How to care for a pet (aka We should not be pet owners)

Over Thanksgiving, my sister (and her sweet little pooch) were in town.  While here, Sweet Pooch decided to take a romp in my parents’ backyard.

By “romp” I mean, “Roll around in poop and fleas.”  (Sorry, sister dear.  I know you didn’t want to talk about this anymore, but it helps set up the story.)

We noticed Sweet Pooch wasn’t smelling so sweet, so my dear mother gave her grandpooch a sweet bath.

Didn’t help the fleas, though.

Last week, my mother noticed a bug in her house.  And another.  I found one crawling (shudder) on my 5-year-old.  By now, we.  were.  freaking.  out.  It was confirmed that Sweet Pooch did, in fact, contract fleas, so my mother had her house bombed.



We own a cat, right?  And Sweet Pooch had spent some time at our house over Thanksgiving, so I spent this past week looking for signs of fleas.  And vacuuming like a madwoman. 

Saturday morning, as I was changing bed linens, I noticed some black specks on our comforter (shudder).  Was it lint?  Was it (ugh) something worse?  The specks weren’t moving (double shudder), so it could’ve been lint, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I raced to the phone and called the husband, who was out running errands, and asked him to go to the local pet store for flea treatment.

He came home with a spray bottle of something.  Was he serious?

a)  How were we going to hold her still long enough to saturate her fur?
b)  What happens to the fleas after she is sprayed?
c)  Should we instead pat her head (with surgical gloves, of course), wish her luck and dropkick her out the back door?

We decided to take the bull by the horns (literally – she’s a beast) and help our cat.  He held while I sprayed (I’m no dummy).

 

So, I’m spritz-spritz-spritzing while the husband is being clawed to death.  In the end, she won the battle and shot out of his arms like a bat out of hell, but not before I sprayed the product directly in her face (which, of course, the instructions specifically say NOT to do).



(Sidenote:  Have the manufacturers ever tried treating a cat themselves?  Their instructions should really include directions on how to subdue a psychotic cat like this one, as well as how to treat scratches and bites on humans.)Moments later our poor drowned rat was huddled in the corner, licking her wounds (gack)… with foam coming out of her mouth.

What do we do now?

Lock her in the bathroom.  Right!  I don’t want that stuff all over my house!

Lest you think I’m a heartless bastard, I did stay in the bathroom with her to make sure she didn’t cough up a lung (not touching her, of course).  I stayed with her long enough for her to love me again, while my husband bandaged his hands, arms and face and vacuumed the furniture.



Today, she is still the same psychotic loving feline she’s always been.  And the house has been vacuumed about 50 times since Friday.

If she didn’t have fleas, I’m going to be so pissed.

The most wonderful time of the year. Tell 'em, Johnny Mathis.

As I did pretty much the exact same thing over the weekend, I thought I’d republish my post from last year.  With a few colorful comments.

So, we have an Elf on the Shelf.  Or, rather, my mom had some elves that looked like the Elf on a Shelf, so she gave them to me so we could play the game this Christmas season.  You know, to help the boys be on their best behavior for 6 or so weeks so I wouldn't have to threaten them with no Christmas.  Instead, I have someone else threatening no Christmas.  "I didn't tell Santa you were bad, it was the Elf on the Shelf."  Whoever came up with this elf thing was a genius!

For those who don't know of this tradition, the purpose of the Elf on the Shelf is to ensure kids are good so parents can spend time buying and wrapping presents instead of peeling one screaming child off another every 5 minutes.  For said children, the elf is the eyes and ears of The (Big Fat) Man, taking in the daily activities of each house.  Each night, the elf uses his magical powers to fly back to the North Pole with status updates of these good and bad children.  For example, if my 4-year-old kicks the 7-year-old in the face (yes, that happens a lot) (ETA:  yes, this still happens a lot), Santa is going to know about it.  And each morning, upon the elf's return, he likes to play tricks on the families by hiding in a different spot.

So, basically, it's just one more thing we adults have to remember to do every night.  (ETA:  Tru dat.)The first 2 weeks we had Frank (I was hoping for Lou, but Frank it is) (ETA:  This year, his name is James.  We apparently forgot we named him Frank.  Eh, whatever.), he hid in our kitchen cabinet.  Along with the other elves my mother gave me.  In a pile.  Yeah, I suck at this stuff.  (ETA:  This year, he was in one of our boxes of Christmas decorations.  Our neighbor’s elf had come to their house early, so the boys had been wondering where our guy was.  I told them he doesn’t come until our house is ready for Christmas, so there you go.  I’m a genius.)  Honestly, it's just another thing I have to do.  With the decorating and the shopping and everything else, I lost the will to add one.  more.  thing. 

Really, I'm not a bah humbug kind of person.  I love Christmas.  I love the music and the lights and the shopping and the baking (or, more to the point, the eating of the baked goods my husband makes) and seeing the Nutcracker and all that crap.  I was all gung ho this year, too.  As we speak, I'm almost done with my shopping!  Being a notorious Christmas Eve shopper, this is an amazing feat for me.  

As a general rule, I try not to get into the Christmas spirit too early.  Otherwise, I'm burnt out before Christmas arrives.  So, ever since I left retail (which celebrates Christmas from the 4th of July on), I hold off listening to any Christmas music until 2 weeks before Christmas.  (ETA:  Still true.  I’m too busy listening to the Breaking Dawn 2 soundtrack.  But I did listen to Christmas music while we decorated the house.  It’s not Christmas decorating without it.  It’s more like… glittering the house just to annoy myself.)

But, this year, I went off the reservation.  Since I was Christmas shopping, I had to listen to the music to get in the mood, right?  So I did.  The last 4 days, I have spent all my spare time shopping and decorating.  I have more glitter on me on any given day than all the strippers in the world combined.  (ETA:  Again, still true.  I also have broken more bulbs this year than ever, so there’s glitter and tiny shards of glass mixed in just for fun.)  I spent 2 hours on Friday at Toys R Us alone.  And Saturday, my mother, SIL and I closed down 2 shopping venues.  (ETA:  I spent the 3 hours of alone time last week at Target.  I love Target.  Whoever has me in the Christmas exchange this year, I’d like a Target of my own.  Thanks in advance.)  

We are in it to win it.  I have shin splints and sore arms, but my monthly cardio quota was met in one weekend and it's a small price to pay for giving the boys the perfect gift.  

But, if I have to hear Johnny Mathis sing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" one more time, I might actually kill someone.  

So, as you can imagine, the Elf on the Shelf got the shaft.  But, over the weekend, I realized what fun we could have with this guy.  I love the magic of Christmas.  (ETA:  Still do.)  And, with my 7-year-old already questioning the existence of Santa Claus (with a "Just tell me the truth, Mommy" - damn those older elementary kids for planting seeds of doubt!), I had to do something. 

Okay, I suck at it.  Friday night, I decided to move Frank from his kitchen cabinet to the top of our lamp.  And my wonderful (painintheass - kidding, my brother!  I love her!) niece caught me moving him.  And then told her cousin the next morning. 

Sonofa...

I think I saved it.  I told them adults sometimes need to help the elf if he asks.  And he asked me to move him because he ate too many cookies and couldn't move himself. 

Right.  That was why.

After my marathon shopping on Saturday, I hid my loot in my closet and went straight to bed.  And then remembered I didn't move the damelf.  So, I went back downstairs and threw the elf head first into an almost empty box of Cheerios, making it look like he got caught having a late night snack.

I'm so clever.

Fine, I'm not.  But, the boys laughed, and that's all that mattered.

(ETA:  Last night, James (Frank) decided to play a game of Connect 4 with our Wall-E action figure.  The boys ran up the stairs this morning to let me know.  They were ecstatic.  I should also mention they’ve been on their best behavior since JamesFrank has returned.  No kicks to the teeth, no whining.  They.  Are.  Sharing.  Toys. 

The extra 5 minutes at night to move him?  Totally worth it.)

It's the final countdown

My sister is coming home this week for Thanksgiving.  10 whole days of fun and fun and more fun.  I can't wait.

You know who else can't wait?  My little monsters miracles. 

Every morning, they wake up (early - thank you, damn daylight savings) and say the following:

"So, Mom.  4 (3, 2, 1) more days until Meemee gets here?"

Me (every time):  Yes.

Them (this morning, in particular, with hope in their eyes):  You mean, when we wake up tomorrow, she'll be here??!

She's more popular than Santa Claus!
My sister and her husband moved to Dallas about 6 years ago now.  For a 2-year trial.  Turns out 2 years last longer in Texas than they do in the rest of the world.  It's been... fine.  I mean, Texas isn't all that bad, and she has great neighbors.  We miss her like crazy up here, but it's that much more fun when she comes home.  I don't know if we'd have this much fun together if she actually lived here.

Okay, we probably would.

But, for the next 10 days, we'll have our Meemee to take us for donuts and to Toys R Us and to her father-in-law's retirement home to play chess! 

Oh wait, that's the kids.

For the next 10 days, I'll have my Meemee to get manicures and drink alcohol and bake Thanksgiving pies and drink alcohol and watch Ohio State-Michigan football and, well, drink alcohol!

To add to all that, my brother is coming home, too!  For the entire week!  I may never see my boys and husband again!!

Bring on the holidays!!      

Oh, patience is a virtue, alright

Today was a trying day.  Right now, we're in the middle of our busy season at work.  With the storms this week, we lost a day due to power outages, so we're a little behind on top of busy.  And even when the lights came back on, the internet and phone were still down.  So, we're busy, behind and barren.

It's been awesome.

But, despite all that, I got my work done.  I came home.  Made dinner.  Served dinner.  Cleaned up dinner.  Afterward, I deliriously anticipated ignoring the crap out of everyone in my house (namely, those little monsters miracles I've created [whom I adore] [who have also stomped on my last available nerve]), sitting down with my Diet Coke and iPad for 20 frickin' minutes.

Think I got that?

Yeah, no.

In any event, I did my best to be oblivious to their shenanigans.  Which, I think, only made them try harder to annoy me.

Enter the 5-year-old.  With hand-drawn picture.  Drawn by his own hand, I might add.

Picasso, mIright?

Him:  Hey (8-year-old), look at my pictuwe.  See the penis and butt?
Me:  Throw that away. 
Him:  Mom, it's a beawd.
Me:  It is NOT a beard.  You just said it was a penis.
Him (solemnly):  It's a beawd.  See?  A beawd goes hewa (pointing to his chin, and the chin on the picture). 
Me (to myself):  Kid's got a point.

He then goes back to the kitchen table to fix the picture.  We get this:


Him:  It's you and me.  See?  I even showed the dots on youw face.

How sweet of him to accurately portray the zits on my face!  I should just be grateful he didn't keep the penis.  And turned the butt into some lovely earrings.

And then, because he was so proud of his artistry, chased his brother around the room saying, "Oh my shit!  Oh my shit!"

Seriously?  Was he trying to work me into an early grave?

I shoo the boys upstairs to shower.  After the 5-year-old was done, he thought it'd be funny to shake his bon-bon, and, in turn, his, well, you know.

Him:  That's my wiener.
Me (sighing):  Yes.  That's your wiener. 
Him:  And it's sek-SAY!!

He's going to kill me when he reads this one day, isn't he?  Oh well, serves him right.

Fuck this Diet Coke, where's the wine??!

Sandy has nothing on the natural disaster known as the mall

Last night, my girlfriend and I took our children to the mall for trick-or-treating.  At the time, it seemed like a good idea.  I was sure trick-or-treating on Halloween was going to be miserable with the rain and I wasn't about to let the boys out in that.  So, I figured some candy was better than no candy.

I was wrong.  So very wrong.

Forget the storm outside, this place was the real shitstorm.  I had never seen the mall like this for Halloween.  And I worked in the mall for years.  My girlfriend and I gave each other a look, but trudged onward anyway.  I mean, we had gotten the little people into their costumes and out into nasty weather conditions.  We were getting something out of it. 
As a public service announcement, I will inform you that mall candy sucks.  (You're welcome.)  I don't know who bought the candy for these stores, but a breath mint from your purse does not constitute chocolate Halloween candy.  Where were the snack-sized Snickers bars?  The mini Twix bars?  What was I going to take from the boys while they were sleeping??  We watched a child spit out his mint onto the (mall) floor.  And the mother?  Did nothing about it.  I guess she figured mints suck as treats, too.

While waiting in the extremely large line for our mint, we (slooooowly) passed by a convenience store.  I almost went in there to get each of the kids a real candy bar (and had about 10 minutes to contemplate).  I mean, some of these places didn't even give out mints.  They gave out stickers.  That said, "I just bought new shoes." 

And fuck you trick or treat to you, too.

Also, for our (read:  not my) entertainment, we slooooowly passed by Victoria's Secret.  The boys open-mouth stared at those images of women in their underwear for the 5 minutes we waited outside the store.  At least they got an education?  I don't know.

My brilliant husband stayed home to install a battery backup for our sump pump.  I think he got the better end of the deal.  Well played, dear husband.

The good news is that trick-or-treat has been postponed in our city until Sunday.  So, I'll the boys will get Halloween candy after all!  And you can bet I will remind my girlfriend of this experience when she suggests it again next year. 

No.  No, we won't be going. 

Kiss me, I'm drunk

Over the weekend, we went to an event our friends put on every year to raise money for Alzheimer’s.  It’s always a fun time.  It’s held at a bar during an Ohio State football game.  We hang with our friends, there’s a room in which to stash our children for the children, complete with cartoons, crafts and chicken nuggets.  We draw straws take turns checking on them every hour 20 minutes or so.  There are prizes to win, free food and drinks (well, with-purchase-of-a-ticket free) and it’s for a good cause. 

This year was no different.  The free beer was going down fiiiinnne.  The Buckeyes won the game and everyone was having a great time.  Including my favorite person, Drunk SIL!

Sober SIL is superfun, too, don’t get me wrong. But there is something about slanty-eyed, carefree Drunk SIL that just makes you want to be BFFs with her (Call me!). 

As “adults” and caretakers of little people, we try to reign ourselves in when the little people are around. But, well, since they were locked in a room having their own fun, we let our freak flags fly (at least, the non-drivers did; we still try to be semi-responsible - even when we’re acting like complete idiots).

There was a wedding held in the same building that night (we shared a bathroom). And, we noticed this superfun (as we could tell from the music) wedding had a photo booth!

Drunk SIL: Let’s take a picture!

The rest of us:
 

Then:

We loitered outside the restroom, closer to the wedding, trying to figure out how we could get in unnoticed.  After we were on the verge of being arrested a few minutes of looking stupid, we went back to our own party room.  No photo booth pictures for us. 

(Sidenote:  my girlfriend once told me her dad used to crash weddings all the time in his youth.  And I’ve seen the movie.  You’d think we’d be able to pull it off, right?  But, I guess with us in jeans and red t-shirts, we didn’t really blend.  And we weren’t really drunk enough to risk prison time.)

Alas, the evening had to come to a close.  We packed up our hopped-up-on-sugar-exhausted children and made our way for the door.  I didn’t think I was terribly drunk.  I didn’t call anyone an asshole or steal said asshole’s cigarette. 

Nonetheless, I usually run through a checklist in my mind to decide if I’m drunk.

Urge to smoke?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – no

Urge to hug everyone goodbye?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – yes

Pass out Fall asleep in the car?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – no

Eat a lot when I get home?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – yes
Saturday Lea – yes

By my calculations, I was only 50% drunk, which is not drunk at all.  However, after speaking to my husband the next morning, I may have to reevaluate my checklist. 

Him:  You sure were chatty last night.
Me:  Oh, God.  What did I say this time?  Did I call anyone an asshole?
Him:  You were definitely entertaining the crowd.

Gaah.  Going forward, I’m adding chatty to my list.  And if it’s yes, I’m hiding in the car until it’s time to go home.

Serves me right

A few weeks' back, we had a crappy Sunday.  It was cold and rainy and everyone was pretty crabby - kinda like today, which reminded me of this story.

On the weekends, the boys play with the neighbor kids (the 2 girls, in particular) who live behind us.  They usually play between the backyards, but, because it had been raining, the boys asked if the girls could play inside.  Of course, I selfishly said yes as I knew this would be a surefire way to have the TV to myself for an hour.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary while the girls were over.  After an hour or so, they went home and we went to dinner over my brother's house.  That night at dinner, we discussed how my niece is growing up too fast and I secretly (and out loud) said how grateful I am that I have boys instead of girls (this will be important later).   

After dinner, the boys came home, took showers, and got into bed, as usual. As I was tucking him into bed, my 5-year-old told me he had a seekwet (secret).  So, I leaned in real close as he told me the words I didn't know I was dreading to hear... until I heard them.

"(The 8-year-old) was kissing (our 8-year-old neighbor girl) behind the couch."

Me:


 Him:


Oh, crap.  I always knew this would happen.  And somehow, I always knew it would be the neighbor girl.  She's beautiful.  And?  Convenient.  But, did it have to start so soon?

I blame the hormones in our milk.  Or cable TV.

So, I dragged the 8-year-old out by his ear took the 8-year-old into our bedroom to have a little chat.

Me: You want to tell me what happened today?
Him:  With what?
Me:  With (neighbor girl)?
Him:
 
Me (waiting):  ...
Him:  Well, it's kinda hard to explain.
Me (in my head):  Yeah, I bet it is... to your MOTHER.
Me:  Well, why don't you try?
Him:  How did you find out?
Me:  Mommy knows EVERYTHING.  So just tell me what you did.
  
He then tells me that he kissed her.

And that my 5-year-old also kissed the 6-year-old neighbor.


Holy crap.  Were they having an orgy down there?  Why aren't I spying on them taking better care of these children?  Was this the first time?  Did they (horror upon horrors) do anything else?!

After a good talking to (which, by the way, was real hard to do with a straight face - don't judge me), I put the boys to bed at last.   And then sat on the steps to spy overhear their conversation make sure they went to sleep like the good little angels they are.

8-year-old:  Mom knows what happened in the basement.
5-year-old:  Yeah, I know.  I told huwa (her).
8YO:  DUDE!
5YO:  Just kidding.
Me:  (stifling laughter)
8YO:  Do you think they have some kind of video camera in the basement?
Me:  (Yes, keep thinking that.  As a matter of fact, that's a GREAT idea!) 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be downstairs installing that video camera.