Ever had those moments where you just can't believe how terrible your life is? I'm continually in a cycle of worst-life-ever moments. My God, it's a miracle I can even get out of my king sized Tempur -Pedic bed in the morning. And, early too so I can get in my Oprah/Deepak Chopra 20 minutes of meditation. BEFORE I run on my wi-fi enabled treadmill. Just a damn miracle.
My iPhone 5 is too small. I can't store all my selfies AND keep my Eminem song collection.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
My burrito had too much filling today and the tortilla ripped. Son of a bitch!
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
The husband travels to exotic locals for work. i.e. Brazil, Greece. And, he gets sunburns.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
Netflix is buffering. The kids are upset.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
I'm going to have to trade in my Infiniti. The sunroof has a squeak.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
My housekeeper did a no call/no show the day of a party. I had to clean toilets. Five bathrooms worth.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
My favorite laser hair removal technician changed salons. AFTER I bought 12 months of services.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
My fuelband battery died before I hit goal. By 12 points.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
Terrible infomercial on. Remote too far to reach without effort. Now the owner of The Pocket Hose.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
My closet is too small and I am unable to keep all my shoes organized.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
Not enough people get sarcasm.
#firstworldproblems #worstlifeever
Monday, April 28, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Exhibit A
Here's the thing... I'm not sure I've ever been described as nice. And certainly not kind. These are things that I aspire to. Sort of. Some of the time I don't really care. Ah, most of the time.
Now, some of you are probably thinking. 'Wait a minute, she's pretty nice and funny.'
But, what if you rethink whatever I said to you and strip off the 'funny'? It's mean. It's also probably true, but don't feel too bad about yourself. I'm an equal offender.
When describing myself I usually say, 'Often mistaken for funny.' It's right there on my bio. I don't lie about it. I'm an asshole. I'm taking that word by the way. I hate the whole women are bitchy, men are assholes thing. Taking it. I can be a bitch too - bitches get stuff done. So, I'm not really offended if someone calls me that. But, I think I prefer the sturdiness of asshole. It's not as shrill. Or something. Not sure. But I like it better and thus, taking it.
And so for those of you who don't believe my asshole-ness... I present Exhibit A. I've been an asshole since I was a small child...
On my third birthday some horrible adult gave me a Jack-In-The-Box. This can only be described as a torture device for small children. Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-di-da... and BAM it shoots a freakin' clown in your face. I'm not sure who thought this was a good gift for children but I'm sure that they now sit at the right hand of Satan.
Seriously. The Jack-In-The-Box inventor was a psychopath.
The evil clown lived in its box on the bookshelf in my bedroom. For a couple years. Maybe more. I left him trapped in there unable to breathe. He never died. Never.
In addition to being as asshole, or maybe its just a symptom... I'm also horribly greedy. I really like things. My things. Shiny things. And even though I hated that bastard clown in a box I didn't want anyone else to have it.
My mother went through my room and cleared out the things that I never played with for a 'gently used' toy drive. That clown wasn't even gently used, it was NEVER used. And, so into the bag it went and off to church. This was an act of kindness, or something. I don't know. I don't follow... But somewhere in there the piece I was supposed to learn was lost.
All the toys were in a bin near the front of the church and the preacher was talking about something. I'm sure it was relevant to giving or sharing or something. The Bastard-Clown-Toddler-Torture-Device caught my eye. Wait a minute... Is that MY Bastard-Clown-Toddler-Torture-Device?
And thus, to my mother's horror, I charged down the aisle of the church. Small but mighty. Slightly angry. Everyone in the congregation gasped as I grabbed the Jack-In-The-Box out of the bin while yelling at the top of my lungs, "I'm not giving my toys to poor kids!"
I also called the Sunday school teacher a big mean fat lady... but that's another story.
We changed churches shortly after, but I'm sure it's unrelated.
Now, some of you are probably thinking. 'Wait a minute, she's pretty nice and funny.'
But, what if you rethink whatever I said to you and strip off the 'funny'? It's mean. It's also probably true, but don't feel too bad about yourself. I'm an equal offender.
When describing myself I usually say, 'Often mistaken for funny.' It's right there on my bio. I don't lie about it. I'm an asshole. I'm taking that word by the way. I hate the whole women are bitchy, men are assholes thing. Taking it. I can be a bitch too - bitches get stuff done. So, I'm not really offended if someone calls me that. But, I think I prefer the sturdiness of asshole. It's not as shrill. Or something. Not sure. But I like it better and thus, taking it.
And so for those of you who don't believe my asshole-ness... I present Exhibit A. I've been an asshole since I was a small child...
 |
| Adorable. |
On my third birthday some horrible adult gave me a Jack-In-The-Box. This can only be described as a torture device for small children. Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-di-da... and BAM it shoots a freakin' clown in your face. I'm not sure who thought this was a good gift for children but I'm sure that they now sit at the right hand of Satan.
Seriously. The Jack-In-The-Box inventor was a psychopath.
 |
| Jaded for life. Thanks Jack-In-The-Box! |
In addition to being as asshole, or maybe its just a symptom... I'm also horribly greedy. I really like things. My things. Shiny things. And even though I hated that bastard clown in a box I didn't want anyone else to have it.
My mother went through my room and cleared out the things that I never played with for a 'gently used' toy drive. That clown wasn't even gently used, it was NEVER used. And, so into the bag it went and off to church. This was an act of kindness, or something. I don't know. I don't follow... But somewhere in there the piece I was supposed to learn was lost.
All the toys were in a bin near the front of the church and the preacher was talking about something. I'm sure it was relevant to giving or sharing or something. The Bastard-Clown-Toddler-Torture-Device caught my eye. Wait a minute... Is that MY Bastard-Clown-Toddler-Torture-Device?
And thus, to my mother's horror, I charged down the aisle of the church. Small but mighty. Slightly angry. Everyone in the congregation gasped as I grabbed the Jack-In-The-Box out of the bin while yelling at the top of my lungs, "I'm not giving my toys to poor kids!"
I also called the Sunday school teacher a big mean fat lady... but that's another story.
We changed churches shortly after, but I'm sure it's unrelated.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Paco Dog
In June of 1996 I presented my then husband of six months with an ultimatum. Yes, mature. I know. But, it worked. The ultimatum: I want a puppy or a baby. Now, let's be honest, at that point in my life I needed a baby about as bad as a hole in the head. And, I didn't want a baby. I did, however, want a puppy. More importantly I knew he absolutely DID NOT want a baby. Thankfully, he didn't call my bluff. Or, we'd have a 23 year old.
So, we pulled out the 'ol penny saver. This was how this was done in the mid-nineties. In Ritzville, there was a litter of Border Collies. Ready to go home that weekend. I sort of knew where Ritzville was. We called. We could come look at the puppies that afternoon. Directions in hand, a stop at the ATM for $120 and we were on our way.
Now, the puppies weren't exactly located in Ritzville. It was slightly outside. Sort of like describing the moon as 'slightly outside' of Earth. I couldn't at this point in my life come close to ever finding the place again. Winding road, down hill, back and forth, gates, wooden cattle guards. This was out there. First impression was not good. The house was, well, leaning. There was a milk cow tied up to a split rail fence in the front yard and chickens roaming around in the driveway. I swooshed them away when I opened the car door so I could get out.
We were greeted by a very old man. He was wearing bib overalls. Not many teeth. He didn't have much time for us. Told us that his wife handled the puppies.
At that moment, a tri-colored border collie puppy ran across the driveway toward us. The old man paused long enough to tell us that we absolutely didn't want that puppy. He escaped from the kennel anytime anyone came to visit. I picked him up, he grunted. I didn't want that puppy. I wanted a classic black and white, straight out of Babe Border Collie. The litter consisted of four puppies. All male. Three black and white, one tri-color. The mother was there. She was a very nice dog. Mellow.
The wife came out of the house to meet us. Hair in a hair net, house dress on, teeth not in, she greeted us and walked us over to the kennel to meet the other puppies.
I peered in. Still holding the tri-colored puppy, I bent down to see the other three. They scattered and hid. The puppy in my arms groaned as if to say, "You're gonna spend your whole lives in there if you act like that." Then he licked my face.
I set him down, reached in and grabbed a black and white puppy. It peed on itself in fear. The other two were still hidden in the dog house. I looked at the tri-colored puppy sitting in the grass. He smiled.
Done.
On the way home, up the hill on the windy road, he barfed in the car. Not a great start. But, it was his first car ride. He was clearly embarrassed as I cleaned him up.
On the way home we named him Paco. I'm not exactly sure how we landed on Paco but it was right after 'Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard' was on the radio. I think we decided that Julio was too hard to yell out. And somehow that idea morphed into Paco.
We settled into our new little family. A puppy and a cat.
First task, train Paco to kennel. Bought the kennel. Put it in the bedroom. Put him in it. He spent the first two nights attempting a break out by digging through the plastic bottom. (I'm fairly certain he was whistling the theme from The Great Escape.) All night. He won. No more kennel. He slept under the bed until he was too big and then for almost 15 years he slept on the floor next to my side of the bed.
He was smart. Whip smart. He could sit, stay, lie down, heel, get his ball (and get his ball and get his ball and get his ball) but, he absolutely refused to do anything that might be mistaken for a 'trick'.
Shake?
Go to hell.
Roll over?
Go to hell and take the frisbee guy with you.
Speak?
Just give me my treat, then, go to hell.
After some discussion, we opted to keep it to the basic manners.
He was a dream of a puppy, Until he was about 10 months old. Came home from work to the house totally destroyed. House plants everywhere, garbage dumped out, every book pulled off the bookcase. The 'How to Train Your Border Collie' book totally shredded. (The other books were on the floor but untouched.) I'm sure it was fun, in the moment. He felt terrible about it, as soon as he heard keys in the door. He twisted himself in a ball and when I raised my voice he ran and hid under the bed. He spent the next few days locked in the bathroom when we were out. Lesson learned, he again had free reign of the house. I'm sure he and the cat threw some mean house parties.
He never met a stranger. He loved everyone and with his head cocked to the side, tongue hanging out and smile on full 'charm' he could get anyone to throw his ball or frisbee. He spent hours at the river where we'd throw rocks in and he'd dive under and bring back the rock. The same rock. Every. Time.
On camping trips, he'd make the rounds at the campgrounds. He'd find the college kids that stayed up late and get them to throw his ball and then early in the morning he'd find the fishermen and get them to throw for him too. At one resort/campground so focused on his ball, he didn't notice the in ground hot tub. When he surfaced in what he surely suspected was an attempt to boil him to death, a kindly camper reached in and helped him out. He, embarrassed, ran to his ball and pretended the whole thing never happened.
He often looked at me with pity. My brain was no match for his. My inability to keep the checkbook balanced drove him crazy and I'm positive he rewired the house when I was at work to get it up to code.
He lived a great life for seven years. Until the baby. Oh, the baby. In the days leading up to the birth, he was clingy, right by my side. Always the leader, he walked slowly beside me around the block while I tried to get contractions going. He was confused when we left the house late at night. And then we returned. With a baby. He was indifferent to the baby. The only change? He barked when anyone came to the house. He had never been particularly protective of the house. Until the baby. Even though he didn't really want it. He wasn't going to let anyone hurt it either.
He and the baby made a kind of truce. Then a toddler, he was allowed to throw the ball and Paco would bring it back. They could play together nicely, as long as the toddler didn't touch him. The truce was violated frequently with Paco retreating to a safe place under the dining room table. Over the months that year, we watched him slow down. Pushing 10, he'd run so many miles, it seemed that his body was starting to give out. So, Santa brought the toddler a puppy. Thinking the transition would be easier on us if we had a 'back up dog' so to speak. Paco was livid. First off, he knew exactly what we were up to. And he had no intention of leaving any time soon. Secondly, we got a Golden Retriever. A dog not worth his time. She would bound through the house, so happy all the time. And he would turn his back to her.
He finally loosened up and would play with her. Although, slightly disgusted by her constant happiness and flowing golden hair he did like to have a playmate. It seemed to pep him up a bit. For several more years, he played and went for walks and seemed happy.
So, we pulled out the 'ol penny saver. This was how this was done in the mid-nineties. In Ritzville, there was a litter of Border Collies. Ready to go home that weekend. I sort of knew where Ritzville was. We called. We could come look at the puppies that afternoon. Directions in hand, a stop at the ATM for $120 and we were on our way.
Now, the puppies weren't exactly located in Ritzville. It was slightly outside. Sort of like describing the moon as 'slightly outside' of Earth. I couldn't at this point in my life come close to ever finding the place again. Winding road, down hill, back and forth, gates, wooden cattle guards. This was out there. First impression was not good. The house was, well, leaning. There was a milk cow tied up to a split rail fence in the front yard and chickens roaming around in the driveway. I swooshed them away when I opened the car door so I could get out.
We were greeted by a very old man. He was wearing bib overalls. Not many teeth. He didn't have much time for us. Told us that his wife handled the puppies.
At that moment, a tri-colored border collie puppy ran across the driveway toward us. The old man paused long enough to tell us that we absolutely didn't want that puppy. He escaped from the kennel anytime anyone came to visit. I picked him up, he grunted. I didn't want that puppy. I wanted a classic black and white, straight out of Babe Border Collie. The litter consisted of four puppies. All male. Three black and white, one tri-color. The mother was there. She was a very nice dog. Mellow.
The wife came out of the house to meet us. Hair in a hair net, house dress on, teeth not in, she greeted us and walked us over to the kennel to meet the other puppies.
I peered in. Still holding the tri-colored puppy, I bent down to see the other three. They scattered and hid. The puppy in my arms groaned as if to say, "You're gonna spend your whole lives in there if you act like that." Then he licked my face.
I set him down, reached in and grabbed a black and white puppy. It peed on itself in fear. The other two were still hidden in the dog house. I looked at the tri-colored puppy sitting in the grass. He smiled.
 |
| Paco Dog. Also known as The aPACOlypse. |
On the way home, up the hill on the windy road, he barfed in the car. Not a great start. But, it was his first car ride. He was clearly embarrassed as I cleaned him up.
On the way home we named him Paco. I'm not exactly sure how we landed on Paco but it was right after 'Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard' was on the radio. I think we decided that Julio was too hard to yell out. And somehow that idea morphed into Paco.
We settled into our new little family. A puppy and a cat.
First task, train Paco to kennel. Bought the kennel. Put it in the bedroom. Put him in it. He spent the first two nights attempting a break out by digging through the plastic bottom. (I'm fairly certain he was whistling the theme from The Great Escape.) All night. He won. No more kennel. He slept under the bed until he was too big and then for almost 15 years he slept on the floor next to my side of the bed.
He was smart. Whip smart. He could sit, stay, lie down, heel, get his ball (and get his ball and get his ball and get his ball) but, he absolutely refused to do anything that might be mistaken for a 'trick'.
Shake?
Go to hell.
Roll over?
Go to hell and take the frisbee guy with you.
Speak?
Just give me my treat, then, go to hell.
After some discussion, we opted to keep it to the basic manners.
He was a dream of a puppy, Until he was about 10 months old. Came home from work to the house totally destroyed. House plants everywhere, garbage dumped out, every book pulled off the bookcase. The 'How to Train Your Border Collie' book totally shredded. (The other books were on the floor but untouched.) I'm sure it was fun, in the moment. He felt terrible about it, as soon as he heard keys in the door. He twisted himself in a ball and when I raised my voice he ran and hid under the bed. He spent the next few days locked in the bathroom when we were out. Lesson learned, he again had free reign of the house. I'm sure he and the cat threw some mean house parties.
He never met a stranger. He loved everyone and with his head cocked to the side, tongue hanging out and smile on full 'charm' he could get anyone to throw his ball or frisbee. He spent hours at the river where we'd throw rocks in and he'd dive under and bring back the rock. The same rock. Every. Time.
On camping trips, he'd make the rounds at the campgrounds. He'd find the college kids that stayed up late and get them to throw his ball and then early in the morning he'd find the fishermen and get them to throw for him too. At one resort/campground so focused on his ball, he didn't notice the in ground hot tub. When he surfaced in what he surely suspected was an attempt to boil him to death, a kindly camper reached in and helped him out. He, embarrassed, ran to his ball and pretended the whole thing never happened.
 |
| Kill 'em with your smile. |
He often looked at me with pity. My brain was no match for his. My inability to keep the checkbook balanced drove him crazy and I'm positive he rewired the house when I was at work to get it up to code.
He lived a great life for seven years. Until the baby. Oh, the baby. In the days leading up to the birth, he was clingy, right by my side. Always the leader, he walked slowly beside me around the block while I tried to get contractions going. He was confused when we left the house late at night. And then we returned. With a baby. He was indifferent to the baby. The only change? He barked when anyone came to the house. He had never been particularly protective of the house. Until the baby. Even though he didn't really want it. He wasn't going to let anyone hurt it either.
He and the baby made a kind of truce. Then a toddler, he was allowed to throw the ball and Paco would bring it back. They could play together nicely, as long as the toddler didn't touch him. The truce was violated frequently with Paco retreating to a safe place under the dining room table. Over the months that year, we watched him slow down. Pushing 10, he'd run so many miles, it seemed that his body was starting to give out. So, Santa brought the toddler a puppy. Thinking the transition would be easier on us if we had a 'back up dog' so to speak. Paco was livid. First off, he knew exactly what we were up to. And he had no intention of leaving any time soon. Secondly, we got a Golden Retriever. A dog not worth his time. She would bound through the house, so happy all the time. And he would turn his back to her.
He finally loosened up and would play with her. Although, slightly disgusted by her constant happiness and flowing golden hair he did like to have a playmate. It seemed to pep him up a bit. For several more years, he played and went for walks and seemed happy.
After his 13th birthday, he started to slow down. No more fetch. He spent a lot of time lying in the sun watching the neighborhood. Always amused by the humans and their daily activities, he lived the life of a country gentleman for quite a while - greeting people at the door and happily taking human food from under the table.
After the second baby came, he was declining. Now deaf and mostly blind, he startled easily and had likely had a stroke. He started to fall often and with no more fetch and an inability to get around without pain, the tough decision had to be made. When you have a dog and are asking yourself if it's time, it's time. Over the years as he aged, I'd reach over the side of the bed to give him a little scratch in the morning and at first, the thoughts were, 'please still be alive' - those morphed into, 'please do this on your own'. He wasn't going to let us off that easy. 13 days before his 15th birthday, we took him in and sat with him until he was gone.
Paco was my first baby. He was my practice round at parenting. Unfortunately the human children haven't been as easy to train. He taught me a lot of things - a smile will get you far, always introduce yourself, only do the things you love, protect your family and always keep a ball close by - you never know who might want to play.
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