're right. But Lhasas are very cool dogs in that they behave like big dogs, but don't eat big dog quantities of food or take up big dog space.

The short story of how Jasmine managed to come home with us was that Mr. Husband and I had a GINORMOUS fight in a pet store when he tried so hard to get me to let him buy a Bulldog puppy there that we actually ended up in a screaming fight in the middle of the store. It was the kind of fight where everyone in the vicinity stops what they are doing to stare. Why yes, we are some classy people, yes we are. Anyway, later that day I was still fuming, he was still pushing, and we walked past a poofy little baby Lhasa Apso. I said something to the effect of, "The only kind of dog you're getting is one of those things." And so it was.

It took another few years before I finally caved to Mr. Husband's Bulldog passion. I don't know if that means he's more stubborn than me, or if it's just a matter of me finally running out of excuses. I will say that if he thinks he's getting another one when Meg passes away, you might want to make your reservations for the fight. It's going to be a good one, I'm sure. Especially since I strongly suspect this one will be taking his side in the fight:



I'm screwed, aren't I?