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For those of you who don’t know me very well, I have two Butts. And, apparently, they are quite itchy. This can be slightly irritating with one Butt, but with two it’s downright aggravating – and expensive.
I should probably mention, for those of you who don’t know me too well, that the Butts happen to be dogs – Mrs. Pain in the Butt (golden retriever, 12 years) and Wonderbutt (bulldog, 2 years).
Mrs. Pain in the Butt got her nickname because she has grown increasingly neurotic over the years, and being partly deaf does not seem to have improved her mental health.
Wonderbutt got his nickname for many reasons. You can read one here. And if you are questioning whether he truly deserves this name, another reason is because we often say, “I wonder… but I’m not even going to ask why he ate that completely inedible and somewhat pointy object that somehow managed not to rip his intestines to shreds.”
So, anyway, the two Butts both have skin problems. Mrs. P.I.B., I’m convinced, has Munchausen Syndrome, and has completely devised her own self-induced mysterious disease that is causing her skin to flake, lesions to form, and fur to billow about the living room. Despite her ragged appearance, I haven’t seen her scratch herself once in the last month, but the vet is convinced that she has allergies and Dramatic Treatment is Called For.
Then we have Wonderbutt, who approaches every person butt-side first because his rotundness and short legs preclude him from taking care of his own skin irritation in the region of his derriere. He is losing hair on both sides, which caused Great Concern last year, but apparently is only some weird form of Seasonal Affective Disorder that makes his depressed follicles shove out any hair that won’t let them “have their space.” I know exactly how they feel.
That’s right. I empathize with hair follicles.
Because of these problems, we decided to give both Butts a bath this weekend with some soap that cost more than my last 5 visits to the hair salon put together.
The smart person who designed this million dollar soap recommended that the dog stand for 20 minutes with the soap on its skin. When my husband, Cap’n Firepants, relayed this information, I had visions of lathered up Butts racing around our house, so I wisely opted to set up an outdoor bathing area. I implemented a complicated system of leashes, collars, a garden hose, and a swing set to create a makeshift grooming salon.
Even if you know me very well, you may not know that Wonderbutt has a thing about the backyard, where he is never allowed unsupervised because we are afraid he will poison himself or choke on a tumbleweed of ball moss. Other than consuming everything in sight, when Wonderbutt is in the backyard, his favorite thing to do is to charge. He races around with absolutely no regard for big or small obstacles; once he ran full-speed into a tree. Last week, he managed to knock both my husband and me down in the span of 10 minutes. I guffawed triumphantly at the toppling of Cap’n Firepants until Wonderbutt head-butted me in the back of my knees on my way inside.
Anyway, so I got Mrs. P.I.B. hooked up, and then it was Wonderbutt’s turn. He was being sassy, and kept trying to eat his collar, or flatten his head and neck to the ground so I couldn’t fasten the darn thing. Finally, I got him attached.
I stood up, and Wonderbutt looked at me with a familiar devious glint in his eye. Then he charged me at 100 miles an hour.
The leash caught him up a millisecond before he reached me, causing him to tumble over backwards with a surprised look on his face.
I am proud of myself that I was still able to get this picture despite the fact that I was laughing my butt off at my Butt.
Don’t worry; he recovered quickly, and proceeded to completely wrap himself around Mrs. P.I.B.’s legs and knock her off her feet like a calf in the rodeo. He’s like some kind of wonky Weeble with an overbite who happens to emit noxious fumes.
God, I love my Butts.
Well, we are a little over two weeks into the new year, and I have already accomplished my New Year’s Resolution. Determined to boost my followership from the 5 people at which it had plateaued around July of last year, I resolved to increase my followers to 10. Woohoo! I made it. That means I have close to 11 months now to do absolutely nothing before I have to make my next resolution.
Also, according to some very complicated math and statistics compiled by my 10-year old daughter, this means that I am now “too big to fail”. That’s right, Government People. If I go down, so do 10 other Citizens of the World, so you better make sure that doesn’t happen.
It occurred to me that, with the new year and the increase in followers, I should probably amend the Terms of Agreement for This Blog. And, don’t say you didn’t know there were any. You should really pay more attention before you click those buttons.
In case you did not bother to read the fine print before you joined my fan club, here is what you committed to with your impetuous mouse click:
“I agree to complete all of the New Year’s Resolutions set forth by Mrs. Cap’n Firepants by the end of 2013, or I shall forfeit all of my assets, a warehouse of dark chocolate, and an airplane hangar of Diet Coke to the aforementioned spouse of Cap’n Firepants.”
Beginning today, the above Terms of Agreement for This Blog have now been amended to read as follows:
“I agree to never use any phrases in my comments that allude to the titles or lyrics of any song that is related, directly or indirectly, to the musical, Les Miserables. I also agree to never hire Russell Crowe to ‘sing’ in another movie, and only to hire him to act if Wonderbutt is taken hostage and that is the only way to save him. In addition, I agree that Donald Trump has horrible hair, and I promise that I will never leak to the New York Times that Mrs. Cap’n Firepants is the true Santa Claus. I also promise not to leak. Because that’s gross.”
Whew. I need a nap. Having 10 followers is very exhausting. I’m not sure I can handle all of this pressure.
I hope the government is ready with its bail-out.
Sometimes my daughter can be extremely smart and devastatingly dense at the same time. Her Santa Claus reveal is a perfect example.
A few years ago, when Dimples was 6, she started making little comments that hinted at her suspicions of Santa’s true identity. One night close to Christmas, Cap’n Firepants had to work late. Dimples and I were eating dinner, and she suddenly blurted out, "Mom, are…
LITTLE EIGHT-YEAR OLD BOY
This little eight-year old boy is up in the ceiling again!
He must be back to his usual pranks of rewiring fans and lights.
He replaces connections to switches, I really wonder his gain.
Right now, in the roof with pliers; where is the fright for heights?
I left my computer passworded but he gave me a guest account.
I honestly think I could stretch these posts about our 3 days at The Ranch until Christmas. The Popularity of the Poop Bug Post made me realize just what kind of minutiae my blog readers really crave.
So, quick recap in case you are too lazy to read the last 3 posts (which I am too lazy to link to, so we’re even): we went to The Dictator’s Ranch, Wonderbutt was unintimidated by the Wall of Death or The Ranch cat, Wonderbutt kept me up all night, and then almost drowned in the pond, but was saved by Dimples, who is 9 and not at all brawny enough to be rescuing 70 pound bulldogs scrambling for their lives. Now you’re all caught up.
I kind of lied in the title of this post, because I must present you with a few pictures of Day 2 before we proceed to Night 2. I need to lay the groundwork for my 2nd Night of No Sleep.
Wonderbutt had a busy day. After nearly drowning, we went for a walk up to the barn.
In other words, Wonderbutt was pooped. There was no way Wonderbutt would keep me up again all night. NO WAY.
Being the proactive person that I am, I informed Cap’n Firepants that he would be in charge of Wonderbutt for the 2nd night.
“Fine. But you are sleeping next to Dimples.”
“Hah! No problem.” You just got the worst end of that deal, I thought to myself. Dimples sleeps, and does not try to dismember cats in the middle of the night.
I went to bed early. About an hour later, the rest of the Firepants Family joined me. I drowsily listened to Wonderbutt settling in on the floor at the foot of the bed, welcomed Dimples to her spot beside me, and hoped that the Cap’n understood that, when Wonderbutt started whining to leave the room so he could go tear apart the cat, the Cap’n would be following him.
Another hour later. ”What the – ” I sat up in bed. Dimples had just elbowed me in the eye. In her sleep. Hard.
The Cap’n was in a deep slumber. So was Wonderbutt.
I turned my back to Dimples, my sweet, non-violent daughter, and went back to sleep.
“Holy – !” I leapt up. She had done it again. Amazingly, my cries of pain woke no one in the room but me.
Then the Blanket Battle began. Dimples would roll over, leaving me with an edge of the blanket about three inches wide. I would tug it back from her, only to be back in the same freezing position thirty minutes later.
I got smart. Anticipating a roll-over maneuver, I grabbed my corner of the blanket before she could pull it away.
She sat up in bed with her eyes still closed, and engaged in a Tug of War to the Death. That girl is freakishly strong in her sleep.
I am freakishly strong when I’ve had no sleep. And when I’m fighting a comatose child who weighs 70 pounds less than I do. I won that time, then rolled my twice as heavy body over a quarter of the blanket so it would be impossible for her to yank it away from me again.
And the Cap’n and Wonderbutt slept on.
And I hated them all – the whole darn Firepants Family. What kind of stupid vacation weekend was this?
Once again, the next morning, I was the Lazy Sleeper Inner. Who told Tall Tales of a 9 year old girl who beats up her mother in the middle of the night.
No one believed me.
Next time, I need to just let Dimples give me a black eye.
Or suddenly come down with a case of the Shingles right before the car pulls out of the driveway for our “relaxing” weekend.
“This all comes from having a husband who has a sketchy history with lizards.” This is what I was thinking Sunday night when I was in the middle of risking my life on the mean streets of Boston.
My day started early in the a.m when I started getting ready for my trip to Boston.
In the middle of my shower, I decided I should shave my legs in case my plane crashed. Then, I told myself that I needed to remember to pack a razor. Then I put my foot on my little teak table in my shower. And then I bent down and was face to face with a lizard.
I am not freaked out by lizards – though it is somewhat disconcerting to find one in my shower. I responded to this surprise visit by finishing my business, and then grabbing Cap’n Firepants’ phone from his bedside table so I could take a picture.
“Whadrudoin?” the Cap’n sleepily asked.
“Documenting the lizard in our shower.”
It’s a testament to Cap’n Firepants that he did not ask any follow up questions.
A few minutes later, the Cap’n got up to take his shower.
“Where is the lizard?” he asked.
“Why?” I said, cautiously. Actually, I think I said, “Why? Don’t you dare kill him. He’s cute.” The Cap’n and I differ on the treatment of varmint trespassers. He likes to squish them under his foot, while I generally pick them up and take them outside.
“So I don’t step on him by accident,” he responded, to my relief.
The point of this whole story is that I completely forgot to pack my razor, due to my fear that Cap’n Firepants might squish the unfortunate lizard in our shower. This is what I realized when I reached my Boston hotel later that evening after my exciting adventures barely evading the law for flying under an assumed name that wasn’t even my choice to assume in the first place. (See yesterday’s post for that fun story.)
So I decided to make a trek around 8:30 at night to the local CVS pharmacy.
I don’t think I’ve mentioned before that I completely lack any kind of map-reading skills, night sight, or sense of direction. Or common sense.
Oh, and I was alone.
Of course I went 10 blocks in the wrong direction at the beginning of my trek. But I finally found the CVS with the help of the good people of Harvard Square.
There were some decidedly unacademic looking people hanging out at the CVS.
Quite a few seemed to be having an attack of the munchies.
But I made it back to the hotel safe and sound, and confident in the fact that I would have smooth legs during my first day on the Harvard campus.
Now I am going to include a picture of the lizard and, in retrospect, it really wasn’t worth risking my life to take. I am telling you this now because I don’t know how to make captions on my pics using the WordPress iPad app.
Cap’n Firepants wants to divorce me. I would like to file the legal papers first, but I’m in that week of the month when I don’t allow myself to make any major decisions or sign legal documents.
Of course, he hasn’t actually come out and said that he is planning to divorce me. But I know he is.
Because he unplugged my flat iron.
At first, I thought this was a great reason for me to head down to the court house and start my own proceedings. But, then I realized that there was a message there. And, it was not, “I’m going to drive you crazy by doing things that will make you divorce me.” Instead, if you really read between the lines, it was, “This girls is going nuts, but it’s useless to even tell her, so I will just pretend everything is fine and slap her with papers when she least expects it.”
You see, I knew the flat iron was still on and plugged in. But Cap’n Firepants did not know I knew. But, instead of yelling to me, “Hey, did you mean to leave your flat iron plugged in?” he just assumed that I did not know because I must be losing it, and unplugged it.
Naive people might believe that he was being kind by not mentioning to me that I forgot to unplug the iron, which, by the way, I DID NOT FORGET, but I know the truth.
I confronted Cap’n Firepants with this information.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” he said, feigning ignorance.
“No, you didn’t. And I am pretty certain this is your subtle way of saying that you want a divorce.”
He laughed. And then he said, I KID YOU NOT, “Do you mean all of the other subtle ways didn’t tell you that?”
I can’t wait until my moratorium week is over.
I do not generally harbor grudges against people. I blow a gasket and move on. But I do tend to be a bit less forgiving of places of business. There are many who have earned a spot on my “Black List” for various transgressions that range from furniture stores that tried to give me a floor model for the new model price to doctor’s offices that kept leaving information about someone else’s appointment on my voice mail.
You might think that the Hapless Mattress Megastore would be on my Black List after recent events. And they teetered on the edge there for awhile. But, our second mattress, the one that smelled like gasoline, has now absorbed the normal smells that mattresses have. Either that, or my fuel-infused brain now finds it completely normal for my bedroom to smell like a gas pump. It does not matter, because Cap’n Firepants no longer has back problems, and I no longer have nose problems. So, the Hapless Mattress Megastore has narrowly escaped my Black List.
Some stores that were on my “Black List” are no longer in business. This gives me a slight twinge of guilt, because I am certain that the lack of my patronage led to their demise. Although I should be proud – since they were on my Black List – that I have saved the world from their shoddy customer service practices.
I do not write offenders down. I keep them in my brain. This is beginning to become a problem. One minor problem with keeping them in my brain is that I sometimes forget why I put them on the List. And then I want to go back, but I know they are on my List, but I can’t remember why. And it’s possible, though very rare, that I put them on my List for a relatively minor reason that seemed quite upsetting at the time, but I might decide to forgive now – depending on how desperately I need their services again. Or if they have a really good coupon.
The other problem is franchises. I could place one Hapless Mattress Megastore on my List, but maybe the branch near my workplace has stellar customer service. And then I remember the name is on my List, and I even remember why, but I can’t remember if it was the one next to my house, or the one by my grocery store. Or it could be that it was actually the Hapless Mattress Superstore instead of the Megastore, which is a completely different place with very rude salespeople who sell mattresses they recovered from hurricane victims.
My Black List has gotten out of control. So, I am implementing a few new rules:
- I am keeping an actual, visual list on my iPad with the name of the place and the description of its offense.
- And I am never shopping or eating at a franchise again.
- UNLESS it is a franchise that I have already deemed Better than Acceptable. Then, it shall be grandfathered in.
I would post the Black List here so that everyone could benefit from my in-depth research, but the length might crash the servers.
And I don’t want to get sued.
To help you out, though, I have decided to provide you with the list below. Use it wisely.