Tuesday, April 25, 2017

The Crap-ocalypse.

Here's a lovely little story about poop.  Enjoy.

Last week, for a few nights, Archie would wake up at like 2am and kind of make this weird growling noise, so we would get up to take him outside. This is not normal behavior for him - every single night, he goes in to his crate for "night-nights" (because I speak to him like he's a human infant and I literally say "come on my sweet little baby doggie boy, it's time to go night-nights, mommy loves you sooooo much" in a ridiculous high pitched voice and then I smother him with kisses and hugs and send him in to the crate, it's literally more attention than my husband or children ever get before bed), ANYWAY he stays in there without a peep, save for a little snoring, til I'm done my morning shower. Sometimes that's 6am, sometimes it's 8am, he don't care.  He's adaptable and easy and we have never, ever had a problem with this system, right from the get-go.

So, on like the 3rd night, when he pulled this 2am growly whiny nonsense again, I thought "NO WAY JOSE. This is your new little manipulative game. Wake up at 2am for a little moonlight fresh-air frolic around the yard, while mom or dad stumble around in their underwear hoping the neighbors aren't awake and looking out their windows, then think you just get to crawl into bed with us for the rest of the night?!? NOPE. Not anymore, doggie, the jig is up, I'm way smarter than you, your game ends tonight." And then, like a good dog owner, I stuck his crate in the ensuite bathroom and went back to sleep, thinking about how I'd have to go to Walmart tomorrow to buy some earplugs if he was gonna keep this silliness up.

Moving ahead to 3am, when I'm woken up abruptly by Shawn, who's whacking me and saying "HE'S SHIT. OH MY GOD, HE POOPED. I CAN SMELL IT." And I'm like, **EYEROLL** settle down drama queen, he's behind two closed doors, there's no way you can smell dog shit, you're dreaming, HE'S JUST MANIPULATING US, now go back to sleep.

Except that I was wrong, and he most definitely COULD smell poop, and Archie most definitely HAD taken a giant shit, right there in his crate in the bathroom that I had shut him into.


So, we bolted out of bed, picked up the dog-and-crap-filled crate and carried it into the kids' bathroom, because that's the only one with an actual bathtub.  I held my breath, opened the crate, and Archie walked out like it was no big thing, casually tracking shit footprints all over the bathroom floor, looking at me as if to say "you are so stupid, lady, just LOOK at the pickle we are all in now, thanks to you!" as I scooped him up and hoped to God I wasn't touching dog crap, stuck him in the tub, and gave him a good 3am doggie scrub-down.  Shawn, meanwhile, had opened the lid of the crate, and upon seeing the massive amount of feces, began dry heaving and gagging and choking in an incredibly dramatic fashion, and proceeded to leave the room completely, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone with a shitty crate, a shitty dog, a shitty floor, and shit-covered dog bedding.  He returned shortly with a t-shirt wrapped around his face, with futile hope that maybe he'd be able to block the putrid smell as he attempted to remove the poop soaked bedding and the poop soaked crate, and get it all the hell out of the house.


It was the very definition of a shitstorm.

A poo-splosion,  if you will.

It was the f'ing crap-ocalypse.

It smelled like dog shit in my house for a whole day.

I have learned my lesson.


Friday, March 3, 2017

It's good to be Queen (a dental crown is still a crown!)

Sometimes, you get home from work at 3:15 on a Friday afternoon and you pour yourself a tiny (uhhhm, enormous) glass of wine and then you just feel like writing.  (And, OK, if we're being technical, you're normally home at 3:00 but today you were late because you made a little side trip to Ye Ol' Liquor Store and bought yourself a box of white and a bottle of red.)

It's been a week.

My kids were sick.  Fevers, ear infections, etc.  Good times.  Everyone's fine now.  WHEW.  Because as much as I love my kids, being home with them when I should be at work makes me a little stir crazy.  Also, clinics suck.  They just do.  They smell horrible and the magazines are from like 1996 and everyone is sick and coughing all over the place and the other patients look at you all judgey-like when you crack open your can of Diet Coke.  I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR LIKE AN HOUR PEOPLE.  I NEED THIS, SO NEVER MIND!!!!

Also, I needed to get a crown.  And NOT the kind of crown I deserve, either.

You may remember how I am with anything dental or medical...if not, you can read back through this blog for the dirty details, or just ask me in person about that time I had babies, or had to have my appendix out.  I have been known to tell nurses to F-off, to question the ability of trained professionals, and there is a chance I've told poor sweet innocent dental hygenists that I don't like them and that they need to get their fingers out of my mouth RIGHTFUCKINGNOW.  Let's just say I'm a shitty patient, and leave it at that.  I'm sorry.  IT'S A SICKNESS YOU GUYS.  I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE DIGGIN' AROUND IN MY SHIT.  IT TURNS ME INTO A GIANT BITCH.

So, obviously, I couldn't go in to a two-hour dental appointment that involved pain and needles, sober.  So I visited my family doctor for a hefty dose of Ativan.

My doctor, I should mention, is awesome.

When I said "I'd like enough Ativan to tranquilize a horse, please", he totally came through for me.

The trouble is, there is a TINY chance that I MAYBE, POSSIBLY, didn't follow instructions appropriately.

I couldn't really feel the first Ativan.  So, I took a second.  Then I thought...OK, my head keeps flopping to the side and I'm finding this hysterically funny so...maybe it's kinda working and I feel it a bit?!  MAYBE...BUT...NOT QUITE ENOUGH.  Soooo, during the car ride to the appointment, I knocked back a third.

Yeah, I think that one put me over.

I wasn't driving, obviously, my BFF took me to my appointment, and when she laughed and said "you're talking and moving like you're underwater", I probably should've taken that as my clue that a third Ativan wasn't necessary, but I totally didn't.  And since she's my bestie, she's completely supportive of my decisions even when they're stupid, so I made my way into the dental office with three Ativan in my system, higher than a kite and feeling no pain.  I made it through the appointment like a boss, my husband picked me up and took me home, where I promptly fell asleep and woke up two hours later with no pants on wondering where the hell I was (in my bed) and how I got there (I put myself there) and what time it was (yeah I still don't know the answer to that, it's all a total blur) and if I would ever, ever feel normal again (nope, spent the rest of the day with double vision, texting indecipherable nonsense to several lucky recipients, crashing in to walls and falling over at random moments and laughing hysterically over nothing.)

Ativan.  For the win.

And now??  I HAVE A CROWN.

Please.  Call me Queen.