I'm taking credit for Captain America's shield if I could

Last weekend, Carl and I took the 9-year-old to see Captain America: The Winter Soldier because:

  1. Carl saw it earlier in the week by himself (!!) and fell asleep and missed a lot of the movie (that's what your ass gets when you do shit without me).
  2. I couldn't stand to watch the trailers on Youtube with the 9-year-old anymore - he made me watch them at least 25 times. At least. And now I think I'm Nick Fury. Or is it Mr. Glass? Or is it Mace Windu?
  3. the toddler and I needed a break from one another - I think I was getting on her nerves.
  4. I didn't want to clean the bathrooms

This week I learned the thought of cleaning makes me want to get in the car and drive to a complex where I have to sit next to a lot of germy people who cough and talk throughout the entire movie and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

I'm stealing these tweets and yelling them furiously out of a bullhorn. In front of my neighbor's house because why the fuck not?


What if...

baby-prince.jpg

Bad doesn't even begin to describe it.

Prince had been doing some resource guarding and I thought with some adjustments in our training, it would go away. I really wanted it to just go the fuck away, but it didn't. It got worse. Holy hell, it got worse. 

It started out as a little growl here and there. And then the barking started followed by lunging and then biting. He'd already bitten Carl twice. 

I read everything I could get my hands on. My brain was exploding with knowledge about dog hierarchy, commands, white papers, videos. I am your pack leader was my mantra and I was getting a little sick of it.

I even called about a dozen different dog trainers in the area. Most of them wouldn't work with Prince because he had already bitten someone in the family and if they were willing to work with us, we couldn't afford it. Sorry, say that again - $175 an hour? As one trainer said as she guilted me, "If you love your dog, then you wouldn't hesitate in having me come over."

Shit, lady, thanks for making cry for the rest of the day.

What were we doing wrong? We had other dogs before. It couldn't possible be this hard, right? We had rescues before - Rottweilers and Cane Corsos. Why was this little guy so difficult for us to handle?

We had to do something. We were unhappy, Prince seemed unhappy and we didn't want anyone to get hurt. 

What if we were not the right family for him?

I didn't want to believe it, but I couldn't ignore our problems anymore. 

So last Labor Day, I called the shelter where we adopted Prince. I didn't know what I was going to say, except help, but no one answered the phone and I didn't call back. Ever.

A few weeks later, we adopted Tank. Needless to say, Prince was pissed. For a long-ass time.

And then, something funny happened.

Prince's resource guarding stopped. He still growls on occasion when he gets scared and still has his someone give me fucking attention barking but no more lunging, no more biting, no more frustrating days and nights.

Is it because there's this hierarchy that exists now that Prince understands or that he's found his best friend? I don't know, but whatever it is, I'm glad he's happy. 

Getting fitted for humiliation

It's that time of the year again where I take an assessment of my pretty worn down bras and grimace. Do I really need to make an effort in the boob department anymore? After three kids and breastfeeding, time has not been kind to my lady mounds.

Carl says I'm just being lazy and don't want to deal with going to the mall and talking with humans. That may play into it. Just a little. 

I avoid Victoria's Secret because I am no longer interested in bras that push my boobs up to my chin anymore. Also, all the fucking padding is annoying. Sorry. I've just aged about two decades, haven't I?

So what does any self-respecting almost 40-year-old do? Go into the store where their mom shops for bras because fucking karma is never on my side.

When my mom first told me about Soma years ago, I thought she was talking about the muscle relaxer and wondered why she was going to the mall to get her soma on.

Whatever.

I walk into this store with a look of disdain, wanting to get out of the there the second I arrive. The women who work there are all my mom's age, which is fine. I don't care how old you are, but they're all giving me that annoying mom look like 'oh, you poor thing, you couldn't even get your shit together to iron your clothes today.'

A woman that looks like Nancy Sinatra saunters over to me. She's wearing wedge heels and looks like she's about to go out to go clubbing after her lunch break and I wonder how many minutes it will take for her to sprain her ankle. I try to steer my away from her, but find myself blocked into a corner with nowhere to hide except behind some very uncomfortable looking thong underwear display. 

"How can I help you today?"

My mind races, trying to find something smart-alecky to say, but I keep it simple, knowing, somehow, corporate has my mom's direct number and will feed her information of my poor behavior. Monosyllabic it is: "Bras."

"Oh wonderful. We've got a great selection that's just amazing." There's a lilt to her voice that makes my lips tremble with irritation. What other awesome adjectives will she inject into our conversation today? "What size are you, dear?"

I shrug my shoulders since it's been awhile since I bought a bra. The last time I bought a bra, I was nursing and I was happy to have big boobs.

She shakes her head at me disapprovingly. "Well, we can't have that can we? Let's get you measured then."

She leads me into a sweetly lit hall full of changing rooms and chairs and pushes me into the last changing room at the end of the hallway. Is this her kill room? Have I met the female Dexter?

Instantly, she whips out her tape measure from nowhere and has her hands up and around me. I'm getting molested by an octopus.

Why didn't I just stay at home and fold some laundry? Seriously.

"Well," she says, as her lips purse from side to side, "you have a little sag to contend with, but that just comes with age and having had kids. Also, your breasts are lopsided, but it's not a big deal and common."

Her voice echoes down the hall and into the main store - it seems everyone is staring at me with a compassionate look. "Let's get you some bras to make you perky again."

Does Pamela Anderson have these conversations when she's shopping for bras? Somehow, I doubt it.

Don't mind me. Saggy, lopsided boobs make me cranky.

I was once a young MC

9-year-old: What's this song called?

Me: Bust a Move.

9-year-old: It sounds old school. I like it.

Me: It came out when I was in high school. You know, I didn't know the words so I would have to play the tape, then press pause, play it again, press pause, rewind, press play and write down what I thought he was rapping.

9-year-old: Uh, why didn't you just Google the words?

Me: Oh, the innocence of youth. Google wasn't even created then.

9-year-old: What? What lies are you spinning, witch?

Me: I know it's difficult for you to even imagine a world without Google.

9-year-old: I need to go to my room and reflect on this lapse in humanity. Did Grandma and Grandpa at least let you watch the video on YouTube?

Me [laughs]: YouTube didn't exist.

9-year-old: Please stop talking. Stop talking now.

 

I probably should've been an ice skater

What, you guys?

Dorothy Hamill and her hair were very popular at the time or so my mom told me. So popular, in fact, that my mom had a similar hairstyle and ohmygawd we looked scary standing next to one another, like one of those B horror movies that's on at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Sunday and you want to change the channel, but you can't because a) you're too fucking lazy and b) there's something strangely gratifying about watching a terrible, plot-addled movie. 

I remember this yellow jacket very well. It was so bright, people had to partially cover their eyes. I was like a walking Lifesaver. From Sears. 

My childhood was strange. 

Also, I look like I could've been that Damian kid from those Omen movies. 

Failing at the facts of life

9-year-old: Mom? What are hooters?

Me: Excuse me?

9-year-old: Ya know. Hooters?

Me: Why do you need to know this so early in the morning?

9-year-old: Well, I'm pretty sure I know the answer to this, but aren't hooters owls? They're owls, right?

Me: Yes, yes, you're totally right.

9-year-old: I'm confused then because Dad said hooters don't really have anything to do with owls. They're really...

Me: Ooooookay. 

9-year-old: Okay, what?

11-year-old [laughs]: Hooters equals boobs. Now can we get to school or do I need to explain something else?

 

 

 

I'd take credit for Letterman and The Simpsons if I could

Migraine meds + Xanax = long, long naps on the sofa while the dogs chew on my socks. 

This week I learned, I probably don't get enough sleep and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

I'm stealing these tweets and soaking in them with some epsom salts:



Short term memory

So this happened today. 

I bent down to pet Tank and his blocky Rottweiler head popped up and banged against my forehead and now I've got a knot there the size of Michigan. 

I screamed, I cried a little, I fell on the sofa writhing in pain.

9-year-old: You do know Dad's not here, right?

Me: What? Where is he?

9-year-old: Remember? Work?

Me: Holy hee haw. All this great acting for nothing. 

9-year-old: It was good. I like the part where you swear. Bravo.