IT'S A GIVEN...

Don't take this as a sign of how this week's been or my mental state at the moment.  Just a few observations on my part.  It's a given that:

•  The dog will get diarrhea on her evening walk if you only have one pooper scooper bag.
  
• When you finish a hand-knit sweater you're actually happy with an obnoxious girl will say, "Ahhhhh!  Ugly sweater alert!"
  
• Your husband will wait until the light is burned out in the kitchen to write "light bulbs" on the grocery list. 
  
• The morning after your dogs kept you up half the night afraid of a storm your teenage son will want to have a serious conversation about his theories on aliens, the afterlife, and portals all combined...before he catches the bus at 6:30 a.m..
  
•  The night a beloved t.v. show is having the premiere of its first episode of the final season (to which you have been looking forward for six months), your baseball team will be playing its season opener.  (Just so you know where my loyalties are, I watched Mad Men on Monday.)
  
• When you're on the months-long waiting list for half a dozen popular books at the library, three will become available simultaneously.
  
• Your husband will wait until your dishes are covered with a hard water film fresh from the dishwasher before writing "water softener salt" on the grocery list.
  
• The evening you decide to ease your pain with a Little Debbie brownie you will discover some bastard ate the last one and left the empty box in the pantry.  And all your kids' Easter candy is gone...as well as your own.  And you sit typing at the computer trying desperately to talk yourself out of running down to the creamy whip for a medicinal banana split (or what I like to call "Housewife Heroin").

Have a good weekend, everybody!

A week of pouring rain?
Perfect time to roll in the back yard.

MY BIG QUESTIONS OF THE DAY

1)     Why was there a piece of cat poo on my family room  floor?

2)     Why did my hound dog, St. Jimmi, decide to roll on it? 

3)     Do you have any idea how hard it is to get poo out of the holes in a dog’s collar?

"Life's a piece of shit, when you look at it..."  So true, Eric Idle, so true.

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ANOTHER KIND OF BED-LAM

I don't want to say my husband, The Vulcan, is cheap.  I want to say he's a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner, but Charles Dickens might get pissed. 

Usually I get around my husband's frequent cry of "stop spending money!" by simply not telling him I spent it, one of the benefits of being the person in charge of household finance.  I also tend to hide my purchases in plain sight and it usually takes a good year for him to notice the new purse on my shoulder or the earrings dangling from my lobes.  My latest purchase, however, wasn't likely to go unseen.  Our 16th wedding anniversary is in a couple weeks and I learned about 12 years ago not to depend on him to pick an appropriate gift.  I've been much happier since I started simply buying a gift for myself and informing him afterwards.  I had every intention of picking myself up a Dooney & Bourke purse this year, but, alas, fear for my children's safety led me to a different gift.

We have a finished basement and on the weekends the kids sleep on the sofa beds down there and watch Netflix until the wee hours.  The Professor sleeps on a fold-out love seat my sister passed on to us when she moved.  Unfortunately the bed part is not functioning properly anymore and both he and the dog have to sleep on a mattress that slopes down at a 45 degree angle.  And that's the good sofa bed.  The other was purchased from the seller of our first home 15 years ago and it was gently used then.  It has since been through two kids, three dogs, and two cats, all of whom like to sleep on it or scratch it or bounce on it.  When unfolded, the mattress sagged in the middle, several springs were missing near the foot causing the mattress to dangle and scrape the floor, and stuffing was starting to come out of the back.  The arms had already been patched and the cushions recovered twice.  I feared some day a piece of metal was going to snap and one or both of my children (or my dogs) would be trapped and  turn up on "News of the Weird" due to the freakish cause of death.

On Sunday I wandered into the local Furniture Fair and twenty minutes later left with an order for a new futon.  The Inmates tested it in the store and as long as they're willing to sleep next to each other it will accommodate them both.  Chester's old sofa will stay, since it's totally functional as a couch, just not as a bed given its resemblance to a ski slope.  I thought I was being very mature about this.  I wasn't whining about not getting a purse (well, just a little) and I didn't insist this purchase should come out of general house maintenance money, even though I've always viewed being given a practical gift as only one step above being given the clap.

I informed The Vulcan that I bought a futon.  His reaction?  I quote:  "You better not have!"  Huh?  Apparently he thought there was nothing wrong with our old couch, that it was perfectly functional and not unattractive if I put the slipcover back on.  Plus, he insisted, this futon was expensive.  Why, he asked, couldn't I have gotten one for under $200?  I informed him that not only hadn't he bought a couch in decades, but apparently he'd never even been in a store with one since Pope John Paul died.

I give you my photographic evidence of my old couch.  You decide.

Personally I think Child Protective Services might have had something to say if they showed up...not to mention PETA and the SPCA.  The deliverymen were apparently so horrified by the old couch that they took it away, but left the crappy cushions behind on the floor.

On the other hand, the kids keep talking about how comfortable the new one is, I keep looking at the fresh unblemished fabric, and Frank immediately curled up and took a long nap.  Yep, The Vulcan is outnumbered as usual.

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*  TO TREE OR NOT TO TREE

THE WHY'S HAVE IT

Some apparently unanswerable questions from the past week:
 

• Why was there a desiccated French fry in the bottom of my knitting bag?
  
  
•  Why were there two pair of Foghorn's underpants and nine empty juice boxes behind the futon?
  
  
• Why does the dog drink out of the toilet and the cat wash her feet in the water bowl?  (Wait a minute.  Maybe the former happens because of the latter.)
  

• Why did I find peanut butter in the fridge and margarine in the pantry?
  
  
• Why do the dogs think the only reason to put on gym shoes is to take them for a walk?
  
  
• Why does my husband wait until after I've tidied up the whole kitchen at 9 p.m. to forage for food, ensuring that I wake up to dry and hardened Frosted Flakes glued to the stainless steel sink?

• Why does the dog think a 19th century book on the World's Columbian Exposition is so much more toothsome than kibble?  Or a Nylabone?  Or a 21st century, easily-replaced Harry Potter volume?
  
  
  
  
  
• Why are children always their most quarrelsome/hungry/thirsty/talkative at bed time?
  
  
• Why does the mailman produce such ire in the dog?
  
  
• Why does the dog produce so much ire in the cat?
  
  
• Why does the Vulcan produce so much ire in the Warden?

Finally, and maybe most importantly:

11.  Why does the cat always choose to puke on the carpet, never on the bare floors?

If you all will excuse me now, I have a date with the Spot Bot.






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* Meet the Inmates -- The Professor.

*  Meet the Inmates -- Foghorn.





  

SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH DOGS

And my apologies to Mr. Stephen Sondheim.  Sundays around here are usually pretty laid back.  I take the Inmates to Grandma's for lunch, ensuring I get at least one home-cooked meal a week.  Kinda pathetic that the only sure way to get one is to have my mommy make it for me.

Grandma and Rusty

Today the weather in the Cincinnati area was absolutely gorgeous.  Those blue skies, that low humidity, and that 80 degree temperature.  A little slice of heaven before the 90 degree heat comes back later this week.  We took advantage of the day to take the dogs for a nice, woodsy walk.  One of their favorite trails is at the Meade Property on Lebanon Road in Symmes Township.

Frank

Life was simpler when we only had Frank, our lab mix who showed up in the backyard eight years ago and has been loved by us ever since.  When we adopted St. Jimmi from Recycled Doggies in March, we suddenly found ourselves with two fairly large dogs who absolutely can not be walked together by one person.  They're both strong and can pull a person off her feet.  Believe me, it's happened.  Now that The Professor is twelve, though, I figure it's about time he learn to control a dog and I put him in charge of Frank, the least unruly of the two.

Foghorn, The Professor, and Frank

The biggest problem The Professor has is that his mind is usually anywhere but on the task at hand.  That means he's wandering along, holding the leash, and thinking about Pokemon.  Or Doctor Who.  Or getting back to Grandma's for some Rolos.  Then a rabbit darts from the bushes and Frank makes a lunge and the boy is completely unprepared.  I keep a careful eye on the two of them, as I don't want damage done to my son or my dog. 

Today, all was smooth.  Well, as smooth as an outing with The Inmates ever can be.  Foghorn had emerged from the basement last night with her ancient Dora the Explorer princess carriage and horse.  She then decided to ride it around the house.  Understand, this girl is 4-1/2' tall, with legs that reach up to her armpits, and the carriage is meant for a 2" tall Dora.  It's preposterous, to say the least.  Nonetheless, she insisted on bringing it to the park and riding it along the trail.  It worked fine until, despite my warnings, she attempted to ride it on the unpaved part of the trail and quickly flipped onto her behind.  Carrying seemed the best option after that...

All the dogs had a lovely time, although they seemed fairly hot and thirsty and tired by the end.  St. Jimmi especially seemed to have been tuckered out by the experience.  Twenty feet from the van she plunked her massive backside onto the ground and made it clear she had no intention of moving.

And I leave you with a dog walker's question:  Why does the dog always decide to squat two minutes after you get on the trail, ensuring you have to go the rest of the mile carrying a smelly bag?





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* The Loveland Bike Trail.