For those considering a smooshyfaced puppy

Get a short one. They can't reach the trash can and they can't do that awkward crotch sniffing thing to your guests.

They encourage your kids to keep their toys picked up. No one likes their toys slobbered on.

They have bad breath. The husband insists this is because they lick their balls, but I'm thinking if their balls smelled that bad that they'd smell like dog breath all over.

My floors have never been cleaner.

On a related note, Boober's face has never been cleaner either.

They'll chase your cat around. I guess this isn't a huge bonus, but Scout is getting some exercise and it's hilarious.

They're always so happy when you come home. Even if I've just stepped away to go take a pee real quick, Oscar does his happy puppy jump thing when I come back.

They give you something to blog about.

When their nails are a tad long but you can't find the damn nail clippers, they make a neat tippity-tap noise when walking around on linoleum.

And when all else fails and they're getting on your very last frayed nerve, you can stick 'em in a cage! I'm pretty sure it's illegal to do that to kids.

Ohhh, my puppy has a first name...

Meet Oscar.



Or Oscard if you're Smella.

If you'll recall, Oscar was my sister's puppy. But the sister has to move, and where she's moving doesn't allow cute, snuggly, smooshyfaced puppies.

Which is a damn shame because this is the best puppy ever.

The sister dropped him off on Friday, and since then he's had one accident. He doesn't chew things he's not supposed to unless there happens to be one of the kids' stuffed animals lying around. He really enjoys gnawing on Boober's stuffed Mickey Mouse.

But other than that, the dog's a dream. He adores the kids, and they are over the moon about having a dog. And me too. He's the first dog I've ever had, and I've always wanted one. But for various reasons (mostly laziness) I never got one.

The opportunity to adopt Mr. Smooshyface was too good to pass up though.

Scout would beg to differ, and I'm pretty sure she's going hoarse from all the hissing and spitting she's been doing lately, but I'm sure she'll come around eventually.

Until then, I have a loyal study buddy. He loves to keep my lap warm while I try not to pass out reading sociology.

I think he's probably a keeper.

Eight years ago

They took him away after that initial meeting. They always do. They take him away with the promise that they'll bring him right back. They just need to do this, and one of these, and some of that.

They wheel you to another room, your now slightly jiggly belly, empty. And you sit and wait, alone, because your husband has went with the new baby, torn between staying with the woman who just birthed his first offspring and following the helpless offspring. The shiny new offspring always wins.

And you wait. Patiently at first, because you want him to be safe, to be healthy, to be thoroughly checked out. But then you start to worry. And you start to feel a little lonely. And then it turns into an all-out panic.

And finally, after two hours, a nurse wheels your shiny new offspring back to you, followed by a giddy if not exhausted dad. And she drones on and on about feeding and diapering and poops and umbilical cord care...and it's all you can do to not rip her face off and demand she give you the baby. NOW.

And then she finally shuts up and hands over the goods. And he's there. Warm and pink and soft and blond. So much blond hair. And you finally get to nuzzle the sweet, soft spot of his neck and examine every toenail and fold, and get to whisper his name into his ear, and you break into sobs.

And when your husband asks if everything's okay, you nod and assure him you're fine, excellent in fact, you just missed the baby.

What you don't tell him is that it's more than missed, it was an ache. A frantic, panicky ache. But now that he's here, and you have him in your arms, everything in the whole world is just fine.

***

Big D turned eight years old yesterday.

For some reason, all day long, while I baked cupcakes and wrapped presents and anticipated the look on his face at chocolate chocolate chip frosting, that frantic, panicky feeling would come. He's eight, well on his way to being taller than I am, smarter than a kid should be, still has a ton of blond hair, and I adore all of that.

But I think I miss that warm and soft and pink baby something fierce.

Customer of the day

A young woman came up to the counter last night and ordered her usual tea. Before I rang her up, she told me there was something she wanted to tell me.

She said that the day before she had been in to get a drink really quick and she had parked in the handicapped space in front. I was automatically thinking, "I'm probably not going to be on your side with this story, but go on..."

She said that yeah, she shouldn't have parked there, but she was feeling lazy, and she was in and out. She said that when she went out to her car, there was a note on the windshield that said, "You're not handicapped, ho."

And I managed not to laugh in front of her! Aren't you proud of me? Instead I assured her it wasn't me or my coworkers. I shrugged and told her I thought the note was kind of harsh; her being a ho or not was completely irrelevant.

I'm still not sure why she told me. I felt slightly accused, but really, even if one of us did leave that note, she should feel lucky. Because parking in handicapped spaces when you're an able-bodied ho is illegal.

I would still love to know who left the note.

Random Tuesday thoughts

1. If you have a four-wheel drive vehicle and it's snowy out, do you feel it's kind of your duty to drive in the untouched snow on the roads for other people? Like, wussy rear-wheel drive can't smoosh down that annoying pile of snow in the middle of the lane, so you'd better take care of it. Or is that just me?

2. I love the words "epitome" and "rendezvous." I like the way they're spelled and roll off my tongue. There are others, but I can't think of them right now.

3. I have to watch either The Terminal or Dances with Wolves for my interpersonal communications class and then write a paper. I've seen The Terminal, and from what I can remember, it was Tom Hanks does Borat or something. And the other movie is FOUR HOURS LONG. Gah.

4. When I'm at the grocery store and some dipshit is blocking the whole entire aisle with their cart while price checking peas, I dream of ramming their cart with mine while shouting "MOOOOOVE" like Jimmy Fallon in this SNL skit.

5. Do you ever sit and think about how much money we give away to insurance companies for absolutely nothing in return? I mean yeah, they'll be there in case something happens, but for the most part, we just give them money for free! For nothing at all in return! I've never made a claim on my car insurance in all the fourteen years I've been driving. It hurts my head.

6. I wish I had blueberry cheesecake for breakfast again.

7. I have to go watch The Terminal now. At least Tom Hanks doesn't wear a g-string in the movie, right?

Tips on what not to say to your hysterical wife

I was headed home this morning from school and hopped on the interstate. A few minutes into my trip, my mini SUV started to shudder and sound like it might explode. I turned down the radio to hear better and nearly barfed. I was sure the engine or transmission or some other Major Car Component was about to blow. Except even I know most Major Car Components are located in the front, you know, under the hood, and this wasn't coming from there. I slowed down, and as I did, I figured out it had to be a tire.

In a sheer panic, I slowed down even more, frantically checking mirrors to see if I could get over. By luck, I was near an exit and wobbled over to get on it. I was hoping beyond all hope to get off the exit to a gas station or something, but the shuttering and gawdawful noise was worse, so I stopped where I was.

Upon further inspection on the side of a goddamn interstate with cars going way too fast, I saw it was that same tire that was flat in September. The tire place fixed that tire instead of giving me a new one which I still say is fucking stupid. It had a big, fat screw in the tread. Why risk patching that shit?

And did I mention that this tire blew? It wasn't just flat, it was completely shredded. Like, a wheel with large pieces of rubber hanging off of it. Like, if I'd kept going, there would've been sparks. Like, a rhinoceros had decided to use my tire as a chew toy. Like, I COULD HAVE DIED.

So when I called the husband, nearly hysterical and all shrieky, he told me he'd be there in just a few to help me change the tire. Because yes, I'm a dumb girl who can't do it herself. I know the mechanics, I've seen it done a ton of times, but hello...hysterical, way too fast traffic, shredded rhino tire. Come on.

Anyway, here's the lesson of this whole post: When your nearly hyperventilating wife whose pants may be a little wet calls you in a panic because of rhino tire, traffic, blah, blah and she's mad and upset and says, "I hate this fucking car! Hate it!" it is NOT appropriate to say all logically and superior-like,

"Well, it's not the car's fault, and that's totally irrelevant."

I mean really.