Posts tagged ‘dog’

The Rockstar

My dog was in heat again a few weeks ago, and I’m probably going to get her spayed relatively soon. She is a “show” dog, but neither My Chemical Romance nor I want to show her. Other than not having time, energy, or money for showing her, I’m not so sure how she’d do in a ring. She’s incredibly social with other dogs, and I think she would distract everyone — including herself. She would roll on her back and try to get the judge to rub her belly. Plus she has this weird untamed hair — she has like 12 cowlicks that would take me forever to get straight. I’ve tried, when I groom her, to get her fur to lay flat. It likes to be springy and curl up. I’m not going to fight dog hair — I already fight with my own hair and The Informant’s hair. My Masterpiece seems to have gotten better hair genes, along with Animal and Mineral, who don’t count because they get shaved every month or two.

Another reason I would spay her is her Optic Neuritis. If you look it up, you’ll get a vague explanation that it’s an eye condition that leads to temporary blindness which will someday be permanent blindness. Maybe. There’s really no way to tell. She hasn’t had an episode of blindness in nearly a year — but the ophthalmologist vet said it would probably be a year between episodes, so I’m not sure yet. It’s not genetic, but I don’t want to breed her when she’s not 100% perfect, she’s not a champion… there’s just no reason to breed her.

I love her. She loves My Chemical Romance. She loves me, but when My Chemical Romance is around, she’s on him like wild on rice. She loves curling up in corners. Her favorite spot in the kitchen is in the corner, under a row of shelves. Her favorite place in the bathroom is the cubby under the counter where I put my chair. Her favorite place in the office is under the desk. Her favorite place in our bedroom is on our bed, preferably on a pillow. She sleeps on her back with her paws in the air. It cracks me up. Usually sometime in the night she gets off our bed and sleeps in a corner of the room, near the door. She follows me in and out of the bathroom when I pee all night long. She goes in the bathroom with My Chemical Romance when he wakes up in the morning and showers.

She loves a half-deflated soccer ball. She loves stuffed animals. She takes them outside and “kills” them, shaking them back and forth and running around. When I was talking with her breeder about which dog would be appropriate for our family, the breeder mentioned that in her personality test she didn’t show the instinct to kill stuffed animals or balls — so she seemed more easy going. HA. Almost two years later, and the kill instinct has been activated.

She LOVES other dogs. Her main goal in life seems to be to get other dogs to play with her. Too bad most other dogs find her pesky. We dog-sat for my friend Renaissance Woman (still need a better nickname?) and her big brown lab wouldn’t give her the time of day. Same with my parents’ two dogs. Luckily she has a BFF, Wii’s dog.

She’s a good dog. She used to be kind of small for her breed, but now she’s normal sized. We feed her raw, and My Chemical Romance is always amazed at the huge portions she eats.


November 30, 2010 at 2:19 pm Leave a comment

What my bathroom says about me

Note: Despite the title, this is NOT one of those posts about my gastrointestinal issues post-weight-loss-surgery, OR my recent anal surgery that was a direct result of my gastrointestinal issues post-weight-loss surgery. For once.

Apparently on Law and Order they always check your bathroom. After you’ve been reported missing, or dead, or whatever — they go into your bathroom and rifle through your stuff to get a clear picture of the kind of person you were (are).

(Note #2: Nothing happened to me, detectives! I found a really good deal on Trave* for a weekend trip to Hawaii and I’m off to lie on the beach and sip drinks — and I’m leaving my cell phone at home! I’ll be back on Monday before naptime. Seriously, what happens to someone who drives a minivan with four car seats? A criminal would pity me, not carjack me.)

I hope that the detectives would take a few seconds to recognize that most of the stuff in my bathroom wasn’t actually a reflection of me; it was a reflection of the fact that the Le*go dinosaur ship just happened to go into time out while I was about to jump into the shower — during which the water temperature fluctuated wildly because my children decided, while I was in there, that they might actually enjoy this whole “flushing” nonsense that they’d previously derided as one of my antiquated rituals that was beneath them.

So: Le*gos. At the least.

Probably also a Bar*bie or something that represents The Informant; possibly a stuffed animal or blanket. The Le*gos are usually Mineral’s, so we’ll assume there’s also an item in honor of Animal — most likely a stick or clothes hanger that has been fashioned into a vicious weapon of mass destruction because — even you mommies who are pacifists and communicate with only non-violent communication — if you have a boy, it will be a gun. Trust me. I have two.

(Note #3: I have a very tall friend who once asked, before our first play-date with our children, if there were any guns in my house. My first response was, “Have you considered trying Zol*oft first?” My second — actual — response was, “Of course we don’t have guns! We’re democrats!”)

Next you’ll find money. Money. I find money in a bathroom utterly repulsive. I have no idea why — except that it’s so incongruous to find money in a bathroom. I live in a house in a suburb of Charlotte; it’s not a seedy disco with prostitutes hanging out near the toilets. We’re not at Studio 54; we use the bathroom for the three S’s, none of which is sex.

And: pens. See above note on the incredible incongruousness. Pens without paper. Pens for My Masterpiece to use to color the walls while I’m peeing.

Oh yes, because you’ll also find My Masterpiece in the bathroom. She has never witnessed a shower she didn’t want in on. In fact, she will sit outside the shower door and cry until I let her in, at which point she will sit on the shower floor, holding her left hand up to feel the “rain,” and sucking her right thumb happily. (Note #4: This is why she is my masterpiece. Even if she wanted a shower, The Informant would not stop tattletailing long enough to remove her clothes and get in; Animal and Mineral want privacy in the bathroom now, thanks, mom.)

What else will you find in the bathroom? A chew toy. For the Dog Without a Downside. Of course. Because that’s where a chew toy belongs. And that’s where the Dog Without a Downside belongs when it’s chew-on-a-chew-toy time. In my bathroom. Laying on the rug. Waiting for me to get out of the shower so she can lick the clean water off me. It tastes almost as good as toilet water.

Probably the worst thing you’ll find in my bathroom is a complete lack-of-cleanliness — which I can explain. You see, I have people over frequently. I’m wildly friendly. Also, we have a spring-free trampoline in the backyard — called Suzy Springfree — and therefore we attract all the neighborhood kids. And then their mothers come to get them for dinner. And inevitably someone has to use a bathroom — so I keep the guest bathroom really clean. I want these acquaintance-friends who have not yet made it up the ladder to friend-friends or even friends to think that aside from raising four children and training The Dog Without a Downside — aside from homeschooling and cooking organic-only meals from scratch — my other hobbies include scrubbing the toilet eight times a day for fun! With my own cleaner! Made with all non-toxic ingredients! That’s me! Giving a totally accurate representation of myself, I swear! Just don’t go upstairs.

April 16, 2010 at 12:56 am 3 comments

Dear Lovey Hart, I am Desperate

Welcome to the April Carnival of Natural Parenting: Parenting advice!

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama. This month we’re writing letters to ask our readers for help with a current parenting issue. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.


(Does anyone remember that book? Kind of a tween romance novel, if I remember correctly, although the title implies it’s about an individual with narcissistic personality disorder who is contemplating suicide.)

I have some parenting questions.

  1. My children are constantly asking me who I love best: Animal, Vegetable, The Informant, or My Masterpiece. The truth is, I can’t answer that question; they all kind of suck! They leave their dirty and clean clothes mixed together so that I’m constantly doing laundry rather than engaging in the dreaded “sniff test;” they don’t always flush and then act all surprised when The Dog Without a Downside eats poop from the toilet; they claim to “forget” whether or not they’ve brushed their teeth; they say I’m mean because we don’t own a Wii, PlayStation, OR a DS; they think McD*nald’s French fries count as a vegetable; they stand over my shoulder while I’m cooking and sneeze in the soup; they want to cuddle with me only when they’re projectile vomiting or having an explosive nose bleed (and I’m wearing a freshly-washed white shirt); and their “inside voices” could raise the dead. In short, Who is my favorite? NONE OF THE ABOVE. (I don’t even like the Dog Without a Downside; who thinks feces is a treat?!?!?!?) How do I answer this question?
  2. Sometimes My Chemical Romance really gets on my nerves. He goes to the grocery store and remembers to pick up his Shr*dded Wheat but manages to forget the chocolate covered Ore*s that are imperative to my mental health, not to mention that he never brings reusable bags despite the fact that we have 80 billion. He often spends long periods of time reading Dungeons & Dragons blogs online but not hanging pictures in the dining room.  He once tried to convince me that Poinsettias were a romantic floral arrangement. My question is, If I switched his coffee to decaf for a few weeks, then changed it to espresso, would he be more helfpul around the house?
  3. My two-and-a-half-year-old stopped nursing a while ago. However, whenever we’re out in public (rarely; I have four young children and try to avoid exposing the world to them) she wants nummies. If I say no, she lifts up my shirt, revealing a lot of extra skin from three pregnancies – one with twins – not to mention a weight gain and loss of over a hundred and twenty pounds. To sum up: In an intimate situation with me, Frankenstein would want the lights off, thanks dear. She never wants to nurse when we’re home – only while at the grocery store or a restaurant or a near-stranger’s house (where I then get labeled as one of those moms, the kind who still nurses her two-and-a-half-year-old, on demand and in public, no less, with a stomach that resembles curdled cottage cheese). Short of liposuction and a tummy tuck, what can I do? I’m not sure Sp*anx are compatible with breastfeeding.
  4. Is there a better response than, “I just can’t keep my hands off my husband,” when well-meaning strangers comment on my huuuuuuuuuuuuuge family? I have four kids, including a set of twins. I’m not Michele Duggar; I’m just efficient.
  5. And another thing, how can I politely roll my eyes when women fawn over My Chemical Romance and the fact that he’s – gasp! – parenting his children? We’re talking about a situation in which a parent is actively parenting his children. It’s not rocket surgery. (And furthermore, they’re usually shoe-less, or wearing shorts and tank-tops in the snow, or a winter jacket in the summer, and they haven’t brushed their teeth since the Clinton Administration. That is the standard we accept from dads, apparently.)


Cream of Mommy



Carnival of Natural Parenting -- Hobo Mama and Code Name: MamaVisit Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

(This list will be updated by the end of the day April 13 with all the carnival links.)

April 13, 2010 at 6:00 am 26 comments

I officially take it very seriously

when you say that something is a pain in your ass.

When you tell me something is a pain in your ass, I will immediately assume that whatever you’re talking about — your kids, your husband, your dog, your washing machine — is causing you the most intense, sharp, shooting, red-hot burning experience of your life. I will immediately tell you to dump it (husband) or sell it (kids, washing machine). Because, for the love of all that is holy, ass pain is not a joke! Ass pain is very very serious! Whatever is causing you ass pain must be gotten rid of, without haste! You can always get another husband or kids!

On the other hand, do not get rid of the dog. Dogs are very useful for cleaning up car upholstery after you take too many pain pills and eat a big meal and there’s tons of traffic on I-95 and you vomit into a paper bag, which leaks, and causes your pain-in-the-ass husband to complain that the smell of vomit is going to make him vomit. Dogs will eat vomit, which mitigates the smell, and voila, you’re still on your way back home.

Here’s to hoping Jesus rises tomorrow and takes my ass pain with him:

And then I can continue my life blogging about really important things like sunglasses and phones that have internet and why, as an adult, I officially like fanny packs, teva sandals, and onions.

April 3, 2010 at 11:00 pm 1 comment

I wish I could joke, but the drugs aren’t good enough.

By the way, I know I promised to live-blog while drinking the colonscopy sludge

but I must have done it wrong, because nothing really happened. (And I have had a colonscopy before, so I know what’s supposed to happen.)

So I had my surgery yesterday. And… it hurt. Bad. Worse than I had anticipated. 

I anticipated that this surgery would be like the two in-office procedures I’ve had on this, uh, region. Annoying, causing some discomfort, but ultimately more of a punchline than a painful experience. (Is there anything funnier than imagining me genuflecting with my ass-cheeks taped open while a preternaturally cheeful nurse injects lidocaine into very very delicate tissues?)

Sadly, I was totally wrong. Those were procedures. This was surgery. Minor, outpatient, but still surgery.

I woke up from anesthesia vomiting and peeing myself — awesome! — and in pain. So much pain. I got some stronger medicine, and threw up again on the drive back to my parent’s house.

When I got back there, I learned that my children had run my mom ragged, so I put them to bed. And I walked the dog. While my ass bled, and, uh, leaked. And it hurt. It hurt a lot.

During the night, I realized that I needed more help, so I called the doctor for stronger painkillers, and I called My Chemical Romance to fly down here and drive us back home. I need to be home. I need my friends and my husband.

I hope that my next blog comes from home, and that I can sit without use of a pillow when I write it.

April 1, 2010 at 9:53 am 3 comments

Homeschoolers: Vacationing with Regular-Schoolers since 2010

I find it wildly ironic that I happen to take our first vacation as homeschoolers when all the other kids are on spring break. Here’s a quick recap of Disney.

Ten Random Moments at Disney

10. Star Tours. Animal and Mineral thought it was the coolest ride they’ve ever been on. I thought I was going to vomit from motion-sickness.

9. The Informant at Bippity Boppity Boo. Despite being one of those progressive moms who didn’t want to gender stereotype my children, I made a little squee upon seeing The Informant looking like she stepped out of a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Or a mouth.

8. Maizey on the tram to Hollywood Studios. I was hoping I could park at the front and take her to the kennel there (of course Maizey came with us to Disney!) but the parking attendant said she’d have to ride the tram like all the other… people.

7. Eating hamburgers every day: I was in heaven!

6. FastPass. It just rules. Part two is that our tickets somehow mysteriously de-magnetized, meaning the automated FastPass wouldn’t work, so we had to get FastPass tickets from a Disney worker. Meaning we could get FastPass tickets to multiple rides since the automated machine wouldn’t notice!

5. It’s a Small World After All. I even got a little teary, it’s such a sweet ride. Still my favorite.

4. Seeing my aunt Alice and uncle Ronnie and cousin Adam for dinner at TRex in Downtown Disney. Great food; the ambiance was total sensory overload. Afterwards, Ronnie took all of my kids to the Lego Store and bought them sets! Even My Masterpiece! Thank you uncle Ronnie!

3. Breathe-Right Strips: Epic FAIL. My mom still snores like a drunken 400lb trucker. Except now she looks like a drunken 400lb trucker with a sticker on her face.

2. Hollywood Studios. I liked it almost as much as Magic Kingdom. Who knew?

1. Seeing Animal and Mineral enjoying themselves. They’re 7, which is the perfect age for Disney. The Informant got tired and cranky after a few days of staying up late and getting up early, and My Masterpiece is a little young for Disney, but Animal and Mineral were so full of wonder! They were wonder-full.   

I will post some actual pics soon. My camera was awesome!

March 28, 2010 at 7:10 am Leave a comment

About Mommy Soup

Wife and homeschooling mom of five, including my Christmas Day homebirth baby. Not Catholic, Amish, or quiverfull; we just like to... you know!

Writing about my interests: natural pregnancy and birth; attachment parenting; cooking; baking; homeschooling; green living; human rights; child passenger safety; dog training, and life after weight-loss surgery.

In my free time I try to figure out how I can promote world peace while wasting time on Facebook.

NaNoWriMo 2010

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