Stop the Insanity Already!

I’ve figured out what I’m going to do the next time Zanna the WonderDog goes into heat.

I’m getting a new, larger crate.  I’m going to line it with the best memory foam mattress, and it’s going to be plush.

And then, I’m crawling in, and locking the gate.  And I’m not coming out for Three. Whole. Weeks.

Okay, not really.

We’ve come to the decision that it’s time to spay her.  (As Janie does the Happy Dance!)  We’d love to have one of her pups; however, weighing a litter of champion bloodline GSP’s vs. all the rescue dogs needing homes just does not compute.

We love dogs.  I wish every rescue dog would find a home.  And we’re just not going to contribute to the overpopulation issue.

Final answer.

Therapist for $200 (Okay, I love SNL)

Sunnnnyyyyyy beeeeeeaaaaaches.

It’s been one heck of a day.  Not even kidding. I could tell you about Elder Son missing the last flight to Wyoming….no.  My breakfast order or 20 people, cancelling on me less than 30 minutes prior to delivery?  Nah.  Okay, I think I’ll tell you about my contractor subcontractor’s mishap…not even.  My customer lunch and learn cancelling?  Just a day in the life, right?

Okay.  Guess I’ll expound on the never boring adventures of the WonderDogs. 

This morning, I’m getting ready, out of the shower, about to dry my hair.  It’s about 6:20 a.m. The dogs ask to go out.   As is our norm, I go out to the “almost oasis” of a back yard.  (I love it in the morning!)  I sit down on the porch, grab a water bottle, settle down to enjoy the beautiful morning, and let them do their business.

 I’m soon to discover that it’s not to be that kind of morning.  Zanna’s in the last stages of her heat cycle.  ThatManILove and I have been in some serious discussions this week as to whether or not to breed Zanna, or to get her fixed. Let me take one second to note that TMIL has NOT been in town except on weekends during the last three weeks.   I’ve been dealing with this heat cycle, the diapers, the panties, all that drill.  It’s making me crazy.  ThatManILove doesn’t want her stout championed bloodline to end; I, on the other hand, could care less about menstrual cycles any more, much less my Zanna’s.   Whatever romantic vision I had about being an awesome breeder of champion German Shorthairs has this very week faded away in a fluff of shredded cotton and denim.  Zanna’s gone through more panty liners, doggie diapers, and puppy panties in three weeks than any woman I’ve ever known (however, that may be because most women I know don’t eat their sanitary products).  I’m ready to put this madness to an end.  Zack’s interest in her is at…well, let’s just say he’s peaked this morning.  I’m not worried, though, because 3 years ago, we made him a sports model.  Yup, we had him fixed.

I’m relaxing, drinking a glass of water, and all of a sudden, Zack starts acting kind of aggressive towards Zanna.  And she’s, ummm….letting him.  The little wench is even coming on to him.  She’s flirting.  And before I can say “You don’t have the stuff anymore, cowboy, don’t even think about it!” , Zack has mounted Zanna.  Oh, yes, he has. You’ve heard “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?”  Well, he’s mounted,  and he can’t get down.  Or she can’t get loose.  Or something.

I scream at him.  Totally ineffective.

I run get the water hose.  Same result.

I call ThatManILove.  He doesn’t answer his cellphone.

So, I do what most warm-blooded over-intelligent females who are seeking answers to such a dilemma do.  I run to the door, go inside, shut the back door so I don’t have to watch them do the dirty deed anymore, and go ask Mr. Google what the heck to do.

Turns out the first two things, screaming and water, only make situations such as this, worse.  (Don’t say I never taught you anything.)

After I read the article twice, I decide to venture to the back door to peek out and see how things are hanging.  Whew!  They’re apart.  Zanna’s giving me that, “Gee thanks, oh you human protector of all four legged things  – you suck at this” look.  I, in turn, am glaring at Zack, thinking, “You RAPIST!”  I hustle them both into the house and kennel Zanna, pronto.

Then, and only then, does ThatManILove call.

“Hey, babe, did you need something?”

“Ummm, yeah, well, I did…but it’s all good now.  Zack mounted Zanna.”

“What? He can’t do that.”

“Oh, yes he can, and he did.  I was an eyewitness.  And they got stuck.”

“What?  Are you sure?  I don’t think Zack can do anything.”

“I am not even gonna repeat it. Zanna’s been violated. Maybe even drugged.” 

Silence.

And then I can hear him.  He’s giggling.  And then he starts laughing.

And that just pisses me off more.

“When did we get Zack fixed?”  Yup.  Still giggling.

And we figure it out. Two years ago.

And you know what he said to me then?

“Don’t worry baby.  Semen doesn’t have that kind of shelf life.”

I Knew You...

In the last week, ThatManILove and I have been not only blessed with a goddaughter, but I also was blessed, and honored, to attend her birth. Mom’s rocking as a new first time mother, and grandmother is right by, fiercely watching over the already strong bond of mother and child. What an absolutely beautiful thing to observe! And yeah, I’d forgotten what joy new babies bring. Just by the very act of holding baby Ada Jael , I am renewed. Refreshed. All is okay in my world, even the funky stuff.

Why is that?

Whenever I see a new baby, I hear the scripture Jeremiah 1:5: “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. Before you were born, I set you apart for my holy purpose.”

A baby represents many things to me: Promise. Hope, for the times to come, and also, this next generation. A child is open, and full of wonder. Not one bit jaded, and most always delighted. Trusting. Loving. Never judging, just accepting you as you are.

So should we be.

I beg you - the next time you see a little one, take a second to let that baby envelop you. Let yourself be refreshed. Renewed.

You’ll smile, I promise. You’ll feel the love. And you’ll be more able to give out love, yourself.


Meet Baby Ada Jael. Does the word goddaughter translate to spoiled? If it didn’t before, it will now. And you know, I think her mommy’s totally okay with that.

Three Generations of Love (photo by Janie)

The Lackawanna Railroad Has Run Me Over

I want to write.  I’m good at it.  It comes naturally.

Yet, when push comes to shove, I don’t want to write.  I don’t seem to have the energy.  Work takes up so much, and events take up so much, and you know, just life takes up so much.   (And, you know, you gotta figure in the Facebook factor.  I'm on there like twice a day - once early in the morning if I have time, and once late at night. ) What the hell’s up with that?  Yet I feel so much better when I write.  Maybe I’ll force it, just for today.

My life is good.  My man is good.  We have faith in God. We have our health. We’re both losing weight.  We have very few bills. We both have work.  Our kids are okay and one may be  actually seriously finding his way, hallelujah!  They’re both healthy, happy, and vibrant. They’re both seriously talented.  And they’re both funnier than anyone I’ve seen in a long time.

Our dogs are hilarious.  Time-consuming.  Costly.  I’ve not taken them hunting since the emergency appendectomy in February, and I’m mad at myself for that.

ThatManILove is busy again, which he loves.  The only bad thing about it is that the work is out of town.  He leaves around 4 a.m. on Monday and gets home late Friday or Saturday.  Work is good.  We usually do well, together or apart, because we talk on the phone daily, and you know, life is what it is.  However, time apart isn’t necessarily good for us at this exact right now minute, because we have things to do and decisions to make.

Our house is still in disarray from the last flood a month ago.  And all the things we decide together concerning our house, well, those decisions are probably going to fall to me. We’ve decided that while everything’s torn up that the time is now to install the french doors going out to the courtyard.  The courtyard, that for now, anyway, is back to pure dirt since we had to tear it out again to get to the offensive damaged sprinkler pipe that flooded our house.

So, if one thing truly leads to another, we have to wait on (1) specially ordered french doors and (2) a new front door and back door and (3) the contractor who’s going to do the work and (4) the adjustment on the ruined rugs and (5) the french door install before we can (6) paint.  (And ThatManILove wants to be here when all of this goes down.  Hmmm.  That translates to:  isn’t going to happen anytime soon, Cowgirl.)

And I don’t even have a clue when the (7) granite that we ordered before the flood will be installed and even if (8) we can raise the cabinets a little bit like I want done and what about (9) the specially made cabinet door that cracked due to the dehumidification of the house that had to happen to dry out the damaged walls from the flood? Much less what are we going to utilize for (10) backsplash, and who’s going to put that in?

The yard, both front and back, and all the cool flowers Susan and Monica have planted, looks beautiful and gives me tons of peace.  Even if the (11) pergola isn’t finished, it’s beautiful at whatever stage.  Even in the recent rain, you could find me sitting out there, just breathing in the air and enjoying the scenery.  Oh, yeah, baby, it’s gorgeous.

At this point, I could care less about (99) remodeling our bedroom, which was JOB ONE a couple of months ago.

Did I tell you we have to have a new (12) roof, as well?  Oh, yes, we do.  Frikkedy frakkidy hail storms...

I might take up the habit of alcohol.

Instead, I think I’ll take the Wonderdogs to the Dog Park.  Hope it’s not too muddy...but if it is, we'll deal.