Bulls Have Penises, Not Cows

I took my adorable four year old neice to Food Maxx today.  Outside the store she wanted to ride on the plastic mechanical cow that, presumably, was placed here instead of at the Saddle Rack Bar down the street, by mistake. 

 

This cow had horns and a giant PENIS.  No joke. 
 

My neice, unfortunately, noticed the aforementioned penile shaped protrusion and declared that this is was how the "cow" gives "milk" to its baby. Given the HORNS on said "cow", and the aforementioned penis, as well as my rather infamous inability to implement a brain-to-mouth speech delay, I went ahead and corrected her. 

 

"Oh no, that's his penis."

 

*sigh*

 

Have I mentioned that my sister is VERY Catholic and, quite frankly, a total prude.  She doesn't mention such things as PENISES in her house. 

 

Also this week I had to explain the following to the same child:  Lesbianism, why she's always late to preschool when I take her and what a hangover is.

 

It's been a busy week for me.

 

Also, I just made two posts in ONE day.  BOOM.

 

You are welcome.

Note to Self...

Dear Self,

You have made a MESS of your life.  In the future, you should probably NOT take jobs wherein your clientele will consider death threats an effective means of communicating need. 

Also, do NOT go to grad school without a magic millionaire husband to support you. 

WASTE. OF. TIME.

The Weekend I Almost Killed My Dog...On Accident.

One day I came home from a day full of joyful uselessness to find my Shih Tzu, Penny, hopping on three legs.  Although her right front leg was tender to the touch and she wasn’t eager to put weight on it, there were no bones sticking out or blood evidence, so I figured she probably had sprained something whilst gallivanting around on the tops of dressers and countertops in her quest for human food.

I know for a FACT that she does, INDEED, gallavant on the tops of dressers and countertops because an ENTIRE loaf of pumpkin bread recently went missing.  I know I didn’t eat it and I know the kids didn’t eat (as they consider “pumpkin” a vegetable and thus sacrosanct) and, frankly, I have long since suspected Penny could get to ANYthing food related no matter its location so long as she believes there is, in FACT, food up there and  so long as she is ALSO under the impression that I will not be returning anytime soon to catch her in the act. 

So, I figured Penny was suffering the after effects of jumping OFF of the kitchen counter AFTER having consumed an entire loaf of delicious pumpkin flavored pastry—a suspicion I imagined would soon be confirmed by a trail of explosive diarrhea.

I wasn’t feeling too sorry for her.

However, because I am not a sadist  (What?  I know, it’s true Mom…DEAL), I gave Penny a quarter tablet of my deceased (R.I.P. Remmy) Shih Tzu’s arthritis pain medication. (Said deceased Shih Tzu died from NATURAL causes not MURDERous causes a full year prior…for some reason I feel that’s important to clarify here). 

I thought that this was the equivalent of giving Penny a dropper full of Baby Advil.  And, since I take about half a bottle of Advil daily, this seemed at the time to be relatively harmless.

By the time I went to bed around 11pm, she seemed better, except that as I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep, she kept going up and down the doggy-stairs (that lead to my bed) and every time she’d get to the bottom step she’d let out a little cry.

Oh, my poor baby, I thought.  She’s in pain! 

I decided I would give Penny one of the sedative tablets the veterinarian had given me to render my other (currently ALIVE) Shih Tzu unconscious for the purposes of grooming so that said Groomer doesn’t find herself SANS a face after trying to clip my dog’s hair. 

I thought this would relax her and help her to go to sleep.  I mean, what’s a little Doggie Valium, right? 

Personally, I'd LOVE a regular dose of valium in the evening.  I'd like to have a Goddamn IV of the stuff.

Seriously. 

Really.  Why DON'T I have a personal attendant to administer a Valium to me on a regular basis already?   I would be immensely grateful. 

Anyhoo....after giving the doggie valium-or, what I assumed was a doggie valium (another important distinction because I'm not a goddamn pharmacist)-I went back to bed, confident my precious little Penny would fall blissfully into an altered state of consciousness that would last until I could get her to the vet the next morning so as to spend another $300 for them to tell me to make her rest and give her rest the pain pills I already have.  I should mention that in this last month alone I have spent >$300 on veterinarian bills on my other gimpy Shih Tzu only to have said professional tell me what I already knew (give her plenty of rest and no over-exertion) and suggest I give pills I already have (give her two pain pills per day as needed for limp).

So, voila, I think, One doggy valium and a good night's rest and she'll be good as new.

Really.  I don't know what I was thinking.  I mean, what the fuck do I know? I think it’s already been established that I am a virtual moron…so the following is clearly NOT my fault....

Shortly after administering said “doggy valium”, I noticed that the usual snorting noises Penny makes when attempting to breathe through her flattened palate were even more pronounced and she appeared to be wiggling abnormally.

Wiggly movement actually looked a lot like a seizure....

Turns out, the "baby advil" I thought I'd given her was acutally a narcotic painkiller (like morphine, which lowers blood pressure) on top of which I had combined valium (a benzodiazapine, like valium, also known to lower blood pressure as a side effect), the resulting combination of which was that I had lowered her blood pressure to such a degree that blood was no longer getting to her brain resulting in a seizure.

After a few hours in the doggy Emergency Room and some fluids, Penny was as good as new.

But clearly...this is a lesson in why I should NOT be entrusted with the care of other mammals....or cold blooded reptiles...or plants...or fine wood furniture...

Why I cannot be trusted; Volume 1

the following is an actual letter i left for individuals who (mistakenly) entrusted me to house-sit whilst they vacationed...silly humans.

Welcome Back People for whom I am housesitting!!!

I hope the vacay was awesome. Many interesting things happened whilst you were gone (none of which demonstrate irresponsibility on my part.)

1)      I fed & watered your black lab, Rosie.

2)      My Shih Tzu, Mabel, ate some of her own poo.

3)      I learned how to make AWESOME homemade pizza.

4)      I accidentally set fire to some pizza dough in the oven (you really should check the batteries in your smoke detectors…no reason, just a feeling I have…that maybe you should do that, but not because of flame or smoke or anything)

5)      I ate some really awesome homemade pizza

6)      Your black Labrador, Rosie, ate burned pizza dough nothing but the dog food that I was supposed to provide for her and got diarrhea did not get any diarrhea because she only ate her own dog food.

7)      I slept on the couch and learned that your couch is infested with bedbugs received 22 different bites from some unknown/unseen blood sucking insect that may or may not be bedbugs-four of which were on my face and caused me untold psychological trauma.  I’m thinking of suing.

8)      Mabel ate some more poo, some of which may not have been her own.  Your backyard lawn is VERY clean.

9)      Rosie ate a pair of my socks and they have yet to come out her nether regions…so if those show up let me know.  Seriously.  Let me know.  Those were $4 socks.

10)   Also, I may have forgotten to flush one (or all) of the toilets before I left.

Love,
Me

Why I too should be Justin Bieber

This post has nothing really to do with Justin Bieber, except for exactly what it DOES have to do with Justin Bieber…which is not very much.

So pay close attention.

I feel like I’m losing you already. 

*tap tap tap* 

Is this thing on?

Here’s how it began:  recently, on my way to The Job, I overheard a radio talk show host complaining about how Justin Bieber is outraged that he got a speeding ticket whilst doing 80mph on a Los Angeles freeway in his Fisker Karma—that’s a car…what?  Never heard of it?  That’s because it’s made exclusively from extinct Wooly Mammoth skins sewn together by hand-less midgets in the desert—not dessert—of  Darfur who are simultaneously sewing whilst dodging RPG fire by the government backed Janjaweed militia and cursing PETA out loud in the broken English taught to them by generous American Mormon missionaries.   

I’m sorry PETA, I don’t personally curse you, I just talk about people who I imagine curse you….IN. MY. IMAGINATION…so no firebombing my house for the bacon therein, ok?

Good.  Glad we cleared that up.

And so, I thought to myself while listening to said talk show host curse the Fisker-Karma driving, disobedient Beiber...who on EARTH could feel more privileged than a man (Justin, are you still following?) who feels outraged over being pulled over for breaking a commonly held traffic law when said individual is driving a car made by impoverished, disabled people who are being shot at by their own government whilst sitting in their own shat? (I assume, perhaps mistakenly, that there are no flushing toilets in the desert-again, it's DESERT not  DESSERT, as in these individuals are sitting in SAND and NOT sitting in CUPCAKES-therefore I also assume said Fisker Karma-Wooly Mammoth skin sewing, hand-less midgets are pooing where they sit…wrong?  is that hard to follow?  welcome to my brain.)

And I felt OUTRAGED.

And then I forgot why I was outraged and had to re-read my own blog post. I realized….wait, I’ve totally lost track of my own train of thought.  

And, also, reality.

For all I know, Fiskar-Karma’s are made from metal manufactured in Detroit.  AND, for all I know, Darfurian hand-less midgets poop in regular toilets, just like you and I.  AND how do I know that they have no dessert there?  Maybe there is, in fact, a glut of Strawberry Shortcake in the local markets? 

WHO AM I TO SAY?

Confession

It’s time to fess up.  I am no longer living in a plumbing-less shack in my sister’s backyard, because she kicked me out when she got pregnant again and ran out of room in the regular house to store all of her children because I got a job and that’s what responsible, formerly-unemployed people do when they recover gainful employment…they move out of their sister’s backyard.  

I resisted. 

I was all like, “why do you need another kid anyways, you already have FOUR and, I mean, like, one is enough anyways right?”  And then she muttered something about having an even number of donuts for everyone or some such nonsense and I just gave up. 

Whatever.

So I moved.  To my very own place.  And all was right with the Universe.  Until my student loans came into repayment.  And here’s where I explain things that aren’t so funny and for which I can’t seem to find humor.  *feel free to skip ahead, I wont judge* 

Once upon a time I had a great job that I had incredible passion for, and was kind-of really good at.  It was a job I had done for the better part of a decade, and was just as in love with as when I started.  Then I suffered a serious on-the-job injury that required multiple surgeries, and a very long rehab which left me disabled, and unable to return to my former profession.  I decided to go to graduate school because I knew I needed a new career and, also, that I would have some free time on my hands while undergoing surgeries and rehabilitation.  Surgeries and rehabilitation that might prevent me from working, but which wouldn’t prevent me from doing things like studying and writing papers. 

                             

It all seemed like a good idea at the time. 

I took out student loans to pay for it, which remained in deferment while I was unemployed.  Now that I am working, these loans have gone into something called “income based repayment”.  That sounds great, right?  INCOME based.  Meaning, presumably, that the government will be all, like, “hey, we wont ask you to pay any more than you can AFFORD girlfriend!” and PRESUMABLY we wont base those standards on some RIDICULOUS 1950's cost-of-living....right? 

Wrong.

Unfortunately, the government doesn’t take into account that it is 2012, and that the cost of living where I live (rent is about 1/2 to 2/3 my income), gas prices to commute to work because I can't afford to live close to my job (WTF, $5 a gallon?), repairs to my ten-year-old car (double-WTF, $4,000?), and the fact that I have a penchant for adopting elderly, infirmed dogs requiring expensive veterinary treatment.  Basically, I cannot afford my life.  I can either continue to live independently and accrue a ridiculous amount of debt, or I can swallow my pride and accept help.

Soooo….off I go to Mom and Dad’s house. 

I don't know what I'm really trying to say here, except that the subtext to my blog title is now, sort of...misleading.

Rest assured, there will still be "ramblings and nonesense"...OBVIOUSLY, because that's how I roll, y'all.....only soon it will come from my childhood bedroom.  Which, i think, is even WORSE.

The good news (for you, anyways) is that this should result in far more dysfunction hilarity than when I was living in my sister’s backyard (for reasons that should soon be obvious). 

T-minus 30 days and counting.  Wish me luck people…or nobody since my readership is, like, zero. Whatever, I'm not picky.

Dear Universe

Apparently, I have offended you.

Was it my insistence on continuing to eat bacon after joining PETA? 

Have you ever had bacon?  It’s pretty tasty. 

Maybe it was the time I peed in the ocean and thus unknowingly contributed to its ongoing acidification?    

I think maybe you’re being a little too picky.

Love,

Mary