When you sleep among train tracks.
I spend a lot of my time with a little boy and a little dog, and we mix it up together with this and that.
Sometimes a little bit of the other.
I am very fond of throwing open the blinds as far and wide as they will go when the sun comes out to play at this time of year. I am not a fan of being cold and gray. I need light and warmth and vibrance or I forget how to breathe.
The dog is very, very fond of sleeping in puddles of sun on the carpet. (I have to admit that I am, too.)
What he did not realize, however, is that if one chooses to sleep among the train tracks of the little boy, one gives up all rights not to be built upon.
I was the foreman, looking on and supervising. I must confess that I felt this was a questionable choice of foundation.
But the builder, the artist, had a vision, and he followed through.
The foundation was kind of not interested in allowing the vision to be realized.
In fact, the foundation was all, “I am utterly displeased with the choice of building materials and deeply disturbed that nobody found it necessary to request my permission to build on these grounds. Oh and I’m definitely thinking of peeing on something you like as a form of revenge.”
But the little boy builder was not going to give up so easily, and quickly went for a second try at his plan once the foundation had resettled.
But the foundation was all, “Uh. No.”
He had other things in mind.
The little boy was unsure of how to proceed.
But then the builder decided he was really always meant to be a masseuse, and a compromise was reached.
And everyone was happy.
Which, when laying in puddles of sunny carpet among train tracks, is really not all that surprising.
Who needs a dishwasher?
Just get yourself a handy-dandy lush dawg.
The Mexican. He is, additionally, good for floor cleaning, table begging, child entertainment, barking at nothing, and being an all-around loveable doofus.
(And I only want to microwave him sometimes. Really.)
Welcome back, Pee-Dog!
If you’ve been reading here for awhile, you know that we have a small rat fur-pest dog – a lil’ Chihuahua whose name is Zack, but who we lovingly refer to as “The Mexican.”
Like Braden, he survives in our household because he is very, very cute.
But his cuteness could not surpass the high level of vomiticousness that was his constant need to piss on everything we own. Over and over again we tried to be patient and train him, to no avail. When we moved again, we decided to try living Pee Free.
Collective “Awwwww, poor little thing!”
Yeah, your life wasn’t Urine-Rageous.
And yet, as the cold weather came upon us recently, my cold, black coal of a heart softened and grew, much like The Grinch’s.
And The Mexican didn’t even have to sing an obnoxious song.
Oh wait! YES HE DID. He started howling and yipping outside constantly.
Another collective, “Awwwww!”
So the Furniture Pissing…
Poop Eating…
Jerk-Faced Dog has somehow made it back into our home full time.
So far, he’s doing well. We’ll see how it goes.
Of course, Braden LOVES him and is delighted to have him inside.
And that’s what REALLY keeps him alive.
Otherwise, I’d have nuked him long ago.
But the rack does make a difference.
Dawn’s most recent SOOS Challenge, in honor of Sandy and her family moving into their new house, was to talk about what makes your house a home.
(Also, Veronica and her family are moving into their house in 6 days!)
I wasn’t all together sure, so I decided to walk through our (rental) house (that we’re staying in for another year, despite this, ugh.) and look around a bit while mulling the question over.
“Hmmm… what makes our house a home?”
Is it John’s Forever And Ever, Amen Junked-Up Nightstand?
No… that can’t be it.
And yeah, I’ve tried repeatedly to organize it for him, but it generally only stays clean for .52342 seconds. So I stopped trying.
Wait, maybe it’s the pile of dirty clothes!
No, no… hold on, it’s The Pile of CLEAN CLOTHES!
And the rack that relates to it?
Ugh. That can’t be it. It’s not about clothes or even racks.
“Think, Lotus, Think!”
Let’s keep looking…
Is it the Poor Man’s Loveseat?
Or maybe ALL THE FREAKIN’ TOYS!?
(where did they all come from? we never planned this! i think they multiply at night.)
Ack. I think I’m still way off. It’s not the lack of reliable seating or the 8 million and five toys (though I’m beginning to realize why we can’t afford a real loveseat).
Oh, WAIT. I’ve got it!
It’s the highly disobedient dog!
And the URINE SOAKED BELONGINGS!
Why are you shaking your head? I got it all wrong again, huh?
Okay, let me sit down and think about this some more.
*Jeopardy Tune*
Ohhhh. Wait.
This is where Braden crawled for the first time.
And then walked.
And where we celebrated when he turned One Year Old.
It’s where my husband comes off the road and back to his son.
Their first Father’s Day together was in this house.
John and I celebrated loving one another for six years here recently.
And soon, we will celebrate four years of marriage at our tropical getaway! in this house.
It’s our home, because we are here together, building memories.
Here’s to all the family memories you will build into your new home for many years to come, Sandy and Veronica.
“Ever see the back of a twenty dollar bill… on WEED?”
Dude.
DUDE.
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude.
Braden’s PeePee Stain on my Shirt:
I inserted this into my post on Tuesday, just thinking it was funny. Several of you pointed out that it looks like something.
Bogeyman (or boogie man) from Nightmare Before Christmas (Denise, SugarPlumsMom)
Casper the Friendly Ghost or just a Ghost (Ree, Jennifer, Jenski)
Casper’s friend, holding a sandwich (Hehe, Lou)
“Marshmallow man destroying the city. and the one eyed one horned flying purple people eater in the background” (Whoooooaaa, Kara!)
Totally, guys! I was impressed, and so I stared at it.
This came:
“Bald-Headed Giant holding arm out, dangling Christmas tree from hand. Squirrel standing on arm, dog standing on shoulder.”
Look, really. You’ll see it, too, I swear.
DID YOU SEE IT?
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude.
Haik’ewww…
I have already
shared the fact that my dog is
absolutely gross.
We all got a laugh
when I told you how he ate
Braden’s turds with glee.
The Mexican stunk.
So, yesterday we gave him
a bath in the tub.
It is fun to laugh
and torment the dog while he
is in the water.
See how he is so
dumb that he chases his own
tail in the bath tub?
Or maybe he is
Trying to sniff his own butt,
because he likes that.
Indeed, we would be
washing his beloved stink
off and down the drain.
And, apparently,
he needed to let us know
How that made him feel.
This only made us
laugh at him even more, and
he vowed his revenge.
He was not joking.
Not long after he was out,
He peed on our couch.
*Insert 5 7 5 of swear-words here.*
Is it too late to
Nuke The Mexican and then
burn our microwave?
Gonna Nuke The Mexican
- At November 12, 2007
- By Lotus, aka Sarcastic Mom
- In Humor, Rant
69
The dog is small. The dog fits in the microwave.
Last Monday, Braden was upset, looking for his “bat-ees.” (Paci)
I found it.
And you know what?
I was right.
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