Category Archives for "oliver"
Wished I lived in Hawaii.
Wished I lived in California.
Wished I lived in Fiji.
Wished I lived someplace that had lots of i’s and no snow.
Shoveled more snow.
Took off snow soaked jeans and sweat soaked underwear in the powder room before realizing I had forgotten clean pairs of each on the kitchen island.
Swore some more.
Yelled for Zoe or Helena to throw me the clean pairs.
Remembered they were both at school.
Wished I homeschooled.
Came back to my senses.
Said a prayer, ran out of the powder room commando.
Grabbed the clean pairs off the island.
Shocked, blinded and traumatized the UPS guy standing at the front door, ringing a broken doorbell.
Made a mental note to buy the UPS guy some eye bleach for Christmas.
Continued shoveling snow.
Went against everything I believe in and bought Oliver a little wool sweater but only because I thought he’d be more apt to potty outside if he wasn’t shivering.
Stood outside and froze while begging Oliver to potty in the snow.
Yelled IT’S SNOW! NOT ANTHRAX! IT WON’T KILL YOU.
Yelled FINE! IT’S ANTHRAX! STOP EATING IT OR *I’LL* KILL YOU.
Yelled FOR THE LOVE OF JESUS, POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP too many times to count.
Yelled I MEANT OUTSIDE, NOT INSIDE, NUMNUTS! Also too many times to count.
Made up new swear words.
Went Christmas shopping.
Returned 75% of everything I bought.
Wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.
Found Uncle Pat’s gift in the middle of the floor.
Yelled STOP IT, OLIVER.
Re-wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.
Shoveled and swore.
Found Uncle Pat’s gift on the stairs.
Yelled I MEAN IT, OLLIE. KNOCK IF OFF.
Re-wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.
Swore my head off.
Shoveled my guts out.
Found Uncle Pat’s gift in Ollie’s mouth.
Put all wrapped gifts in the basement.
Put Ollie in his crate.
Gathered up my guts, found my head and took them all with me to Home Depot.
Bought a new shovel. And eye bleach.
I’m not regurgitating an older post today because there has been far too much regurgitation around here lately and, as a novice dog owner, I’m still stressed out about it.
Last night, two high schoolers rang my doorbell and I almost got away with pretending I wasn’t home except I’m pretty sure they they saw me drop to my knees and try to hide under our window because they waved down to me so I acted like I had accidentally slipped and when I limped to open the door, they didn’t even ask me how I was or if maybe my femur was shattered and instead, they just yammered something about field hockey and then they shoved a box of candy bars in front of my face and forced me to buy one and by forced, I mean they asked me.
I immediately ate a bit of it, gave a bit to Helena and then lost my mind and set the remainder on the end table by the couch and then I left the room.
I know. I AM A MENACE TO SOCIETY AND SHOULD BE QUARANTINED SO THAT I CAN’T INFECT ANYONE.
Fifteen minutes later I was on the phone to the emergency vet, sputtering that my seven pound shihpoo had leaped a tall coffee table in a single bound and inhaled half a chocolate peanut butter bar and yes, I know that chocolate is toxic to dogs and no, I didn’t give it to him on purpose because despite all evidence to the contrary, I am not an idiot and no, it’s not my fault because technically, it’s those stupid field hockey girls’ faults because they ought to have known better than to offer chocolate to me when in ten minutes I could very well have been high from all the pain meds I’d be taking because of a possible fractured femur and therefore unable to make decisions or operate heavy machinery and don’t you think offering a woman with a freshly broken thigh a sugar-laden chocolate peanut butter combo on a Saturday night when she’s stuck home watching Operation Repo under the influence and there’s nothing in the house to eat for dinner except a jar of pimentos and a fiber bar, both of which are way the hell over there, is a little sadistic to her puppy? And yes, I know I’m passing the buck but it makes me feel better to assess blame and WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, MAKE HIM VOMIT? LIKE, ON PURPOSE?
One minute later, Nate was running out to Wegmans for hydrogen peroxide and I was doing what any self respecting blogger would do under these circumstances which was tweeting and facebooking my predicament and including a plea for everyone to tell me that my fur baby was going to be OK and that I should stop freaking the hell out immediately.
Nate came home with the hydrogen peroxide and we chased Ollie around the house and then poured one teaspoon of the stuff down Ollie’s throat and I shit you not, two minutes later he heaved up the entire contents of his stomach and I was never so happy to have big piles of vomit scattered around my kitchen floor in all my life.
Five minutes later, Oliver was totally relaxed and asleep on my lap. I, on the other hand, was so tense, you could have strung a guitar with my neck muscles.
Today, I plan on putting all of our furniture on stilts and installing Invisible Fence around each piece, just in case more hooligans knock on my door and force me to fake break more body parts.
If schools would just stop cutting their damn budgets already, puppies everywhere would be a lot safer.
When I sat down at my computer today, I had every intention of writing a really fascinating post, a fable of sorts. I was going to set the scene at a bustling Target one Saturday morning and follow it up with multiple paragraphs of character development and an exciting plot filled with one man’s version of Internet porn, some lingerie and a touch of negligent homicide. It was going to be a story wrought with moral turpitude, conflict, mental cruelty and angst, culminating in an emotionally gut wrenching climax of lessons learned.
The story was going to be centered around a man hopping online without supervision *again* and buying a $140.00 juicer for his family which, admittedly, doesn’t sound like a very compelling tale but HOLD ON TO YOUR KNICKERS, PEOPLE because I was going to add in little interesting details like … oh, I don’t know … maybe the man inadvertently revealing this purchase to his wife whilst she was perusing the women’s underwear department of Target?
And then maybe the wife had flashbacks to $80 Chia Pets and gasped so hard that she nearly swallowed her adenoids while screaming BUT NO ONE IN OUR FAMILY EVEN DRINKS JUICE.
And then maybe the man slowly backed away from his wife because her left eye was starting to twitch and her head was starting to spin counter clockwise and she was starting to speak in tongues.
And then maybe the man narrowly escaped a 100% cotton 8-pair jumbo pack enema by grabbing his daughter’s hand and dragging her away to the pet department under the guise of getting their puppy some new chew toys because it turns out their puppy is really a seven pound furry piranha in disguise.
And then maybe the daughter returned to the wife at a full speed run twenty minutes later, waving what appeared to be an outfit for her American Girl doll which would have been really weird because it had been forever since the daughter had played tattoo parlor with a permanent marker on that particular $100 Christmas gift but whatever, there were more pressing issues at hand, such as determining the difference between hipsters and bikinis, and theorizing why people choose to wear thongs because don’t we as a people spend enough time trying to yank our undies out of our fanny cleavage as it is? And by the way, HOLY SHIT, IS THAT A CHRISTMAS TREE IN ELECRONICS?
And then maybe it turned out that what the daughter was hysterically waving in the air was not, in fact, an outfit for a grossly overpriced doll but rather a miniature Buffalo Bills t-shirt, sized extra-small and made specifically for seven pound incognito shih-poo piranha puppies and then the wife who, having previously made it crystal clear to her family that dressing up any animals in clothing is seventy-two different kinds of WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, decided that it was high time to sit the man down for a long overdue Come To Jesus talk even if it had to take place in the midst of granny panties but before she could tackle him to the floor and hogtie him with his colon, she heard her daughter excitedly exclaim IT WAS ONLY TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS, MOM! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?
And then maybe the wife couldn’t see straight anymore for all the blood gushing around her brain which caused her head to spin right off her body and ricochet around the racks of bras and thongs, getting snagged on a 44DDD which acted like a slingshot, launching her bloody head right back at her headless body like some heat seeking missile, causing it to slam into her legs, shattering her shins and dropping her to the ground where she lay unconscious and left to wonder which of these egregious offenses would ultimately do her in: the shock of seeing the $140 juicer appear on their bank statement and doorstep, the two inches of dust that will have inevitably collected on the unopened box three months after delivery, the disembodied, bloody head that took out her kneecaps, her puppy prancing around as a mascot for a football team who loses season after season out of sheer habit, the obscenely premature appearance of the elves staring down at her from the shelf above, or the fact that despite her own preaching, she would finally be caught dead while wearing torn and stained period panties, they being the only underwear she owned to date, thus her browsing of the Fruit of the Looms in a bustling Target on a Saturday morning in the first place.
I was even going to post a picture and everything.
But after several minutes of staring at a blank screen, I ultimately wound up chucking the whole story idea.
I just couldn’t find the right words.
Long ago, in a galaxy far far away, I was a senior paralegal to a senior partner in a prestigious law firm.
I took at least an hour to dress myself up in pantyhose, power suits, high heels, make-up, jewelry, contact lenses, hairspray and perfume.
I drove into the big city.
I supervised five or more support staff.
I “did” lunch.
I “took” calls.
I signed my name in ink.
Then I was gifted with my second child.
After that, I took five minutes or less to dress myself in baggy sweats or whatever was hanging off my bed that didn’t smell.
I drove to the grocery store, then home, then back to the store, then back home, times ten million.
I had no staff.
I made lunch but don’t ever remember eating it.
I prayed for calls.
I signed my name in glitter glue.
As my girls grew older and more independent, I dreamed of nicer clothes, an actual hairstyle, shoes that didn’t *thwack* when I walked and, in general, a life. Preferably one that was not focused around bowel movements.
Then I was gifted with a puppy named Oliver who had a bladder the size of a freckle and bowels the size of eggplants.
Now I don’t get dressed until 10:00 a.m., or I determine exactly where Oliver has hoarded every single pair of undies in the entire house, whichever comes first.
I have no staffers because they’re in school. Which is a convenient cop-out if you ask me.
I drive myself crazy and back because I spend half my time taking Ollie outside to potty and the other half spritzing Nature’s Miracle behind the couch because he accidentally-on-purpose did the very thing back there that I just waited outside twenty minutes for him to do. WHAT.THE HELL.
I make lunch so that Ollie can leap small furniture in a single bound to snarf it up the second I blink.
I call Nate and yell IS IT NORMAL FOR A SEVEN POUND PUPPY TO EAT THREE TIMES HIS WEIGHT IN DIRTY UNDERWEAR AND USED TAMPONS?
I don’t sign my name anymore because all of our writing utensils, no matter how rudimentary, have been relocated to the general vicinity of Oliver’s intestines, together with my cell phone recharger, a USB cable, my INXS cd and the front of my brand new left gladiator sandal.
It’s Labor Day here in the states which, loosely translated, means the end of summer is near which, loosely translated, means TWO MORE DAYS UNTIL SCHOOL STARTS, OH MY GOD, I’M SO EXCITED, I COULD PEE STANDING UP.
I’m not doing anything special today unless you call grocery shopping up the big, wide ying yang special and if you do, well, don’t take this the wrong way but … what the hell is the matter with you?
Nate’s got a date with the demolished bathroom, Helena’s planning one last summer smackdown with her sister at which Zoe is looking forward to giving as good as she gets.
The only one with nothing to do today is Oliver.
Although I’m fairly certain he’ll find something fascinating with which to amuse himself.
Happy Labor Day and/or Monday to all!