Category Archives for "oliver"
Yesterday, we took Oliver to the vet to get him, as Helena put it, “de-manized.”
He was scheduled to be de-manized last month but the procedure was delayed thirty days because he still had too many baby teeth and apparently, when you have too many baby teeth, you can’t get your balls whacked off.
But only if you’re a dog.
I bet if you’re a man, you’re crossing your legs and thanking God right now that you’re a homosapien, am I right?
Do dogs know about this? Because I’m thinking if they did, they’d be brushing their teeth with Gorilla Glue and gargling with cement. Wouldn’t you?
At first, I was surprised that there was any correlation at all between teeth and testicles other than the typical FOR GOD’S SAKE, BE CAREFUL! THAT ISN’T A CORN ON THE COB, YOU KNOW correlation which isn’t so much a correlation as it is a deep seeded phobia for men everywhere. But then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be thinking like a human male, I was supposed to be thinking like a canine male and as a canine male, I realized that I could not have cared less about deep seeded phobias with corn-on-the-cob scenarios because I eat my own poop and lick my business 24/7 to the shrieking soundtrack of FOR GOD’S SAKE, WHY DOES HE KEEP DOING THAT? AND WHY IS A LIPSTICK GROWING OUT OF HIS GROIN? COULD THIS BE ANY MORE GROSS? in surround sound.
The vet technician explained to me that some dogs, especially smaller ones because of their smaller mouths, have baby teeth that need to be extracted to allow sufficient room for emerging adult teeth, thus avoiding potential dental problems in the future. In these instances, vets prefer to do the extraction during the castration so as to minimize the number of times a dog is put under anesthesia to have various body parts cut off and sent up to that great big ball factory in the sky.
Having never before de-manized anything in my life, despite what you may have heard from my ex-husband or the Frigidaire repairman, this made sense to me. Then again, so did getting a perm seven years ago so what the hell do I know?
I wound up taking Oliver and all the body parts God gave him home that day and told the kids to watch for tiny teeth falling out of his mouth and perhaps they had better strap a Dixie cup to his muzzle to catch any such deciduousness lest one fall out onto the floor because if I stepped on it and was forced to rip off my feet at the ankles and drag my bloody leg stumps to the laundry room to soak my infected piggies in bleach, I was not going to be a happy camper.
Thirty days passed in which we discovered that Oliver’s mouth was very much like his bowels in that they refused to drop their precious cargo on anybody’s schedule but their own, which schedule comes with a handy dandy ETA of NOT IN THIS LIFETIME SO STOP STARING AT ME o’clock.
So yesterday I brought Oliver, with all of his original teeth and testicles into the vet’s office for de-manning and was told that he needed six of them pulled. And before the rumors of Oliver being some blessedly deformed, five pound manly stud muffin go flying all over cyberspace, I meant six teeth, not six testicles. He only has two of those.
Had. May they rest in peace.
Six extractions. To the tune of $areyououtofyourfreakingmind. Keep in mind, this was in addition to the basic de-manning fee which had already exceeded $holyshitballsbatman since I had opted for the better anesthesia and better pain medicine because while I might have your cajones hacked off, I’ll insist that you get the best happy buzz possible out of the deal because I’m nice like that.
Long story short … oh, who am I kidding? We passed that seven paragraphs ago. I’ll just say that I think the vet must have had a change of heart and took pity on us or maybe she took a few puffs off the old anesthesia pump because when we went to collect Oliver, we paid only a fraction of the extraction quoted and I was so happy that I wrote a song called “Extraction Fraction, What’s the Attraction?” and emailed it to Schoolhouse Rock with a proposal that they use it as the “B” side of “Conjunction Junction, What’s Your Function?” and they emailed me back with Dear Andrea, You’re sweet and odd. No one knows what a “B” side is anymore. Please take your medicine and enjoy the seventies. Love, Schoolhouse Rock which is probably for the best anyway because the last thing we want is our kids on the playground chanting a song about yanking teeth and testicles off a dog. Am I right?
So bottom line, I’m out $holyshitballsbatman plus change and Oliver is out tooth fairy money. Oh, and his manhood.
I totally got the better part of that deal.
I was all set to blog the third and final installment of my Weight Watchers journey where I was going to discuss the benefits of exercise with as little profanity as possible but shit on a stick, guess the hell what, everyone?
I’ve got shin splints. As in, razor sharp, jagged splinters soaked in sulfuric acid. IN MY FREAKING SHINS.
I can’t, in good conscience, talk positively about the benefits of exercise while sitting here with bags of frozen peas on my shins because (1) there are no benefits of exercise when you are a moron who doesn’t stretch beforehand and afterward, unless you call having your shins morph into butcher knives and commit suicide by repeatedly stabbing themselves a benefit; (2) it’s surprisingly hard to type while balancing frozen veggies on my legs; and (3) you probably couldn’t hear me anyway over the shrieks of pain flying out of my mouth.
So I’ll save my exercise post for later, when I don’t feel so homicidal. In the meantime, I’d like to share with you a view I frequently get to enjoy from my office chair.
If you follow me on Twitter, you might have already seen one of these photos, and if you don’t, SEE WHAT YOU’RE MISSING?
This is how Oliver sleeps 99% of the time. Kind of like Nate, except furrier. And Nate doesn’t have a modesty patch. Oliver has one here because I didn’t want to accidentally offend your sensibilities. Why do that when it’s so much more fun to do that kind of stuff on purpose?
I’m considering permanently affixing a modesty patch to Oliver’s business so that we can distinguish him from the carpet and lessen the very real potential of sucking him up in our Dyson. Can you imagine? I mean, do you have any idea how much that Dyson cost us?
… was probably familiar with my hopes, my mood swings, my scale, my sex drive, my boobs, my hair around noon and my calculus grade in high school.
But he was obviously unfamiliar with my Oliver.
Oliver loves to go up the stairs.
Not so much.
Unless he’s carried.
Like a baby.
Good thing he only weighs four pounds.
I think he suffers from bathmophobia.
Or is it climacophobia?
A shiny gold star to the first person who can tell me which one it is, bathmophobia or climacophobia?
Oh, hey! All you guys frantically googling your brains out because OH MY GOD, A SHINY GOLD STAR! WHO CAN’T USE A SHINY GOLD STAR WHEN WE’RE DROWNING IN OIL SLICKS AND TAR BALLS?
Please also google urophobia and coprophobia.
Eleventy seven billion shiny gold stars and maybe even a kidney or part of my liver to the first person who can cure Oliver of either one, at least as far is it relates to coming in contact with the designated grassy area in my back yard as opposed to oh, I don’t know … my living room? Or family room? Dining room? The entire upstairs hallway?
I am once again within one pound of goal weight, having just come off a fat-infested week where I celebrated two birthdays and gained a pound each for my efforts. I hope to make goal weight next week and then go on maintenance for six weeks and then I will finally post before and after photos of me. Hopefully by then, I’ll have a decent haircut and clothes that do not make me look like a hamper on the The Biggest Loser.
I created a Facebook fan page! All by myself! And I spiraled out of control only twice with delusional episodes where I made a Molotov cocktail out of my computer and launched it into space via a potato canon I stole from the teenage boys next door.
Click the image above and you’ll be brought to my fan page where you have the option to “like” it if you so choose since Facebook no longer has the option to “become a fan.” I guess they figured it was too convoluted a concept for humans to grasp.
Doh! I are smart!
LOOKIT, LOOKIT, LOOKIT! It’s a Nikon D90 a/k/a my new baby and a 70-300mm zoom lens, courtesy of my wonderful Nate on my birthday! The camera strap, from PhatStraps, was my parents’ gift to me, together with two ProMaster UV filters. And in two minutes, my mother is going to call me and ask We got you what? What the hell is a strap for and why is it fat? And pro what? Did you take up golf again?
Thanks, guys! You know, continuing the supersonic descent into my forties isn’t so bad when there’s stuff like this to cushion the fall.
Oliver wriggled out of Zoe’s arms and fell onto our hardwood floors the other day and his yelp made my stomach lurch so badly, I thought it was going to come flying out of my mouth and splash onto the wall. Four months ago, if you had told me that I was capable of getting so emotionally attached to a small fuzzy creature that did not burst forth out of my own womb, I would have laughed in your face and then taken your temperature. Rectally, if you were being really annoying about it.
Although Oliver was able to put weight on his leg after his fall, he was limping pretty badly so I called the vet who advised me to watch him carefully and if he didn’t improve within a couple of hours, to bring him into the emergency office for an x-ray. I hung up the phone and yanked my eyeballs out of their sockets and glued them onto Oliver’s body whereby I proceeded to watch him like a hawk, lest I miss any indication that he needed immediate medical attention. Like, if his leg suddenly fell off in the kitchen or something.
For the next couple of hours, I watched him limp around the living room, limp around the office, limp onto my lap and ultimately limp out the door to go potty whereupon he experienced sudden onset HALLELUJAH! I’M HEALED and starting chasing a leaf around the yard. I decided he didn’t need immediate medical attention after all. Per my vet’s instructions, I’m continuing to watch him carefully and if his leg does, in fact, plummet to the ground independent of his body, I’ll rush him in. In the meantime, his limp is noticeably improved and my heart is back to beating its normal 137 beats per minute instead of 290.
Spring has finally come to upstate New York and with it, birds with irritable bowel syndrome and freakishly accurate aim.
Two months ago, we packed up our Durango full of gas and offspring and drove to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for the purpose of furnishing a good portion of our house via IKEA and endured …
Little did we know that what we were really doing was buying a bed for Oliver.