Good boy.

We recently had to put down one of the labradorks. He was a goofy brown 13 year old and this post is not about how sad it was and how much we miss him and how the 11 year old kid couldn't catch his breath in his sleep he cried so hard or how the 14 year old giant kid wept silently save for the big giant kid tears plopping on his geometry homework.  I'm not going to write that post, you are not going to cry. Go ahead and read it even if you're wearing regular mascara.

Although I totally wrote that post. Then I deleted it though because, ugh.

Anyway, this post is about how, in his final months on this planet said labradork lost control of a few key bodily functions, one of them the ability to keep all his parts tense as he stood up, slept or walk. At the same time, standing up, sleeping and walking also came with greater strain. These factors combined created what scientists call "poop balls." Okay, not scientists, just us.

Each time the poor old dude would struggle to get up, plop. Poop ball.

He'd chase bunnies in his sleep. Poop ball.

Grazing on the front lawn when someone lit a firecracker. Array of poop balls up the front steps.

We started calling him Poopball.

Admittedly, we let it go on too long, but it really wasn't that bad hopping around the house, using my iPhone as a flashlight to avoid kicking them on late night bathroom trips. It wasn't like it was big gross dog piles of poop. Just cute poop balls. More like rabbit pellets. Really big rabbit pellets. And the fact that it really embarrassed him sort of made it forgivable. He'd look behind him with his gray eyebrows raised and then look at me as if to say, "How in the hell did the bulldog do that back there?" And I would look at him and say, "I dunno, brownie. Bulldogs are sneaky." Because when you're 91 in dog years you deserve a little dignity I think.

We did, however, go through a lot of plastic bags picking them up. In fact, there were times when I would ask for double bags at the grocery store just so we'd have enough to keep the poop balls in check. One of the last times I was doing this, I got the evil eye from the lady behind me in line. She is typical for my grocery store in that she was wearing yoga clothes and $30k worth of jewelry, holding the keys to a European SUV and looking down a surgically-altered nose to shun my use of plastic bags.

I smiled sweetly at her and said, "Would you prefer I picked up dog shit with your Whole Foods bag?"

Apparently she did not prefer that.

In any case, RIP Sedgwick Fletcher's Honor. AKA: Sedgie. AKA: Browndog AKA: Poopball. You were a good dog. A very good brown dog.

Labor Day 2011

Since it's labor day weekend, I'm now going to treat you to a minute-by-minute rundown of the two times I was actually in labor.*

Go grab yourself a big frosty Bloody Mary and get comfortable kids, this is going to be goddam riveting.

Not really.  I'm going to go outside with a beer and a bulldog and pretend I have a union job.

Happy three days off in a row.

xoxo,
LGBG

PS - Exactly why do people write about that for the whole internet?  Because, bluck.

I'm marrying a cage fighter. FOR THE CHILDREN.

I've got so much on my plate lately that I need to change to one of those melamine cafeteria trays to hold it all. I'm not complaining - just wondering if karma is kicking my ass for something terrible I did and don't remember, or if other people have been so damned good that karma is rewarding them by having me take over and give them all a little break?

Or, maybe this is like a final exam for karma. Or maybe karma's version of that last part of Indiana Jones when he has to go through all the caves and creepy shit and jump on the right stones past all the skeletons and the big rock is coming for him...the world is just seeing how quickly I can jump out of a mining car and into a pile of venomous snakes. To quote my 7-year-old self, "Neato."

Once when I was in about 9th grade, my maternal grandparents were moving from California back to Colorado. While they decided where in Colorado they'd live, they lived with us. I can't recall how long they were there, I just know it was longer than it should've been - but it taught 14 year old me a valuable lesson: My Parents Don't Suck As Bad As I Thought.

While I thought my grandparents were perfectly awesome and adored them, being underfoot was too close for comfort. My children are learning that lesson right now.  Be on the lookout for my Mother of the Year press release in your local paper any day now. And, I really must say? This mother-in-law living with me? Is the least of my admin.

In other news, my charming and handsome first born, formerly referred to as the Gigantic Middle Schooler is now a Gigantic High Schooler. And my younger son, whose name is Miles but we totally call him Pete, is now a Regular Sized Middle Schooler. Hard to fathom.

I leave you today with a conversation that Pete had with Big Dude just yesterday.

Pete: Man, it would be hard to be like Billy,* I mean, his parents are divorced and they each live with a new person.

Big Dude: Yep, that'd be tough.

Pete:  I mean, he doesn't even like his mom's boyfriend at all but the guy's always there in his house.

Big Dude:  That's too bad.

Pete: Seriously. If you and mom got divorced... the only way I could handle it is if you guys hooked up with Megan Fox and Chuck Liddel.  Hmmm. Actually, that'd be really cool.

Don't know Chuck Liddell? I didn't either. Apparently he's a scholar of some sort. And my children's future stepfather.

 

Pete wants this person to be his stepmother. Hmm. Getting easier to believe he is a middle schooler.

 *Of course his real name isn't Billy. Nobody's real name is Billy.