I've often wondered what comprises my children's dreams. This morning I got a little glimpse when I woke up Bubby for school. He sat up, all groggy and tired, and blurted out, "Diego needs tools!"
I guess my boy was an animal rescuer last night. Diego needs tools! Never underestimate the influence of Nickelodeon.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
More Superheros
Keeping with the superhero theme, Bubby created a new one last night: Naked Man!
Bubby was getting ready for bed when he burst forth from the bathroom in a blaze of glory unencumbered by garments. As he shot past me in a sprint, he yelled, "Naked Man to the rescue!"
Upon interrogation, he explained that Naked Man has super naked butt powers from one end and crime fighting germ powers from the other. His archenemies include Captain Underpants and Sergeant Shirt.
Breathe a little easier now knowing that Naked Man has got your back.
Bubby was getting ready for bed when he burst forth from the bathroom in a blaze of glory unencumbered by garments. As he shot past me in a sprint, he yelled, "Naked Man to the rescue!"
Upon interrogation, he explained that Naked Man has super naked butt powers from one end and crime fighting germ powers from the other. His archenemies include Captain Underpants and Sergeant Shirt.
Breathe a little easier now knowing that Naked Man has got your back.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Agoraphobic Superheroes
Bubby and Tootsie made an interesting observation today. None of the male superheroes have wives. Remember what happened to Superman when he fell for Lois? I find their noncommittal personas very intriguing.
On the lighter side, can you imagine an agoraphobic superhero? He'd so much love to help, but he's afraid to leave his lair, which would be rather handsomely outfitted. As a result, he suffers terribly, torn between the pain of knowing he should help but can't and the fear of breaking down in public. It would make a great novel, but a boring movie.
On the lighter side, can you imagine an agoraphobic superhero? He'd so much love to help, but he's afraid to leave his lair, which would be rather handsomely outfitted. As a result, he suffers terribly, torn between the pain of knowing he should help but can't and the fear of breaking down in public. It would make a great novel, but a boring movie.
Doggie Bloodbaths
Poor Ozzy! Not the drugged out rock star--my dog. As many of you know, oddity just follows me around, seizing the perfect opportunity to strike. Whenever things go smoothly, I know something horribly strange is about to jump right out of the bushes and wind up costing me a small fortune.
This story is funny, sad, and toe-curlingly disgusting all at once. Back in November, the dog ripped off a toenail. I had some contractors at the house fixing those things that broke or moved during our first year (normal new house stuff). Ozzy was a little worked up because he hates the doorbell. When my dad arrived, I noticed bright red spots all over the carpet and puddles on the kitchen floor. At first, I just tilted my head and said, "Hmmm, what's that?" Then it hit me. Immediately, as any mother would do, I started yelling at my then-three-year-old Bubby: "Where did you get the red paint? Look what you have done to the carpet! You do not paint without Mom's permission!"
It was then that I noticed the dog standing in a large, perfectly round and glossy pool of blood with a toenail just barely hanging on by a thread. Yuck. Poor Ozzy. I whisked him off to the vet, which, of course, is my worst nightmare because I do not believe in getting the dog vaccinated since the last one died after his second round of shots. Said vet gave me a tongue lashing for not having him vaccinated--yes, I know he'd have to be put down if he ever bit anyone; yes, I know he'd have to be quarantined if he were ever bitten; yes, I know you now want to run every test possible to see what else you can find in my otherwise perfectly healthy dog. So a tranquilizer, blood test, nail clipping, bandaging, antibiotic, pain med, and a tranquilizer reversal later, I had to fork over $291. As I was paying, the dog pooped on the vet floor as a token of our gratitude. Of course, they seized that opportunity to test the stool sample. Good news: no worms. Hooray. Such tremendous relief. I did, by the way, clean up the poop all over the floor (see previous post).
Ten days later, I inspected all of his toenails, and they had all disconnected. When I researched that, I found it's a lupus-like disorder, and Ozzy would lose all of them. Odd. Fun. As time went on, Ozzy found it more and more difficult to walk because the nails were forced farther from his paws. Poor thing. Yesterday, I took him to another vet, one whom I trust, to have the nails trimmed. Trimmed is a bit of an understatement, as it turned into a blood bath wrestling match.
This is the funny part--in retrospect. The vet sedated him, and fight it as he might, he finally succumbed, but in a standing position. He simply would not lie down. The tech and I walked/dragged him back to the exam room. There, the vet and I proceeded to cut the nails off altogether. I sat on the dog and held him down while she cut. Snip, snip, snip--toenails gone. Are your toes curling yet? He did not budge until the last paw, and then, there was a gusher. While my Ozzy flopped around violently, making his best attempt to escape, I rode him like a bull. Actually, it was probably more like greased pigs wrestling in the mud. Suddenly, I was overcome by a severe butt cramp, but I couldn't possibly tell the vet that my hind quarters were all twisted, so I held on. I would very much like to see how all this looked from above. I just couldn't allow this heavily sedated beast to get up and move around with blood spewing from his feet. He sprayed me, the vet, the walls, the floors. There was blood everywhere. I sported his blood on my hands, my face, my clothes, my shoes, you name it. It was my battle paint. Then, we bandaged him, and the vet gave him the shot to reverse the tranquilizer. At that point, the vet decided that in the future, we would put him under. Good call. Next, we carried him to the waiting room where Ozzy and I would pass some time to be sure he emerged from the sedative without complications. I wish you could see the looks I got. Wiping a little blood from my cheek, I calmly declared, "One of his nails was a little stubborn."
Yesterday ended to the tune of $319. What a bargain! The first toenail alone cost almost that much. This time, I got 15 for the price of 1. Sweet! Really, though, yesterday's vet was a million times better than the first one. Yesterday's vet has already called me twice to check on Ozzy. She really cares and knows what she is doing.
He is doing well today. The only upset was when I removed the bandages, which were glued to his paws with dried blood. At least he's not walking like a chicken anymore.
This story is funny, sad, and toe-curlingly disgusting all at once. Back in November, the dog ripped off a toenail. I had some contractors at the house fixing those things that broke or moved during our first year (normal new house stuff). Ozzy was a little worked up because he hates the doorbell. When my dad arrived, I noticed bright red spots all over the carpet and puddles on the kitchen floor. At first, I just tilted my head and said, "Hmmm, what's that?" Then it hit me. Immediately, as any mother would do, I started yelling at my then-three-year-old Bubby: "Where did you get the red paint? Look what you have done to the carpet! You do not paint without Mom's permission!"
It was then that I noticed the dog standing in a large, perfectly round and glossy pool of blood with a toenail just barely hanging on by a thread. Yuck. Poor Ozzy. I whisked him off to the vet, which, of course, is my worst nightmare because I do not believe in getting the dog vaccinated since the last one died after his second round of shots. Said vet gave me a tongue lashing for not having him vaccinated--yes, I know he'd have to be put down if he ever bit anyone; yes, I know he'd have to be quarantined if he were ever bitten; yes, I know you now want to run every test possible to see what else you can find in my otherwise perfectly healthy dog. So a tranquilizer, blood test, nail clipping, bandaging, antibiotic, pain med, and a tranquilizer reversal later, I had to fork over $291. As I was paying, the dog pooped on the vet floor as a token of our gratitude. Of course, they seized that opportunity to test the stool sample. Good news: no worms. Hooray. Such tremendous relief. I did, by the way, clean up the poop all over the floor (see previous post).
Ten days later, I inspected all of his toenails, and they had all disconnected. When I researched that, I found it's a lupus-like disorder, and Ozzy would lose all of them. Odd. Fun. As time went on, Ozzy found it more and more difficult to walk because the nails were forced farther from his paws. Poor thing. Yesterday, I took him to another vet, one whom I trust, to have the nails trimmed. Trimmed is a bit of an understatement, as it turned into a blood bath wrestling match.
This is the funny part--in retrospect. The vet sedated him, and fight it as he might, he finally succumbed, but in a standing position. He simply would not lie down. The tech and I walked/dragged him back to the exam room. There, the vet and I proceeded to cut the nails off altogether. I sat on the dog and held him down while she cut. Snip, snip, snip--toenails gone. Are your toes curling yet? He did not budge until the last paw, and then, there was a gusher. While my Ozzy flopped around violently, making his best attempt to escape, I rode him like a bull. Actually, it was probably more like greased pigs wrestling in the mud. Suddenly, I was overcome by a severe butt cramp, but I couldn't possibly tell the vet that my hind quarters were all twisted, so I held on. I would very much like to see how all this looked from above. I just couldn't allow this heavily sedated beast to get up and move around with blood spewing from his feet. He sprayed me, the vet, the walls, the floors. There was blood everywhere. I sported his blood on my hands, my face, my clothes, my shoes, you name it. It was my battle paint. Then, we bandaged him, and the vet gave him the shot to reverse the tranquilizer. At that point, the vet decided that in the future, we would put him under. Good call. Next, we carried him to the waiting room where Ozzy and I would pass some time to be sure he emerged from the sedative without complications. I wish you could see the looks I got. Wiping a little blood from my cheek, I calmly declared, "One of his nails was a little stubborn."
Yesterday ended to the tune of $319. What a bargain! The first toenail alone cost almost that much. This time, I got 15 for the price of 1. Sweet! Really, though, yesterday's vet was a million times better than the first one. Yesterday's vet has already called me twice to check on Ozzy. She really cares and knows what she is doing.
He is doing well today. The only upset was when I removed the bandages, which were glued to his paws with dried blood. At least he's not walking like a chicken anymore.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Dog Poop, Dog Poop, Everywhere
Ever since we moved into our house almost two years ago, someone's dog has been pooping in our yard. Maybe it wouldn't be blog-worthy if the piles weren't so mammoth. They're huge--they could swallow up some of the smaller dogs in the neighborhood, and frankly, I paid too much money (and so did everyone else here) to have someone let his dog poop in my yard almost every day. Sometimes it's in the yard, sometimes it's in the strip between the sidewalk and the street, and sometimes it's on the sidewalk. Obviously, this was going on when our home was an empty lot, and people thought it was ok not to worry about it, but people live here now, and the dog is trained to go here. The owners don't clean it up. I have not been able to catch the culprit, but I have had plans. I plan to wake up one morning at 3:30, go outside, and sit on a blanket next to the house. There I will wait until I see the dog walker. When the dog goes, I will scare the crap out of both of them by approaching with a plastic bag and telling them to pick it up every time. Of course, scaring a dog capable of producing such huge fecal piles might not be a good idea. Hmmm.
Now, it has been suggested many times that I should find out whose dog it is, scoop it all up, and dump it in that owner's yard. That's a little bit passive aggressive, even for me. I know it happens some time between 3:00-6:30 in the morning, so I just need to get my lazy butt out of bed to be vigilant. It really shouldn't be that big of a deal, but I counted thirteen piles on my property the other day. I'd like to go out with little "Not Mine" flags and stick them in each pile, but we're not allowed to put up signs. My husband would not approve of that either, especially since I have put significant effort into not being our neighborhood's Mrs. Dubose. I guess when the weather warms up, I'll be outside in the wee hours of the morning, but I am so afraid of bugs that I'm not sure how that will work out. You know there are creepy crawly little things that come out at night. What if one gets caught in my hair or crawls over my foot or something like that? We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. I guess today, I will go out and clean it all up, then sprinkle cayenne pepper wherever there was a pile. That may deter the dog, but I doubt it.
My battle has been picked: I am the great poo fighter.
Now, it has been suggested many times that I should find out whose dog it is, scoop it all up, and dump it in that owner's yard. That's a little bit passive aggressive, even for me. I know it happens some time between 3:00-6:30 in the morning, so I just need to get my lazy butt out of bed to be vigilant. It really shouldn't be that big of a deal, but I counted thirteen piles on my property the other day. I'd like to go out with little "Not Mine" flags and stick them in each pile, but we're not allowed to put up signs. My husband would not approve of that either, especially since I have put significant effort into not being our neighborhood's Mrs. Dubose. I guess when the weather warms up, I'll be outside in the wee hours of the morning, but I am so afraid of bugs that I'm not sure how that will work out. You know there are creepy crawly little things that come out at night. What if one gets caught in my hair or crawls over my foot or something like that? We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. I guess today, I will go out and clean it all up, then sprinkle cayenne pepper wherever there was a pile. That may deter the dog, but I doubt it.
My battle has been picked: I am the great poo fighter.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Odds and Ends
Today, we were stuck in traffic next to a "hick-up truck." Appropriate malapropism. Is that an oxymoron? You know, I am giggling to myself at my cleverness, tee hee!
Three nights ago, Bubby asked, "What would happen if we had a dead animal in our driveway?" This, of course, came out of the blue, but I secretly thought that our idiot trash-bearing neighbor would probably drag it to the front step.
Tomorrow, my husband and I have a date. We'll aspire for something other than food poisoning this time, which was tons of fun when we last went out, but I'd really like to try something new and different. It's sad when the qualifier that makes your "big night out" a success is that you don't spend it sleeping on the bathroom floor, puking out not only all of that rotten hot dog you had at the concert but also half of your innards. Sure, it was nice for weight loss (who needs a spleen anyway?), but it wasn't terribly romantic. Regardless, my entertainment and "going out" standards are declining with time. Pretty soon, I'll be satisfied with a trip to the supermarket, and I'll become practically orgasmic at the mention of yarn and knitting needles. I'm already pretty excited about my sewing machine. Things are tumbling downhill rapidly. Oh, age is awesome. Some day, I am sure my husband and I will enjoy being fitted for dentures together. Then, we can wheel ourselves down to the dining hall and converse about our digestive regularity over creamed corn and Metamucil.
Well, that's all I have, but there will be more when I am rested: spring break next week!
Three nights ago, Bubby asked, "What would happen if we had a dead animal in our driveway?" This, of course, came out of the blue, but I secretly thought that our idiot trash-bearing neighbor would probably drag it to the front step.
Tomorrow, my husband and I have a date. We'll aspire for something other than food poisoning this time, which was tons of fun when we last went out, but I'd really like to try something new and different. It's sad when the qualifier that makes your "big night out" a success is that you don't spend it sleeping on the bathroom floor, puking out not only all of that rotten hot dog you had at the concert but also half of your innards. Sure, it was nice for weight loss (who needs a spleen anyway?), but it wasn't terribly romantic. Regardless, my entertainment and "going out" standards are declining with time. Pretty soon, I'll be satisfied with a trip to the supermarket, and I'll become practically orgasmic at the mention of yarn and knitting needles. I'm already pretty excited about my sewing machine. Things are tumbling downhill rapidly. Oh, age is awesome. Some day, I am sure my husband and I will enjoy being fitted for dentures together. Then, we can wheel ourselves down to the dining hall and converse about our digestive regularity over creamed corn and Metamucil.
Well, that's all I have, but there will be more when I am rested: spring break next week!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Funny Things
Every now and then, I am amused to the point of an unrestrained giggle. This actually happened to me several times today.
First, I saw a man jogging backwards on a heavily travelled road. I would think that if one were to jog backwards, one would do it where there is no traffic. Really, if I tried that, I'd probably kill myself by tripping over debris or running into a car. Giggle number one.
Later, my now four-year-old son told me that a girl in his class called another boy a dork. What four-year-old knows what a dork is? And, what would this boy have to do to earn such a name? Giggle number two.
Bubby also informed me that the so-called dork used the word "poopy" in school. It's a potty word, and as we all know, potty words can be said only in the bathroom (this is Bubby's logic--awesome!). The boy was NOT in the bathroom at the time of the alleged poopy saying. Giggle number three.
Funniest of all: My sixth grade homeroom was in rare form today--insulting each other, arguing, talking with their mouths full, allowing crumbs to spill over and fall to the floor. Ick. As I watched them in disgust (which I thought was NOT showing all over my face), one of the boys looked at me and said, "Mrs. B., it's five o'clock somewhere." Laugh out loud.
First, I saw a man jogging backwards on a heavily travelled road. I would think that if one were to jog backwards, one would do it where there is no traffic. Really, if I tried that, I'd probably kill myself by tripping over debris or running into a car. Giggle number one.
Later, my now four-year-old son told me that a girl in his class called another boy a dork. What four-year-old knows what a dork is? And, what would this boy have to do to earn such a name? Giggle number two.
Bubby also informed me that the so-called dork used the word "poopy" in school. It's a potty word, and as we all know, potty words can be said only in the bathroom (this is Bubby's logic--awesome!). The boy was NOT in the bathroom at the time of the alleged poopy saying. Giggle number three.
Funniest of all: My sixth grade homeroom was in rare form today--insulting each other, arguing, talking with their mouths full, allowing crumbs to spill over and fall to the floor. Ick. As I watched them in disgust (which I thought was NOT showing all over my face), one of the boys looked at me and said, "Mrs. B., it's five o'clock somewhere." Laugh out loud.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Someone's Trash
I feel the need to vent about something utterly ridiculous.
Yesterday, when we arrived home, there was a box on my front step. I thought someone had sent Bubby a birthday present, so I excitedly checked the box as soon as we put away our bookbags. To my immense disappointment and disgust, it was a box of someone's trash. Not my trash. Someone's else's trash. Someone had cared enough to put a box of someone else's trash on my front step. WTF? The box even still sported the shipping label, so any moron would know from which house it came, any moron, I guess, except the one who put it on my step. The box was filled with random crap: styrofoam, plant bulb boxes, paper towels, some small animal pelt, and other miscellanea. Yesterday was not even MY garbage day.
So, why does this bother me? It's a pride thing. I don't want anyone thinking I allow my trash to blow away. The fact that someone carried it all the way to my front step means that someone had to go out of his or her way to get it there. Why not set it in the driveway or by the garage? Whoever did it had to walk around the garage and up the walk to the front door--extra steps to make a point. Unfortunately, the steps were wasted because IT WASN"T MY TRASH. The other alternative is that someone put it there on purpose, as if to say I am trash, but the only people I can imagine doing that are the people to whom it belonged. Of course, it could always be that I have an idiot neighbor, one who can't tell the difference between an 8 and a 4 on an address label. Let's hope that's it, but that doesn't make it any better because then I'll be stuck wondering who the idiot is.
By the way, I threw the trash in the garbage can. I couldn't bring myself to take it to the house from which it came. Then I'd be the jerk who delivered a box of trash.
Yesterday, when we arrived home, there was a box on my front step. I thought someone had sent Bubby a birthday present, so I excitedly checked the box as soon as we put away our bookbags. To my immense disappointment and disgust, it was a box of someone's trash. Not my trash. Someone's else's trash. Someone had cared enough to put a box of someone else's trash on my front step. WTF? The box even still sported the shipping label, so any moron would know from which house it came, any moron, I guess, except the one who put it on my step. The box was filled with random crap: styrofoam, plant bulb boxes, paper towels, some small animal pelt, and other miscellanea. Yesterday was not even MY garbage day.
So, why does this bother me? It's a pride thing. I don't want anyone thinking I allow my trash to blow away. The fact that someone carried it all the way to my front step means that someone had to go out of his or her way to get it there. Why not set it in the driveway or by the garage? Whoever did it had to walk around the garage and up the walk to the front door--extra steps to make a point. Unfortunately, the steps were wasted because IT WASN"T MY TRASH. The other alternative is that someone put it there on purpose, as if to say I am trash, but the only people I can imagine doing that are the people to whom it belonged. Of course, it could always be that I have an idiot neighbor, one who can't tell the difference between an 8 and a 4 on an address label. Let's hope that's it, but that doesn't make it any better because then I'll be stuck wondering who the idiot is.
By the way, I threw the trash in the garbage can. I couldn't bring myself to take it to the house from which it came. Then I'd be the jerk who delivered a box of trash.
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