Saturday, June 29, 2013

In Heat.

Dear Diary, 

     In my few years as a parent, I've become fairly accustomed to urine, blood and fecal matter. Not that I enjoy them, let's get that straight right now, but I am simply not a wimp about it. 

     However. ..

     My dog is currently in heat. We adopted our 5 year old Boxer just after Christmas, when she'd recently wrapped up her bi-annual hot moment. Here we are, six months later and find orange spotting scattered randomly throughout the house. (Barf.) We realized the issue and took matters into our own hands by putting a size 5 diaper on the poor girl. Well, a dog's shape is quite different from a 30 pound human, so the faux velcro straps didn't hold up too well. We got clever and cut a hole in it for her tail. Also didn't work. Ironically, that same day, I was cleaning out my bathroom and found two unnaturally huge maxi-pads from my stay at the hospital. Judging by the size of those things, you'd have thought I was about to pass my weight in blood. (Also barf.) I took one look at them, wondered if I'd need them (HA!), then threw them out with the trash. Little did I know that night I would regret tossing such a treasure. So we got even more clever. My husband piped up and said, "Listen. We need some undies and a maxi-pad." (Who is this guy?!) I followed orders and my undies were entirely too large for her(instant ego-booster). So we snuck into my toddler's bedroom and snatched some up out of his underwear drawer. Gave the back end a little snippety snip-snip for the tail and voila! She was officially wearing Old Navy underwear and a menstrual pad. 

     Regrettably, this was not enough for me to think she was not utterly disgusting in her crimson tide drip-age. I told my husband this was his area of expertise (he raised female Boxers) and that I was going to gracefully bow out. I informed him that I will continue to mow the lawn, pick up dog poop, change (human) diapers and run to The Home Depot for all our houses fix-its (Yes, I am the handy man. This is not a joke. My husband also sleeps with a sleep mask and ear plugs from time to time. I live with a 200 pound, muscular, sexy, male version of Princess Peach.) but that I was just NOT going to take care of dog menstruation. He seemed taken aback, but agreed. 

     In the middle of the night, I'd hear a loud licking/smacking noise. During the day, I'd hear the same loud noise. Every time I looked over, my dog was lip smacking her own cootchie and I'd about roll over and die every time. Her underwear lining is soaked in blood and saliva and I can. Not. Handle. It. It is entirely too gross for me. Therefore I find myself subconsciously saying things out loud, such as: 

"Oof. She is so nasty." 
"Son, leave her outside, she has a yucky bum." 
"You lip-smacking, cootchie-licking dog. You are gross."
"Babe, let's just send her somewhere for 2 weeks until her period is over." 
"Look at her. Isn't she gross? Poor girl. She doesn't mean to be gross but she just is."

     Then my husband said, "I think I'll send you away once a month, too" to which I replied, "Well, the difference is...I don't lick my own labia." 

     I do suppose I didn't realize just how rude my subconscious was (Not me. My subconscious.)and decided I'd try and take this red heat wave of blood in stride. From the side lines


Me. The Wimpy Dog Owner. 

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

It Was a Slam Dunk.

Dear Diary, 

     I wouldn't say I'm the worst at sports, but let's just say I never made a school team. However, today, I pulled a Michael Jordan move that almost cost me a whole lotta money. 

     My son has a nasty habit of hopping in the bathtub as it's filling with water, then doing a little dancey-dance before admitting he has to go potty. I sit on the toilet lid when I give them baths, so obviously I get up when he needs to do his business. Today, I decided to bring my phone into the bathroom so I could dink around on Instagram as the kids played (bad idea). When he finished going, my phone turned into a slippery fish and fell into the urine-filled water below. My eyes nearly bulged out of my head as I saw myself in an Instagram picture staring back at me through that yellow water, as if yelling, "HELP" as I was screaming, "Ah!" * "Ah!" * "Ah!" in return. Frantic, I tossed it into the sink like a hot potato and began to turn on the faucet to rinse off the pee. Then my rational self reminded my irrational self that THAT WAS NOT GOING TO FIX THE PROBLEM. I quickly dried it with a towel and began ripping off that trusty old Otter Box. To my surprise and delight, my phone worked. I began to breathe easy. But my husband was sure to comment on my less-than-stellar track record of dropping cell phones in urine infested waters. Two years ago, we were moving from Texas to Georgia. We'd made it to Odessa and stopped at a McDonald's when I had to use the restroom. My Blackberry was in the back pocket of my jeans, so when I pulled down my pants, the pocket flipped upside down and PLOP went my phone. Needless to say, the last 16.5 hours of driving were spent making hand signals out my SUV window to my husband who was driving a huge rental truck and pulling my small car behind it in a trailer. Eventually, my phone came back alive and all was right in the world. 

     But tonight, in that frantic moment while removing my phone from the toilet, I immediately (mentally) blamed my cute little toddler for having to relieve his bladder. Then I blamed Instagram instead, for being so addicting. Then the even more irrational blaming ensued and I had to cut off my thoughts. Ah, being a mother is great. But it has, at times, made me a bit crazy.