Another Reason Not to Buy Your Bulldog an iPhone

Our bulldog, Wonderbutt, has been reading far too much lately.  I knew I shouldn’t have shown him how to follow Yahoo’s pet posts on the internet.

 

Sure – this dog fits in my lap. Whether I want him to or not.

I Was Going to Include a Different Picture But I Was Afraid to Google It

Yesterday I had to fend off a wild beast with an artificial vagina.

Okay, the beast was not so wild.  But she was extremely forward.  Apparently, the father of my daughter’s swim coach feeds her from his hand,  so she expects the same treatment from anyone else who visits the back yard.  Her name is Rhonda.

Rhonda – right before she realized my iPhone is not edible

Oh, and, as you probably suspected, I did not use an artificial vagina.  I used my cell phone.  And I didn’t really beat her with it.  She backed off when she realized it wasn’t food.

These are the kinds of adventures I have in suburban San Antonio.

They aren’t very newsworthy, I’m afraid.

James Herriot, on the other hand, the British country vet who wrote a series of books about his life, really did, apparently, get to repel an angry bull by beating it on the face with an artificial vagina.  The bull, not surprisingly, was a bit upset at this man who kept interfering with things each time he tried to “service” a cow.

Comedy gold.  This kind of thing never happens to me.

Instead, I find myself in the enviable position of reading the chapter about it out loud to my 10 year old daughter, and explaining the concept of artificial insemination to her.  Because I:

a.) have absolutely no memory of reading that particular chapter when I read the book at her age – or even when I read it again a few years ago

2.) am too lazy to read ahead to see if this might be a chapter best skipped

III.) have not enough imagination to “wing it” and make something completely different up when encountered with the sentence, “All you did was wait till the bull started to mount, then you directed the protruded penis into the A.V.”

Quatro.) was so relieved that this chapter did not include the death of any animals that I figured I might as well keep on going.

For her part, my daughter seemed to take the entire thing completely in stride as she folded her clothes while I was reading – although we both lost it completely when the bull slipped during his millionth attempt to mount the cow and avoid the vet trying to grab his penis, and “slid clean under the cow.”

I thought that I had no use for an artificial vagina.  Actually, I never thought about an artificial vagina, period.  But now that I have seen its potential, I am thinking of looking for one on eBay.

I think it could come in useful as a conversation starter.  Plus, our houseguests could use it to fight off our bulldog, Wonderbutt, when he tries to hump their legs.

I’m going to get a story out of this somehow.

Let’s Face It. You Will Probably See this Exact Post Again at the Beginning of August.

So, the summer is almost over and I have gotten absolutely nothing accomplished.

Christmas gifts – none made.

Re-aquaintance with friends I haven’t seen during the entire school year – nope.

Closets – still a mess.

Novel – unwritten.

Weight – not lost.

New recipes – unlearned and uncooked.

On the upside, though…

Christmas gifts – none needed if I don’t ever get in touch with any friends again.

Closets – great excuse to continue to un-write my novel.

Weight – none gained while not eating the new recipes that I didn’t cook.

I blame my lack of productivity on Wonderbutt who, frankly, is not a very motivational presence with his habit of following me into every room, collapsing onto the floor, and snoring and farting contentedly while I try to focus and remember why I walked into the room in the first place before I succumb to the fumes that are partly my fault because I didn’t read the text from my husband that he had already fed Wonderbutt this morning – until it was too late.

Plus, he (Wonderbutt, not my husband) completely ruined my plans for today by yanking my blanket off the bed so he could nap on it, resulting in an unscheduled extra load of laundry and a complicated calculation of what time the blanket could go in the washing machine still leaving me time to run the dishwasher (which, of course, cannot be run concurrently), and what time the blanket would be able to go in the dryer so that I would still have it in time for bed.  And when, precisely, was I going to take a shower?  Because having a clean blanket would be kind of a waste if I just pulled it on top of my unclean, Wonderbutt-licked-with-affection legs and arms when I went to bed.

You can see what I’m up against.  Lucky for you, you can’t smell it…

When You Have a Dog Called Wonderbutt, All Other Names Pale in Comparison

I work at my daughter’s school.  At least, I did until today.  (Don’t worry.  I still work there.  It’s just not her school anymore, as she just finished 5th grade.)

One morning, a couple of days ago, we were walking into the school.  To the delight of many other students who were on their way in, a chihuahua who had obviously not read the “No pets on campus” signs clearly posted everywhere, was dashing around the entrance of the school.

“I recognize that dog,” my daughter said.  ”It’s the one that lives across the street from Gabby’s house.  That’s Rex!”

“Hmm,” I said, noting the huge pink color adorning the neck of the chihuahua.  ”Uh, are you sure its name is Rex?” And, yes, I am well aware that is sexist.  And somewhat unimaginative.  I mean, it could be, “R.E.X.” for “Resist Extraterrestrial X-Rays.”  Or, maybe, it was spelled, “Wrecks” as in “She Wrecks Every Piece of Furniture We Own.”  Perhaps that’s what we should have named our dog…

“Oh, yeah, that’s Rex,” my daughter confidently responded, nodding her head with assurance.

“Because uh, it’s got a pink collar,” I pointed out.

“It’s Rex!” she said, mildly perturbed that I would doubt her canine identification skills.

“O-kay!” I said, not willing to begin the day with a war over the moniker of an animal.

“Or Steve,” she conceded, as I opened the school door.  ”It could be Steve.”

We Tried to Make You a Gift, But Hobby Lobby Screwed it Up

You know how you try to save yourself money on a gift, but you tell yourself that it would be more meaningful to make something than buy something and then you proceed to spend more money than you ever would have spent on a store-bought gift as you attempt to make something that turns out crappy and you try to fix it and it turns out crappier and then you think, “Who needs friends who are going to criticize your gifts anway?  I’m just going to sit at home and watch The Big Bang Theory by myself for the rest of my life,” and you can’t even find a garbage bag big enough to fit the Giant Pinterest-Inspired Disaster that cost you $200?

Yeah.

So, it’s the end of the school year.  Teacher gift time.  Only this year is my daughter’s last year in elementary school, so she has decided to bestow 9 gifts upon the various people who have enriched her life.  And, reeling from a Pinterest induced stupor, I suggested a project.

This was the project. Don’t get excited. Our version looks NOTHING LIKE THIS.
from:
http://kojo-designs.com

I spent my entire Sunday trying to find the supplies for this project, which included chalkboard contact paper.

There was no chalkboard contact paper to be found.  I went to 5 stores.

I would like to take this opportunity to give Home Depot, Walmart, Michael’s, and Target the following advice – if you stocked your stores based on Pinterest boards you would make so much more money.  And your employees would not look at me like I’m on crack when I ask for chalkboard contact paper.

The only reason I didn’t go to 6 stores is because Hobby Lobby is closed on Sundays.  So, I improvised.  It turns out that my craft improvisations are just as successful as my recipe ad-libs.

I directed my daughter to use her chalk on the black shelf paper I had purchased.  It looked great.  Only problem?  It smeared like crazy.

“Oh, I know what to do about this,” I said, and went to the bathroom.

To get hairspray.

I sprayed the hairspray on a swathe of chalk designs.  They faded into black.

I tried 3 different hairsprays.  My daughter was getting a bit panicked as I systematically set about destroying her nine masterpieces.

“Okay, that’s not working.”

She sighed.

The next day, I borrowed some super fancy spray for chalk drawings from the art teacher.

“You’re not going to spray that in the house?” Cap’n Firepants asked.

“I’m just checking to see if it works,” I said as I asphyxiated the two of us.

It didn’t.

I told the art teacher, who then recommended chalk markers, which will apparently not smear, but can be removed easily with water. ( I didn’t really pay attention to the water removal option, as I figured, why would anyone want to remove my daughter’s beautiful artwork?)

“Where can I find this miraculous product?”

“Oh, Hobby Lobby should have it.”

So, Dimples and I trekked to Hobby Lobby.  Which was open.  Because it was not Sunday.  We found the chalk markers.  Right next to the chalkboard contact paper.

Dimples did not want to re-cover every notebook with chalkboard contact paper, so we opted for the markers.  But I bought the paper anyway.  For the inevitable next time I will need it.   I also threw in some chalkboard paint.  You can never have too many chalkboarding options.

She redecorated every notebook using the markers.

She put them on the floor to dry.

I think you can see from the pictures what happened next.

Poor Wonderbutt had no idea why I blew a gasket when all he was doing was chewing on his ball.

But I don’t blame Wonderbutt.  I blame Hobby Lobby.  FOR NOT BEING OPEN ON A SUNDAY WHICH IS THE ONLY DAY THAT I HAVE TIME TO DO PROJECTS THAT I FOUND AT THE LAST MINUTE ON PINTEREST.

I’m going to buy gift cards tomorrow.

And they won’t be for Hobby Lobby.

 

If You’re Not Going to Do it Right, Then Don’t Bother Doing It At All

In the true spirit of my lapsed Catholicism, I declared yesterday to be a “Whole Day of No Obligation“.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with this particular holiday, I think it’s high time you get with the program.  You probably won’t go to Hell if you foolishly disregard it, but you might as well be in Hell for all of the enjoyment you’re probably getting out of life.

WDNO’s are not on any calendar – yet – so you can just announce your own.  However, now that I’ve celebrated more than a few, I think you might be wise to consider my advice before you institute your own WDNO willy-nilly.

1.  Decide on the date of your WDNO at least two days ahead of time.  A spontaneous WDNO may sound like a great idea – until you realize at 10 AM that your annual gynecological appointment was scheduled for that day and it will be another 6 months before they can fit you in and you will be charged $100 for not canceling your appointment 24 hours in advance.

2.  Announce the date of your WDNO to all family and friends who may be involved.  Again, this should be done ahead of time.  This will allow them to prepare for your emotional absence on that date.  Clearly explain that, while they may be able to see you as you lounge around the house doing whatever you want, they will not be allowed to request any service from you.  Nothing.  They will be completely on their own for 24 hours.

3.  Delegate chores.  Or not.  It’s kind of fun to watch everyone come to the sudden realization that you are actually not going to put the wet clothes that were left in the washing machine the night before into the dryer so that they will be ready for the party that you are not going to drive them to at 3:00.

4.  DO NOT FALL FOR ANY ATTEMPTS TO FOOL YOU INTO DOING SOMETHING OUT OF OBLIGATION!!!!  If so, your WDNO is considered forfeited and you must start all over again on another day.  This includes, but is not exclusive to:  killing cockroaches that suddenly fall on your ten year old daughter in the shower, opening pickle jars, getting off the couch and unlocking the door for your husband who claims he forgot his key, and cleaning poop off of your dog’s foot so it does not get all over the house.

5.  Once you have had one or two successful WDNO’s, the rest of the family is bound to think this is a good idea.  Obviously, (especially if you have pets or infants), not everyone can celebrate a WDNO on the same day.  Not so obviously, however, they should not be celebrated on simultaneous days.  Here is why:  if your child/spouse celebrates WDNO the day before you, you will spend your own WDNO steaming because there are things you must command your child to do, but you cannot because that would be doing something you feel obligated to do.   However, if your child/spouse celebrates the day after you do, you will be so rejuvenated that you will want to get a lot done and you will have no one to order around to do it for you.

What should you do on a Whole Day of No Obligation?  Whatever you want, but are not required to do.  I read books, play on my computer, sleep an unspeakable number of hours, and read books again.

My bulldog, Wonderbutt, is completely on board with the sleeping part of the agenda.  In fact, you could probably consult any household pet for the best way to spend a Whole Day of No Obligation.  They have thousands of years of practice.

 

Wonderbutt hiding from his obligations

Wonderbutt being forced to confront the real world

 

Actually, We Don’t Read Any Books for Our “Book Club” Either

Our bulldog, Wonderbutt, seemed a bit miffed last night when I squeezed out the front door without him on my way to my monthly Book Club meeting.  My suspicions were confirmed when he texted me in the middle of my dinner.

 

Forget Being the Norm. I Would Much Rather Be the Carla. Or the Woody. Maybe Not the Woody…

I was reading the Sunday paper and came across this quote in an article about the recent spate of parenting books written by inept moms, “There wasn’t this acceptance about being this sort of less-than-perfect mother, but all of a sudden it feels like that is becoming the norm, rather than the exception.”  This was spoken by Jill Smokler of scarymommy.com.

Well, that explains what I’ve been doing wrong.  I need to stop talking about what I’m doing wrong, and start talking about what I’m doing right because there are far too many other people who are talking about what they are doing wrong, and they are doing it far better than I am.  The wrong, I mean.  Well, and the talking.

So, from now on I pledge to stand out from the pack and tell you all of the things that I am doing right as a mom.  Starting today.

1.)  My daughter has eaten hamburgers three days in a row.

Why is this right?  Well, I am so glad you asked.  Even though I would think it should be obvious.  It’s right because my daughter has eaten three days in a row.  Duh.  Plus, she loves lettuce and cheese on her hamburger.  So, there you have it – all 10 food groups in one meal.  Three times.  Two more and I will have Food Bingo.

2.)  I bought my daughter a dress for her 5th grade graduation while we were shopping for clothes for me on Mother’s Day.

Why is this right?  This is another no-brainer.  We made one trip to the mall, and now I don’t have to make another trip to the mall until August.  Possibly even September if I can find a post on Pinterest on how to transform a yellow lacy dress into a backpack.

3.)  Oh. My. God.  That is the best idea.  Ever.  I am going to quit my job and support my daughter by making Graduation Dress Backpacks.

Why is this right?  Because my daughter will see how important it is to pursue your passion in life instead of saving up for retirement.

And then, she will be happy to support me in my twilight years (although I may have to explain that this is a different kind of “Twilight”) as she pursues her lifelong passion to teach bulldogs synchronized swimming.

And then we will bond even more.

I rock.

Wonderbutt pays close attention to his coach during his first synchro lesson. To a layperson this may appear unsynchronized, but they are both actually doing the same exact thing – ignoring me.

Mother’s Day – Otherwise Known as “Maybe This will Absolve Me of My Guilt Day”

Am I the Only Person in Texas Who Doesn’t Know How to Plop a Patty?

It all comes from deciding not to go to the Goat Barbecue and Craft Fair.

I don’t know what got into me. I read the blurb for this amazing event in the Sunday newspaper, and thought, “That has got to be the coolest name for anything. Ever.” And I mean, anything. Like the name of the new band I’m going to start with Jon Stewart. Or the bookstore I’m going to open in my garage. If David Sedaris can explore diabetes with owls, I don’t see why I can’t spend an afternoon embroidering a lamp shade with a goat while eating some juicy ribs.

I have to admit, though, that I was a bit confused about the goat’s part in all of this. Is the goat doing the barbecuing and the crafting? Or are the goats being barbecued? If so, is that before or after they make a craft? And, most importantly, how do you train a goat to make the Alamo out of Popsicle sticks without the goat actually consuming it?

I could have discovered the answers to all of these riveting questions if I had chosen to make an actual appearance at the Goat Barbecue and Craft Fair. But, as tempting as it sounded, I couldn’t convince myself that anything was better than hanging around the house morbidly depressed. Even the “cow patty plop” didn’t persuade me. Though it did bring up more questions…

So, instead, I stayed home. My daughter, who was bored, got herself invited to a friend’s neighborhood pool. The friend’s mom decided not to make an appearance at the pool, so I waited for her with our bulldog, Wonderbutt, in tow. Not surprisingly, Wonderbutt fell in the pool and almost drowned because, stupidly, I had not brought his life jacket along on what I assumed to be a Drop-Off-And-Drive-Away situation.

Now, if you would have asked me who would be more resentful about this whole experience, I would have laid odds on the daughter, who got yanked back home when her friend’s mother took too long to return to three unchaperoned girls at an unlifeguarded pool. Instead, it’s Wonderbutt who isn’t speaking to me.

Being spurned by an obese bulldog is even more depressing than the thought of eating barbecued goat.

This was the chain of events I began to relate to my doctor the next day as evidence that he probably needed to change my medication – again.

He stopped me at “cow patty.”

It’s kind of scary how little convincing was needed to persuade him to write out a new prescription.