No one cares about my breakfast…

I was going to post on Facebook that I was making myself a ham and cheese sandwich for breakfast. Then I thought, maybe I should clarify that I’m making it on a bagel, so it sounds more breakfasty… but then I thought, why? 

Why would I have to justify what I’m eating for breakfast? We eat pancakes and bacon for dinner and everyone thinks it’s a fantastic thing. Woo, brinner! But mention you’re having fried spaghetti for breakfast and some people look at you weird. 

It doesn’t make sense. If that’s what you’re hungry for and you’re eating it at breakfast, it’s a breakfast food! I say, eat what you want, when you want! Unless it’s babies, please don’t eat babies. 

So after my internal rant about breakfast foods I thought, why would I even post this on Facebook? No one cares that I’m eating a ham and cheese sandwich. No one cares about my breakfast, period. How do I know? Because I don’t care about anyone else’s breakfast… unless it’s babies. Seriously, please don’t eat babies. 


Medicinal Dogs 

Today was not a great day health-wise. I was sick last night, and again this morning when I tried to eat a bagel. Then I didn’t eat and ended up with a crazy headache, but later managed a banana, which helped. The dogs comfort me though, lots of snuggles. 

Since I wasn’t feeling up to anything I threw in a load of laundry and started scrolling through Facebook more than I’ve allowed myself to in months…

It’s been decent for my mental health, distancing myself from Facebook and the people there. I like them, but they’re just not usually good for me because I empathize with everyone, and then find myself worrying about them, then stressing about problems I can’t help, and then I’m in an anxiety ridden, depressive spiral of doom.

Anywho, many of my friends work and/or volunteer in animal rescue, so I see a lot of posts for dogs and cats that need homes. Because we’re near Manhattan I see a lot of them that will be euthanized if not pulled by a rescue from the public shelters. 

Today I came across a 5 year old Cane Corso set to be killed at noon. I sent his picture to my husband (Bear) and told him the dog was set to die. Then when I popped back to Facebook there was a 1 year old blue and white Staffordshire terrier that was also set to die at noon, so I sent Bear his picture too.

Bear wrote me back, “He’s beautiful; I’d love to have another Bruce, but we just can’t right now.”in response to the picture of the Corso.

I never heard back about the Staffy, and it was getting closer to noon. I checked on the pups and the Corso had been pulled by rescue, but the Staffy was still in danger. He was so young, and had such a good temperament evaluation, I just couldn’t bear it. So I called Linda Kane, who runs Orange County Barkers Rescue, and asked her to pull him for us. I did not tell Bear.

Later, I received confirmation that he was safe and would be headed up tomorrow or Friday, so I posted his picture on my Facebook page to take a poll on names. I enjoy ridiculous names, and my animals reflect that. 

Bear came home to change before going to poker. I told him about the kids’ dance class, he told me about his day, and then he asked me if I would make golabkis for dinner Friday since he had the day off. I said yes, (how could I deny him that when I was springing a dog on him?!?!)

Then it happened…

Bear: So that Corso really got pulled, he’s safe?

Me: Yes, a rescue pulled him.

Bear: Good, we just can’t with another dog that big right now. It’s not like Bruce who was 11 and had cancer. That dog was young and we would have had him a long time. He’s just too big until we have less dogs. We can’t do the young pittie either, he’d be too much.

Me: Ok. *Takes bite of pizza*

Bear: We’re NOT getting him, right?

Me: *stuffs entire pizza crust into mouth* Mo…

Bear: You’re lying, aren’t you?

Me: Mo…….

Bear: Why?!?! I told you we couldn’t!

Me: You didn’t tell me no to that one…

Bear: I said no to the other one, why would you think this one is OK???

Me: You said no because the other one was too big, this one is smaller…

Bear: I fucking hate you. We’re not keeping him.

Me: I’m taking a poll, do you think he’s more of a Mr. Picklesworth or a Baron Von Porkchop?

H: I hate you. We’re not keeping him! *Leaves, comes back in, kisses me* We’re not keeping him! *leaves*

Some people have retail therapy, I have medicinal dogs. I also have the best husband, who loves me in spite of all my flaws.

Oh, and in case you were wondering:

The poll on my Facebook page has Baron Von Porkchop winning by a landslide…

*Wink, wink*

I’ve started winking. I’m not sure why, or exactly how it started, but I’m blaming Selena Gomez.

It’s probably not her fault entirely, but I was singing one of her songs the first time I caught myself doing it, so she’s getting the blame. 

It seems to be subconscious, I don’t purposefully wink. Hopefully if I’m caught doing it people will just think I have Tourette’s or that I’m in the middle of a stroke, not that I’m some creepy weirdo that goes around winking at people. 

I assume that’s what will happen though…

“You’ll never believe the creeper I saw at Target today! She winked at me.”

Either that or I’ll be drawn into some sort of espionage. I won’t know the code after the wink though, so I’ll have to be discretely “taken care of.” I can’t imagine I’d make a good spy. I’d need a Morocco Mole to my Secret Squirrel.

I should figure out how to stop…

I mean I could, but why would I want to. 

Don’t drink and get tattooed…

There are so many reasons as to why you shouldn’t get a tattoo while under the influence. There are probably hundreds of horror stories from other people on the internet about the terrible things they had happen to them, or requested, and of course regretted. Goodness knows how many Buzzfeed and other lists of terrible tattoo photos there are. Do we really need to hear about more? Probably not, but here is my story anyway!

First, let me preface, I do not have any tattoos (relax mom.) This story is about why you shouldn’t tell someone what you want tattooed on you when you’re drunk!

Scene: Bear and I are at a wedding reception in 2011. Despite being at the furthest distance available from the DJ, the music was still so loud we had to yell to the person next to us to be heard. (It was super obnoxious.) Bear and his friend Rich were both fairly inebriated, and Bear tends to stumble on his words a bit when he’s drinking. Having to yell didn’t help.

Bear had just gotten his first tattoos: our twins’ footprints, names, and the date of their birth on his back. He was talking about his tattoos to Rich, was telling him that he’d eventually like to get full sleeves, that he’d never get a woman’s name on him regardless of how long he’d been with her, and what he was planning on getting next.

I still wasn’t sold on the idea of the tattoos, so what I heard him say he wanted next really threw me for a loop…

Me (horrified): WHAT?!?!
Me (relieved beyond belief): OH! HAHAHAHAHA, THAT MAKES WAY MORE SENSE!
*Everyone that can hear laughs uncomfortably while looking at me, judging me as a lunatic, I’m certain.*

Who would even think of that? No one. My weird brain. If Bear had misspoke that to an unethical tattoo artist, he could have ended up with a very terrible tattoo! He could have been on an internet list or a Milkyway commercial…


We have laughed about it for years.

I’ve been thinking about Father’s Day approaching, and thought he’d be happy with a tattoo as a gift. Bear still hasn’t gotten his praying hands, and is still adamant that he would never get my name tattooed on him anywhere. I’m good with that, even telling him that I didn’t want him to get a wedding band tattoo either. But I did decide that if he wants to get full sleeves he should have to get something to represent me, even if it was something that only we would understand. He agreed, and told me that I could pick the start of his sleeve, he was even willing to get it before he got the praying hands.

Naturally, there could be only one choice…


Toilet Seats and Excitement

What on earth is going on with that title??? Let’s find out!

As you become an adult you find yourself getting excited over things that would not excite you as a younger person. New pots and pans make you want to audition for the next Food Network Star. A new pair of pruners and suddenly every branch within reach is in danger of being “evened out.” When you purchase a new vacuum you declare it to be the suckiest vacuum in all of existence and you keep your floors spotless for a week straight.

You realize your younger self would have mocked old-person you. “So this is what my life has come to…” you’ll utter more than once, “being excited over *insert mundane item here.* Clearly my life has hit a new low.” Then that feeling of euphoria returns and you exclaim,  “But look how much this new box fan blows! Woo!”

Which brings me back to our title…

When you live with a man, there are going to be some toilet misses, but you hope that he’s not such a disgusting pig beast that he’ll clean up after himself. When you give birth to a boy, it is your job to teach him not to be an aimless pig beast, and to wipe up after himself if he misses. When that boy is six years old, he will not do a good job. When he doesn’t do a good job his urine eats through the brushed nickel finish on the fixtures where the toilet seat attaches to the toilet. It also eats through the enamel coating on the underside of the seat. And we all know how much fun and easy it is to clean under the back of the toilet seat where it attaches…

I really loved my enamel coated seat with brushed nickel fixtures that matched the rest of the fixtures in the bathroom. It was beautiful, as far as toilet seats go, but due to repeated morning mishaps on my son’s part, it looked like hell, and my fingers hurt from trying to clean under the damned thing.

I was in Home Depot looking for a plastic replacement, figuring they must have one that will resist staining to make up for me not getting to have that brushed nickel until he moves out. They had one better. It’s a miracle of modern engineering. Why?

It has nothing to do with the fact that it resists staining. It has nothing to do with the fact that it slow closes to prevent him from slamming it. This mother fucker pops off for easy cleaning.

“Whaaaaat???” you say! It. Pops. Off. Look at it! LOOK!!!


My actual hand with my actual toilet and actual magical toilet seat!

Oh. Em. Gee. That’s right ladies and gents. This glorious toilet seat right here made my day. You just pop up the clips and lift off the seat. No more wedging your cleaning cloth under there, or using Q-tips, or whatever you did before. This is a game changer in the toilet seat industry! And if you tell me you already new this existed, then get out. You’re an asshole for not telling me about it, and I don’t want you here.

I just installed it this afternoon, but I’m already declaring it worth the $40 dollars. The frustration it will save me is worth every single penny.

That’s right, I got excited over a toilet seat. Clearly my life has hit a new low.

But adulting is hard, and this toilet seat pops off for me to clean and make my life that much easier! Woo!

Midnight Snacks

Peanut was scolding me. She’s getting to be an old lady now (she turned twelve in September) and she wanted to go in to bed. Bear is already in sleeping, but the dogs don’t like to go in with him, they wait for me, and apparently I am up too late tonight. She walked down the hallway and waited, but when I didn’t follow her she started woofing. Not a loud bark, just annoyed little woofs to get my attention.

As soon as I stood the other three dogs scrambled to stay with me. I opened our bedroom door and in they filed to their respective beds, Pixie at the foot of mine. Bear had left the tv on, so I decided I’d find a movie to fall asleep to, but first I needed something sweet!

While I walked to the kitchen I lamented the fact that I’d bought candy for everyone but myself for Christmas, and no one had bought any for me. “When did I give up my secret candy stash?” I wondered… Probably when I realized I have zero self-control.

I opened the cupboards hoping to find chocolate, willing there to be cookies, but to no avail. Just when I’d resigned myself to popcorn I spotted the Frito’s. Seeing them reminded me that we had Mong’s French Onion Dip’n Chip from our trip back to western PA!

If you haven’t had this, I’m sorry for you, because it’s the best ever. Ever!


I assume it says "Party Size" because there's going to be a party in your mouth, not because they expect you to share it with other people.

Anywho, I just can’t figure out why I’m not losing weight. (Kidding.) Maybe I should consider some lifestyle changes for the new year…

Update: I still want chocolate. Going to bed filled with disappointment and regret… and the most delicious of chip dips.

It’s all the same to me…

Remember how my brain goes on tangents? It’s good times, or weird… whatever.

The other day I heard a Linkin Park song on the radio and was trying to remember if it was the one used in the Michael Bay Transformer movies (They may have used more than one Linkin Park song for the movies, I don’t know.) Then I imagined a scenario of Michael Bay pitching ideas to his assistant.

Michael Bay: So we’re going to open it up, give a little background story, then some ‘splosions!

Assistant: Are you sure? I’m not sure that…

Michael Bay: Of course I’m sure, and throw in a Linkin Park song!

Assistant: Well, I don’t, uh, which one sir?

Michael Bay: The one with the synthesized beat with singing, then he does the spoken rap/poetry thing, then there’s some angry guitar as he screams.

Assistant:  Uh…

Michael Bay: Then more ‘splosions!

Assistant: Sir, we’re doing My Little Pony*, do you really think there should be that many explosions?

Michael Bay: Of course! People love it when I blow shit up!

*I don’t know that Michael Bay is rebooting the My Little Pony franchise, but I wouldn’t put it past him. This is what it will look like: Whoa. Only with people playing the ponies, like the “bronies.” (Google that for nightmare fuel. You’re welcome.)

I’m sorry I’m not sorry to anyone offended by anything I’ve written. It’s all true, and if it makes you uncomfortable, maybe it’s time to start judging yourself more harshly. (I don’t really mean that, not entirely. You do you, just find happiness, unless it hurts someone else, then stop it. Dick.)