The Bed

My family is bed bound.

We didn't mean to become this way. We are all healthy and able bodied. None of us have "the vapors" or some other 19th century mental illness. None of us are depressed. Little by little though, we've all come to congregate on the bed.

We used to all spend time together in the living room. You know, because it's where we lived. We would hang out with Meg reading books and playing with toys, and then Ryan and I would sit on the couch to catch up on the "Daily Show" or just talk.

This summer changed many things though. All of Meg's books and toys got moved into her room when I redid it. We got an iPad and discovered the joys of movies and shows on demand on Netflix. We got rid of cable. And we figured out the bed is a better place for all of us for cuddle when watching a show or reading a book. Oh, and it is much easier to keep track of puzzle pieces and toys with small pieces in a smaller space (it's a queen). Even if we can't find it at the end of play time Ryan or I will find it with our feet or backs when we go to sleep.

So, here we are. It's quite cozy. There's even room for Sally and the cats. They have to be on the floor in the living room.

I still go into the living room sometimes. Mostly to assess the dog hair on the sofa and blow the dust off the mantle. Or when I finish a book and need a new one. Then I take that book and read it in bed.

I think the living room actually prefers to be empty. I mean, if rooms can have preferences. It looks better than it has in years, despite the neglect. It's all about putting on appearances for people entering the house.

The bedroom, though? It's all about the party. Oh, and the cuddling. Lots and lots of cuddling.

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These are the People in my Neighborhood

We have a new neighbor. Well, actually, we have six new neighbors, but only one interests me. Her name is Liza, she's six, and I'm guessing she's lived a pretty boring life so far, because she thinks we are the most fascinating people ever.

The first time we met Liza, Meg and I were sitting on the front porch waiting for Ryan to get home. Really, that's all we were doing. No fireworks, no acrobatics, just sitting. Liza jumped out of the van and yelled "are you our new neighbors?" I was so shocked I didn't even have time to think of something sarcastic to say about how we were just trying out the porch. I just said "yes." Liza LITERALLY (yes, I know the meaning of the word) started dancing, and shouting "and they have the cutest little baby" into the air. I couldn't argue with her there, so I just smiled.

Liza has now lived here about three weeks. Every time we see her, it's the same routine. We walk out, or she walks up. She shrieks and yells "you're out!" Meg screeches along with her. They both start dancing. Sally starts barking and running. Somewhere a unicorn smiles. It is truly a sight to behold.

Really, Liza doesn't even care what we are doing. Tonight Ryan was pulling weeds, I was blogging, and both of us were trying to keep Meg from eating dirt. After the traditional yell/screech/dance/unicorn smile, Liza had to ask us all about what we were doing. What plants weren't weeds? Why did my computer work outside? Did Meg like one kid of dirt more than another? Then she told me about school, and her brothers, and made Sally sit and shake hands before petting her on the head.

I am not a big fan of neighbor conversations. I like to be left alone unless something has been scheduled, or people are well aware of my "drop by" rules. However, there is something about Liza that is just so utterly enchanting. Maybe it's because kids are so funny. Or maybe it's because I watch how Meg watches her, and know I am getting a preview of what's coming.

Either way, I think Liz is pretty fascinating too.

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Twenty One Months

This month has been really hard. It is the month we realized Meg growing up isn't just a cute possibility, but a concrete reality; and that we not only have to let her, but help her do it.

This is the month we moved from a high chair to a booster. When we put the playpen away. When we started thinking about buying a toddler bed because the crib is having a hard time containing her. When she started not only wanting to sit on the potty, but peeing when we set her on it. When I looked in her face and saw what she will look like as a teenager.

Yeah, I almost lost it then.

While I'm sad to not have a baby any more, and wonder where that time went (I mean, those nights when she wouldn't sleep seemed endless, how did they go so fast?), every day that we get to see Meg grow and change and turn into the wonderful little person is becoming more than makes up for it. While we have learned she is extraordinarily stubborn, and will do what ever it takes to get her own way, we have also learned how loving and kind she is. She cannot hear a baby crying without wanting to help, and she is always willing to share with anyone -- even the dog. I kind of wish she wouldn't share with Sally though; that dog is packing on the pounds.

It is also fun to see just how smart Meg is, and how her mind works. Things like memorizing colors or shapes aren't interesting her, but she can sing full songs, repeat back things she heard only once, and is utterly fearless when it comes to trying new things. She will yell "I try it" before jumping on the monkey bars, or climbing up a net, or going down a slide. We just run alongside to make she she doesn't get too hurt. Meg also makes up the most fabulous dances, and is trying to tell jokes. Yes, the jokes suck, saying "diaper" when holding a shoe and then laughing uproariously is not high comedy, but she's trying.

Our growing girl is also becoming a master of manipulation. The other day she started screaming when I was leaving for work, yelling "cuddle, Mama, cuddle." I got her out of her crib and was about to call and quit my job when she hopped down off my lap, looked back at me, and said "I want fruit leather" as she ran to the kitchen.

I would be mad if she wasn't damn cute.

Oh how we love our (rapidly getting bigger) girl. Love, love, love our girl.

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Models are a Pain

I love Christmas cards. Every year I try to think up the most original way to wish people a happy holiday. I used to just humiliate the dog with my yuletide handiwork, but now that we have a baby it is so much better! I just wish they appreciated it as much as I do.

I am pretty sure that our dog, Sally, is in the witness relocation program, since she avoids having photos taken of her like the plague. I could understand her displeasure the years I made her wear hats, or a sash, but this year all she had to do was sit in the snow next to the baby. She sits next to the baby all the time, so I really didn't see the big deal. Once we got the camera out though, she couldn't get far enough away, and she didn't care how she had to do it.

Meg wasn't much help either, and she normally enjoys having her picture taken. Today though, her fascination with the snow outweighed her love of the lens, and she would everywhere BUT the camera. The addition of the snowsuit and gloves didn't help either, as she spent a large portion of the time trying to locate her hands and ears.

Did I mention it was totally freezing the entire time we were taking pictures? Oh, and that while Meg was bundled up, Ryan and I were idiots in just sweatshirts? Yeah, I'm lucky I still have fingers.

Both my Dad and I were shooting photos, and both of us had our cameras to take multiple pictures at a time. Out of all of those photos I think maybe one or two are usable. The rest just document the chaos.

It's all worth it though. Our cards, once again, will be awesome.

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Sixteen Months

Meg doesn't want to be a baby any more.

She doesn't want to be fed. If we try to feed her she grabs the spoon, flinging food everywhere. She doesn't want to be lifted, liking instead to snarfle and sigh as she makes her own way onto the sofa or chair. She doesn't want to be pushed, prefering to use her own two feet to power her ride on bug, or to walk along the side of the stroller. She is ready to go her own way, and to let us know it.

Meg also is letting us know that, as no longer a baby, she now has discerning tastes. She no longer will just eat whatever we feed her, even if we are letting her feed it to herself. Fruit of any kind is still a big favorite, but most vegetables have now fallen out of favor. She does NOT like cottage cheese, and will act insulted if presented with it. Same thing with toast without jelly. Of course, toast with jelly is simply licked clean of said jelly, and then given to the dog. She says "uh oh" as she drops it into Sally's gaping maw though, so we think it's an accident.

Meg's entertainment preferences are very definite in that she only has one: "Baby Einstein's Baby McDonald." It was so nice for my Mom to introduce her to it. I only hope I can eventually retun the favor. Now Meg wants to watch it every hour of the day, and wanders the house asking for "yi yo." She doesn't want to watch it alone, either, she wants someone to sit with her so the subtle nuances of the creepy limbless pig puppets can be discussed. It would drive me totally insane -- but it's the only time she still wants to sit in my lap and let me hold her like a baby. Also, it's fun to listen to her commentary on the "babies" and "moo" cows. Once it's over she pushes herself down, waves, and is onto her next activity. It makes me wish it would never end.

Oh, how we love our girl.

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I'm Not Lame, I'm Hurt

Tonight was going to be awesome! Ryan is out late, so I have the house to myself. Meg was tired early, which meant she would asleep by 8:30 at the latest. There was nothing on TV I wanted to watch. I was going to sit down, have a glass of wine, catch up on blogs, and maybe even send my own missive out into cyberspace. You know, something funny about how Christine O'Donnell is taking the fun out of this for me by making the jokes too easy.

That's what I was going to do.

Meg fell asleep at 8:15. Score. I stood up and started to move her from the living room to her bedroom. Her pacifier fell out. She startled. I quickly put it back in her mouth, knowing I could remedy the situation with just a few minutes in the rocking chair. I moved in

to her dark room, and turned around to sit down in the rocker. And I totally missed.

Out rocking chair is not padded. It is not soft. It is a wooden rocking chair, with wooden slats for the seat. Every one of those slats was now pressed into my back, and trying it's best to strip the skin away. I bit my lip and held on tight to Meg, not wanting to drop her, or disturb her. That really wasn't going to happen though, and I let out an enormous yalp of pain as I crumpled to the ground around her.

So, there we were on the floor. The room was still dark. I was crying. Meg was crying. Our dog Sally was just trying to figure out what the fuck happened. Eventually we all calmed down, I turned on the light, assessed the damage done to my back (just a scrape, a REALLY BIG scrape, but a scrape nonetheless), and we went out to the living room to start the process over again.

Meg just fell back to sleep. My back is killing me. Sorry I didn't read any of your blogs tonight, and that this is all you are getting from me.

Wait, I'll make it better -- here's a funny picture of a carrot from my friend Andrew's garden.

See, it looks like it has a penis! HA!

Yeah, I'm done. Good night.

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Cats Vs. Babies

My husband thinks the kitten is trying to kill our daughter -- and I am starting to believe him.

I have had cats my entire life. When I was born, my parents already had three cats, and the number grew and shrank throughout my childhood. My family had cats when my little sister was born, when all of my cousins (whom my Mom babysat) were born, and when Luke was born. All of those children survived. So, I think you can imagine my surprise, when Ryan and I learned we were having a baby, he informed me that cats are the number one cause of infant death. Oh, and he wasn't kidding.

I thought that my incredulous looks and eye rolling would stop Ryan from furthering the conversation, but he just kept telling me about how cats kills babies. Apparently, in his world, cats are attracted to the warmth of babies, and will climb into their cribs and smother them in order to enjoy it. I don't know if they lay on their faces, or just put their little paws over the baby's mouth and nose -- and Ryan wasn't sure either. He was sure though, that they are the killers. He wouldn't even retreat from his position when I pointed out that I am (kinda) in the media, and surely would have heard of cats killing babies at least once if it were true. At that point I really thought he was going to accuse me of being part of a huge conspiracy backed by Meow Mix.

Now, though, I am beginning to believe such a conspiracy exists. And Olive is its leader.

She is EVERYWHERE. She sleeps in her swing, her bassinet, her crib, her stroller, and her bouncy seat (yeah, we have a lot of baby shit). When Meg is in the exersaucer Olive is laying at her feet. When Meg is in her high chair, Olive is trying to get in her lap to eat any crumbs that may drop -- even though Meg doesn't eat yet.

I think the only saving grace is the fact that, while Olive likes to be places Meg was, or close to where she is, she doesn't actually seem to like Meg. If Meg looks at her, she runs the other way. If Meg tries to touch her, Olive runs as if on fire. And then she attacks Sally. Maybe she's just confused and thinks Sally is the baby.

Or maybe she is just biding her time. I really hope not though. I would really miss Meg, almost as much as I would hate telling Ryan he was right.

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We Should Have Named Her Tony Danza

I didn't realize there was a power vacuum in our home until Olive arrived. She has come into the house like a hurricane, eating what she wants, sleeping where she wants, and letting Sally, Alice, and us, know she is in charge. She is especially hard on Sally, I think because she loves her the most. What Sally eats, Olive wants to eat. Where Sally sleeps, Olive sleeps on top of her in that spot. And when Sally isn't paying attention to Olive? There is hell to pay.

That had been going on for about 20 minutes when I finally pulled my camera out. Really, we are lucky Sally still has a tail. I think if Ryan hadn't been eating tacos and feeding her bits she would have packed her stuff and hit the road. Luckily Sally is used to use laughing at her. Oh, and she has had no problem stealing every catnip filled stuffed animal we have brought home for Olive. Maybe they have worked out some sort of bizarre agreement.

Or maybe bedlam is about to begin...

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Sally Takes a Stand

We knew Sally wasn't thrilled about the baby. We had watched as she tried to ignore Meg's presence, and moved away as if burned by acid whenever the baby just happened to be placed in close proximity to her. However, we assumed that since she hadn't really been acting out, that Sally was just adjusting, and that soon all would be right with the world.

Well, the acting out has begun.

At first it was barking. Sally has never been a particularly vocal dog, but since Meg came home she has been barking at everything. The mailman. The yappy dog next door. Any visitors. The cats. Ryan. If something moves, she now barks at it. We are working on shushing her, but so far that is not working.

Next, she started being a jerk on walks. Before this time, Sally was the best dog to take on walks ever. She would walk without a leash and stay with us, or, if she had to be on a leash, not strain or pull. Those days are over. Now, if she is off the leash, she is off the leash. That mans she runs ahead, and back, and into the street. I can't decide if she is trying to run away or just trying to end it all. Since her new behavior means she is on the leash a lot more, we have also noticed that when she doesn't want to walk, due to laziness or a delicious smelling patch of grass, she will practically pull her head off trying to get out of the collar. We may have to get a halter collar just so we can walk her without risking doggy asphyxia.

As bad as the barking and the walking are though, we figured we were getting off easy. After all, Sally's current bad behaviors were nothing compared to those of the past. Or so we thought. When we came home the other night we found this...
That is my Blackberry. Or at least what is left of it. Don't you love how she very carefully peeled off the protective skin to make sure she got to the electronics? I sure do. I also loved how she had hidden the pieces that had come off by stuffing them down between the couch cushions. How thoughtful. Believe it or not, everything on it still works. It's just not as pretty and has more sharp edges than it used to.

When I found my Blackberry I instantly assumed that more damaged had to have been wrought, and went straight to our bedroom where I had left out Meg's activity mat and several toys. None of them were touched. Not even the little bug that emits a squeaking noise that makes Sally salivate. And then I got it. Of course Sally isn't going to eat the baby's stuff, because her problem isn't with the baby. It's with us.

It was hard to be mad at her after that. I mean, I was, and I still am, but I understand. We have treated her like the baby, and now that we have a baby we are expecting her to roll over and play dog. That's not fair. I think we need to work on better family integration. For instance, last night we made sure to pay attention to Sally while Meg was with us, to show her she is not always in second place. It may sound silly, like we are crazy dog people, but it's important that every person and thing living here is comfortable. Otherwise they act out, and that makes everyone unhappy.

Also, we can't afford any more new phones.

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One Month

From this:To this:
What a difference a month makes. She doesn't even look like the same baby. And she doesn't do her changing gradually. There have been a couple of days when we have gone to get her up in the morning and been sure that someone had replaced our baby with another one over night.

When Meg was born I bought a notebook, thinking I would write a note to her every day. I wrote the last one on July 13th. I am finding that being with a baby leaves very little time to think about and analyze the experience. I have a pile of items sitting on top of her baby book, but I haven't found the time to put them in. The big video camera still has not been used, because in the moment we have just been using our little cameras, or phones. For someone who makes her living reporting news, I am not doing the best job documenting the biggest event of my life. Hell, it's hard enough to blog something other than cute pictures and the words "wook at dat wittle baybee."

Okay, so here is what I know about our baby after a month... Meg is now at least two pounds and two inches bigger than she was at birth. She has gotten better at eating, and now will suck down a full four ounce bottle in one feeding, rather than taking four one ounce feedings. She is still a champion sleeper, and usually goes between three and five hours before waking at night. When she is up though, she wants to be UP. She wants to look around, and sing songs, and play with her hands and anything else near her face.

She is still pretty serious, staring more intently than wonderingly at things. My Mom says it is too early to tell anything about her personality, but I think she's more of a thoughtful rather than playful girl. The only time I really see her playful side is when my Dad is holding her. Her face softens, and her eyes lock on to his face. He claims he even got a smile once, though my Mom assures him that was just gas, because Meg's first smile is most certainly for her.

I don't really care if Meg's first smile is aimed at me. I think there will be plenty of smiles for everyone. I am sure that there will be plenty of words, and actions, and steps, and moments as well. I am excited to be there for all of them. I am not wishing for time to move any faster though, because it is already going fast enough.

A month. Damn. I should at least figure out where I put her umbilical stump. Just kidding, I know exatctly where it is. I mean, unless Sally ate it...

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My Brilliant Idea

Have you ever noticed how lots of great books in children's literature are based around parents who pick completely inappropriate care givers for their kids? Think about it. Good Dog Carl. The Cat in the Hat. Peter Pan. In all of those books children are left in the care of the family pet, or a demented animal who just shows up on the doorstep. And we all LOVE those books. We read them over, and over again, and give them to children as birthday presents. In fact, I don't think there are enough of them, and there definitely aren't enough that are based on real events. I plan to remedy that though, as I start on my new life's work: Meg and Sally: Tales of Dog and Baby.

Think of it: the real life adventures of a dog and baby left home together while their parents work to pay for formula and dog treats. Oh, the adventures they will have! The messes they will make! The lessons they will learn! And all will be well illustrated and sold in hardback keepsake first edition books that will help pay for college, and therapy. We will be killing two birds with one stone since I have always wanted to write a book, and we have to find someone to look after Meg. Because, let me tell you, right now neither of those aspects is going very well.

I am really beginning to think that there is no ideal child care situation out there. All of the "best" daycare centers have huge waiting lists that people must have gotten on before they even met their mate. Also, the idea of a daycare center freaks me out. They are like baby farms, and there are so many kids packed into each of them that the idea of avoiding colds and flus is unheard of. Oh, and if that isn't bad enough, they each cost a small fortune. Plus, most of them have really stupid names. I may be snobby, but I am not sending my child to a place called the "Kids Korral," no matter how many PhDs in child development they have working there. If the staff is so smart, shouldn't they know how to spell?

Another option is to find a daycare in a private home, which I would prefer, if everyone and their dog didn't have some kid of horror story about it. Kids left to watch television all day. Kids fed nothing but toast and off brand cheese puffs. Kids ignored and left to cry in playpens, Oh, and those are the stories of places people would recommend.

Of course, we could just get a Nanny. I don't know though, the idea of a Nanny freaks me out. I don't know if I could hire someone I would trust enough to leave alone in my house, with my kid, and all of my stuff. I think every time I came home I would look for things that had been moved, or toyed with. I guess we could get a Nannycam, but that just seems to prove my point.

All of this, of course, brings me back to Sally. I trust her. I love her. I know she won't go through the medicine cabinet, because she doesn't have thumbs. I know she won't expose the baby to lots of germs, because she doesn't know a lot of people. I know she doesn't have a criminal history, and doesn't care for television. And I know she would never hurt Meg. So, here is the plan. Starting Monday I will fit her with a vest, covered in bottles. I will smear Meg's face in peanut butter so she wants to be close to her. I will lay Meg on a blanket, and let them get close. Meg will eat, Sally will eat, they can both sleep, and I can go to work. The basis of a new literary classic will be be born.

Man, sometimes I am awed by my brilliance. I think the Division of Child Services will be awed as well...

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Animal Kingdom No More

I thought Sally would be happy about Meg's arrival. After all, with a baby in the house it is exponentially less likely that will we torture her ever again in order to wish our friends and family happy holidays. Also, I know that Sally is a big fan of all dropped food, and is well aware that kids are the biggest provider. While Meg does not yet look like a kid, I thought Sally, being the brilliant dog she is, would know that Meg is in the larval food dropper stage. I really thought Sally would be happy.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Sally, it turns out, is not a baby dog. Now, she isn't one of those rabid baby hating dogs that some are, tearing apart rooms and posing a threat to children. No, Sally is much more aloof and calculating than that. Her approach has been that if she ignores Meg, she will go away. For the past 19 days Sally has looked directly at Meg a total of 4 times. She has sniffed her butt three times -- which I took as a good sign -- until, after the last approach, Sally curled up her lips like she had just smelled the core of hell.

While Sally ignores Meg, she does let us know just how she feels, albeit in her own way. When Meg cries at night Sally gets off the bed, tossing us a "that's your problem" look as she goes. She also (save for one occasion, documented for the courts below) refuses to sit/lay with the person holding the baby. That person is covered by an invisible baby shield in her mind until Meg is put down -- even if said person is holding chicken as well. Yes. Sally is willing to ignore chicken for her cause. Her resolve is that strong.

There are really only two things Sally likes about Meg: formula and stuffed animals. Sally is a big lover of milk, mostly of the cereal bowl on Sunday mornings. This last Sunday Ryan decided to have a sandwich instead, so there was no milk, but there was a bit of formula left into the bottle. Into the bowl it went, and Sally found a new favorite. Now she licks the sheets, and the burp clothes whenever she smells it on the cloth. I think she would lick Megs lips -- if she were actually to admit Meg exists.

Of course, the fact that Meg does not exist in Sally's mind means that all of the stuffed animals being brought into the house are for dog use only. For the most part we have been good about keeping them away from becoming Sally's bitches, putting them into the crib where Meg will eventually sleep. However, the other night we got a little sloppy. Ryan's brother and his wife brought over an enormous white bear. We set it in the child bouncy seat, and then left the house for dinner. When we came back it was all over.

We just let her have it. It was easier that way. Also, we figured it was a small price to pay considering that Sally is reacting the best out of any of the animals. One of the cats, Alice, placed a perfectly severed mouse head on the porch the day after Meg was born. The worst part? No gift receipt. At least he brought a present though. Our other cat, Rita, couldn't figure out how to write a formal letter of complaint about the baby, so she just peed in her room. We have since put up a baby gate at the door. People come over and ask if we are already baby proofing. We respond that we are just asshole cat proofing.

I think all of them will start to appreciate Meg when we bring the chimpanzee home next week. We don't really want one, but it's cheaper than finding a nanny...

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Walking the Dog

I am taking time out of my contest with Kim in order to write something that doesn't seem like a desperate plea to get people to like me. I mean, yes, I am still desperate, but I have cute dog pictures to post. That trumps my insecurity.

Yesterday was the annual "Strut Your Mutt" fundraiser here in Salt Lake, which is why, if you went anywhere near Sugarhouse Park, you got poop on your shoes. The event is pretty much just a very big walk, and then a fair where every manner of pet product is pimped out. For instance, did you know there is such a thing as dog ice cream? It's true. And we wonder why foreigners hate America.

Many of the teams, or "dog packs," chose to dress up their animals, since, as with all good charity events, there was a costume contest, and a owner/dog look alike contest, complete with prizes. As if the dog ice cream didn't make us look bad enough. I chose not to dress up Sally, since I only like to humiliate her around the holidays. So, as we walked around the park both Sally and I got some good laughs...

Pink bandana. This dog got off easy.

These dogs did not.

These dogs are probably in a mah jong league.

These people decided to spare their dog, and humiliate their baby.

This guy decided to take the hit for his dogs.

Yes, this dog is painted. I am not showing her face to save some of her dignity.

The best team t-shirts.

The reason dogs will eventually rise up and kill us all.

I am so glad I was wearing closed toe shoes. Next year? Well, I have already promised Sally we will practice checkbook charity and just make a donation...

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WARNING: CUTE DOG POST

Really I am not kidding. There are pictures of ridiculously cute dogs doing ridiculously cute things in this post. I actually threw up a little in my mouth while writing it. So, unless you are one of those people who like this kind of thing, come back tomorrow, and I'll have more sarcastic bitter bile for you feed on.

Sally is not a dog who likes other dogs. When we go to the dog park she will walk in, sniff the grass, go to the bathroom, and then look up at me as if to say "what are all these dogs doing here" and head for the gate. I would fault her for it, but considering the way I feel about most people, that would be unfair. So, instead I normally just head for the gate right behind her, before one of the dog "Moms" can strike up a conversation with me, or the inevitable head humper gets too close to Sally.

Of course, no man, or dog for that matter, is an island. Sally has a few dog friends that she not only tolerates, but adores. One is my Mom's poodle Scamper. They play so much that Sally is not welcome to sleep over any more, because my parents get no sleep. Another is our friend Katie's dog Micah. And then there is Mauly. She is the newest friend and I think, Sally's BFF.

Mauly is a golden retriever puppy, and her name is spelled strangely because it really is the only way it should be spelled considering her personality. She never stops jumping, or chewing, or wagging, or running. In the three months our friends Meghan and Andrew have had Mauly I have seen her worn out and sleeping TWICE, and both times Sally was involved.

Right now Sally and Mauly are spending most afternoons together. It's perfect. They run around and tire each other out, I read a book and occasionally watch the madness...

This is their favorite game.
Molly puts her front legs on Sally's back, and bites her ears.
Sally runs around madly trying to get her off.
The tennis ball is a new touch.

Here we have the puppy hip check. This is another favorite game,
when they try to push each other over or into walls.

This is Meghan's other dog, Temple.
He doesn't have time for this shit.

The only time he gets involved is when they get too close,
and he has to tell them to calm down or else.

I know that the fun and games could end as Mauly gets older, or Sally gets grumpier, but I really hope they don't. Watching the two of them play with such abandon and fake toughness is such a joy. I think they are having a pretty good time too. And if they aren't? Well, at least it's keeping both of them out of trouble, and wearing them both out.

See? I told you. It was actually a little smarmy too. Now I need to go punch a kitten and get a drink.

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DUCKS!

I almost had a fit when I looked out in our backyard yesterday and saw two ducks just hanging out near the pond.


About seven years ago my mother had a pair of ducklings that she raised for months until she figured out that ducks are actually pretty disgusting animals that are impossible to potty train. They went to a farm after that, but during their time at my Mom's they would follow my little sister around and sit in her lap to watch television. I was so jealous. And so, when I saw these ducks yesterday I knew I had to make them mine. I thought they would be thrilled because we have Cinemax and everyone knows ducks like soft core porn.

I grabbed a loaf of bread, opened the back door, and went out to welcome my new friends. Sally went out in front of me, and I was sure she was going to scare them off, but instead both Sally and the ducks decided to ignore each other's existence. I took that as a good omen and started to approach, making what I assumed were soothing noises for ducks, you know, kind of like a cross between a cluck and throat clearing. They started making a similar sound, and I really thought we were starting to communicate.

And then they flew away. Little jerks.

I went back inside to tell Ryan that he wouldn't have to build a duck pen after all. "They flew away," he asked. "Yeah," I said, "I think Sally scared them." He looked at me, and smiled. "It could have been worse," he said, "They could have bitten you. That probably would have hurt."

He knows me too well.

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Making Our Case

If Ryan had murdered me this weekend, it would have been a justifiable homicide. Really, it would have. I would have made a point to come back from the grave to encourage people to testify on his behalf, because I was such an anal retentive uber bitch.

You see, this weekend we started making our adoption profile.

The adoption profile is the first thing the birth mother sees about the potential adoptive family. It helps her form her first impressions, and decide if these could be the people she wants to raise the child she's carrying, or if they are total psychos that should rightfully remain barren. So, you can see why it's a little stressful to make one. I want it to be funny, but not too light, intelligent, but not eggheaded, and compassionate, but not patronizing. I want it to be so perfect that when the birth mother picks it up it vibrates in her hands and she hears angels singing. Unfortunately Ryan nixed the idea of putting a joy buzzer and a tiny digital music player inside, so that isn't going to happen... Still though, I want it to be as good as it can be though, and so I analyzed every decision that we made about it, and then second guessed them all.

This is where the defense could start making it's case.

Ryan really wanted to be helpful. He knew how I was worried, and wanted to make it easier. He picked out pictures, and inserted text, and worked for a long time on every page he did. And then I went back and changed everything he did. Well, not everything, but pretty much everything. I wasn't nice about it either. I tired to be, but I think at one point I yelled "are you kidding" when I looked at what he had done. I didn't mean to, but I did. My bitch training wheels had come off the crazy train.

One of the biggest "discussions" we had was over a picture of the dog. It was taken right after we first got her, and she was chewing on everything. Luke had been over and left one of his pacifiers behind, which Sally gleefully took as a sign it was hers. One of us wanted to include the picture that resulted thinking it would show we are fun. The other thought including it would show any potential birth mother that we consider child raising like having a dog.

I'll let you know how it all worked out after I read the comments...

In the end I like to think that our first draft of the adoption profile is a collaborative effort. Ryan picked out pictures I never would have thought to put in, and we both helped whittle down the text so that it is less about telling birth moms about our life, and more about showing it to them. Of course, we will probably have to rip it apart and redo it at least seven more times before it's ready to go.

Do you think they'll still let Ryan adopt if he's acquitted of murder? After all, he'll have a great profile to show for it...

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Good Bloggie

Today it came to my attention that Martha Stewart's dogs have their own blog. I would give you the link, but then you might leave this page and go to that one, and I am not giving those little bitches any help. The fact that these dogs have their own blog upsets me for many reasons, but two rise above the rest as especially annoying -- the fact that those dogs get more hits a day than I have ever gotten in the history of this blog, and the fact that if any dog should have a blog, it's Sally.

1. Sally is the Real Deal I know I haven't mentioned this before, but Sally can type. No, it's true. Her weird sixth toe makes it totally possible. She actually types faster than I do, and with fewer mistakes. That means she could actually write her own blogs. I have a sneaking suspicion that Martha's dogs use a ghost writer. After all, everyone knows dogs can't watch Bill O'Reilly. His voice makes their heads explode.

2. Sally Would Tackle the Issues Let's face it, very few blogs talk about serious problems, and look for real solutions. Hell, if I start typing something meaningful Blogger instantly shuts down and this message pops up: "Error 405. Potentially serious content detected. Please go back to bitching about television and your period." Sally wouldn't put up with that shit though. She would find a way to post her critique of the current auto industry bailout using Derrida's deconstructionist theories. She's just that kind of dog.

3. No Vanity Pics First of all, Sally hates having her picture taken. She thinks it objectifies her. Second, she prefers the feeling of impressionist painting. You would never see her riding an alligator to get cheap laughs.

4. Sally Would Respond to Comments Sally is less of a stand up comic-type, and more a conversation facilitator. In the backyard, she puts all of her "babies" in an Algonquin round table formation before deciding which one will have it's limbs ripped off that day. I think she would do the same with her blog. She wouldn't want to just have people consumer her words, she would want them to respond, and respond to their responses. I mean, unless they start defending George W. Bush. Not even she has time for that shit.

5. Sally Doesn't Drink It may make her a buzzkill at parties, but it will guarantee readers won't have to put up with any bullshit random posts that seem really funny after half a bottle of Savignon Blanc. You know, like what kind of blog the cats would write. Oh, and she would never use stupid puns in the title of a post...

Of course, all of this is conjecture (except for the typing part, someone had to do my taxes). Sally and I have never actually talked about her doing a blog. I mean, I tried, but she just shook her head and went back to reading the latest Saramago book. In Spanish. And I went and got another drink...

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On Shuffle

I really have nothing new to say tonight, and I also haven't posted any pictures in a while. Put the two together and what do you get? Yep, a post of random pictures meant to keep you entertained until I can think of something clever to write. It's kind of like the blog version of jangling keys in front of a baby... Enjoy.

My latest attempt artsy highway photography. Good thing I write for a living.

Near out favorite fishing spot in Heber, Utah. Well, Ryan fishes there. I just mock the dog, read books, and drink wine.

Near the same spot in winter. Just after taking this picture we threw rocks to break the ice. I love doing that.

MAD DOG! MAD DOG!

A board meeting at my house. These guys advise me on all my decisions, which may tell you more about my life than anything I will ever write on this blog...

My parents cat, Smarty. He sought rescue in the ceiling after seeing that Luke got one of these for Christmas.

Okay, now go take a nap. I'll be back with more tomorrow...

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How They Roll

This is what happens every night in our house. Ryan comes home and lets our cat, Alice, in. Sally comes in from rolling in the backyard, and lays on the couch. Alice lays on the cushion above her. Sally sulks.

I would love to say this picture is better in the summer, but it isn't. It just happens on the back porch. No matter where Sally is Alice has to remind her that he is the boss. Yeah, he's kind of a dick... It's probably because we named him Alice.

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Sally's New Bed

I was thankful for many things this holiday weekend: my husband, my family, my job, my health, the smell of wine in the morning, and, of course, my dog. Even though, over the course of said weekend we discovered she had lice. Yes, lice. Turns out kids aren't the only ones who can bring home vermin by playing with less than sanitary friends.

My Mother was actually the first one to discover said lice, after taking her dogs to the groomer, who recoiled at the sight of the little buggers. We had all noticed the dogs had been scratching, thumping their legs in unison so that the floor shook. We ll just assumed it was the change in the weather, their winter coats coming in, and a number of prickly plants in my Mom's backyard. We had no idea they were verminated.

Luckily, the treatment for canine lice is nothing like the treatment for human lice. We didn't have to bag up everything she had touched, and then shampoo it in lighter fluid; nor did we have to comb through her hair with a "nit pick." All we had to do place a small amount of medication on the back of her neck, and watch for the bugs to fall off. And fall they did. We may not have noticed them alive, but we noticed them dead. Suddenly the couch and Sally's bed were polka dotted. Ryan took care of the corpses on the couch, vacuuming until we both felt we could sit on it without feeling itchy. I took care of Sally's bed, taking off the cover to throw in the wash. It was then that we discovered Sally's bed was not long for this world. You see, two years of Sally trying to burrow into it had taken it's toll...

Off I went to buy a new dog bed, expecting an epic quest to find the perfect place Sally to lay her head. Well, not really, but it did involve going to Petsmart, which I hate. Every time I go there they have dogs that need homes, and I have a home, so I feel bad when I have to walk past them. And this time they not only had dogs, but they had PUPPIES! Cute, squirming, warm, so adorable I wanted to eat them puppies. And where were these snack-sized treats? Right by the dog bed aisle. Lucky for Ryan I remembered how much I like being married, or else we would have gotten a dog bed for two.

I have to say that the bed I picked out is superior to the old one in almost every way. It's bigger. It has more stuffing. It's warmer. There is no way that any dog would pick the old, tiny, foam rubber filled disc over this pillow of canine comfort. So, of course, Sally hates it.

All last night we tried to coax Sally to lay on it. We dotted it with treats. We laid on it and rolled around with joy. We threw her favorite blanket on it. We offered her money. All she would do was look at it sideways, and sniff disdainfully. At one point it looked like she was going to have to get on it, since it was right in her path if she wanted to get onto the couch, but instead she walked out of the room, and went to lay on the floor of our bedroom where her old bed used to be.

I'm pretty sure she'll take to the new bed eventually. Ryan says she was like this when we brought the first one home. I just worry that by the time she won't have any claim to it. You see, she isn't the only animal in the house...

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