Give A Guess

Anyone? Anyone know what this says? No Westovers are allowed to answer.

I drew a blank. I hadn’t even had a sip of wine, my creative juices depend on grape juice. I was paralyzed.

Anyone else?

Dear, Santa… Bite Me

Hey, Santa. Don’t choke on these cookies Friday night.

Its 5:40am and I’m just going to bed after baking, decorating, and cleaning up after your cookies. I think if I bump in to you as you come down my chimney, I might just shove them down your throat.

You better be bringing me something with 4 wheels that seats 7 with enough space for 2 dogs and my idea of the camping essentials.

I’m serious, don’t cross me, Old Man.

His Name Is Rocky

Just after I fought back tears, begging Steve to please just help me because I was up until 3:30am wrapping gifts, got up at 7:15 to register Niamh and Finn for the next session of swim lessons, spent the rest of the morning at Target/GAP/QFC with only 1 cup of coffee, was dying to get the dogs to the park because they haven’t left their hallway for a week, and still had to get the kids to see Santa before Dec 26, bake and decorate Santa’s cookies, and make egg nog because I’m working the 3 days before Christmas Eve, a neighbor asked Steve if we knew the dog that was hanging out on the side of our house. (Holy run on sentence, Batman.)

Steve came in and told me there was a Pit Bull in the driveway. Me being the idiot that I am, I stopped what I was doing (which was making an even bigger mess in the house), and went to meet the doggie. He was a neutered male with no leash or collar (sounds familiar), who shied away from and barked at Steve, but came to me with just a little encouragement. I liked him right away because he liked me more than Steve. People usually like Steve more than me, but dogs are waaaaay smarter.

Steve was on his way out the door to work…on the Sunday before Christmas…and yelled to me as he got in his car, Looks like your day just got derailed. Bye.

Jerk.

So, Freddy and Gus had to wait to go to the park. Niamh and Finn had to wait to see Santa. Everything on my list of Must Dos today, got pushed to my much longer list of I Really Hope I Get These Things Done.

I asked Niamh and Finn, Fred and Gus to stay downstairs because this dog is a Pit Bull and I’m a racist. He was fine with me, but kids and Boxer puppies could be a totally different situation.

Within 2 minutes, the dog barfed on the floor and peed on my coat. The coat wasn’t really his fault though. He lifted his leg to pee on my dining room chair and my coat was hanging on the back. The coat was an unfortunate victim.

He had the most nauseating smell coming from his rear end, I knew that I couldn’t keep him in the house for long. After barfing and peeing, I was pretty sure I knew the next thing that was going to come from the inside out.

So, I posted a note on the forums of our neighborhood blog, called the Animal Shelter to see if someone reported him missing, and asked a few people on the street if they knew him. Then, we got in the car to take him to the Animal Shelter to see if he was micro chipped.

Have you ever read the book Walter the Farting Dog? I now believe it is possible for a dog’s gas to stop burglars from robbing a house. In the car, with nowhere to run from the smell, Niamh said it was making her eyes burn.

Speaking of Niamh, I asked her what we should call the dog because we didn’t know his name. She said Pimpy!

Pimpy!?, I said. Why Pimpy?

Because he’s a pimple.

Why is he a pimple?, I asked her.

You said he was a pimple, she said.

NO! He’s a Pit Bull, not a Pimple!

So, we took Pimpy to the shelter. He was chipped. His name is Rocky. He has a file at the shelter. Apparently Rocky is a regular at the shelter and his owner isn’t too quick to retrieve him. Twice in the past they have had to send her certified letters to tell her to come pick him up. Knowing their 72 hour policy before putting dogs up for adoption, and knowing that there are a lot more racists out there, my stomach sank thinking about what might become Rocky’s fate.

I don’t know what to do for him. He was very sweet, even buried his big square head in my stomach when I bent down to pet him, just like Eddy used to do. But, I don’t want him. I can’t have him. 

If I give out his case number, will someone check in on him and maybe foster him? I really wish I hadn’t been the one to find him. I can’t handle the guilt of being the one to take him to the Animal Shelter. 

Pimpy, I’m thinking of you, Pal. I’m sorry your Mom sucks. I’m sorry I can’t handle anything else in my house that isn’t fully responsible for their bladder and bowels. I’m sorry I judged you. I’m just plain old sorry.

Now, after taking Fred and Gus to the dog park, bathing them, and taking Niamh and Finn to see Santa, I’m in the kitchen, making 2 batches of cookies for Santa, wishing I had prioritized the Spiked Egg Nog over the cookies, hoping Pimpy finds a better home for the holidays. sigh. I miss Eddy.

Misinterpreted

Niamh told her teacher that the dogs had surgery on their necks so they wouldn’t have babies.

I was dying thinking about Niamh putting together the information she knew. She knew the dogs had surgery so they wouldn’t have babies. She knew they were wearing cones on their necks. The logical assumption is that babies come out of dogs’ necks.

What worries me is she never questioned that assumption.

She also thinks this guy flies to the North Pole every night and tells Santa about her behavior towards her mother each day.

I’m thinking the magic of Christmas is going to last a few more years around here, and that I can keep telling her babies are made when a man kisses a woman he loves….or two male dogs lick each other’s faces.

Misery Loves Company

Friday the boys were neutered (by a Vet who explained the surgery with the terms "balls and weiner").

They have 10 days with the cones.

Gus is lucky he’s got a brother willing to help him out.

Don’t judge me. I had an itch. This stupid thing wouldn’t let me get to it.

By Day 2 they were feeling better. Only 8 more days with the cones.

Its The Thought That Counts

Hey, Pals. I am so sorry to tell you that I am unable to buy you the Christmas gifts I was planning this year. You see, our basement flooded, so, Steve and I will be buying drywall and sump pumps, new throw rugs and dog beds, baseboards and paint.

I’ve had to cash out the following gifts:

Meg- I had prepaid some sclero at Via Vascular. Dr. Jensen still has your chart. Drop my name. He knows me and my deep femoral veins well. The package was complete with compression stockings and and pedicure at HOA on Roosevelt.

Katie- I had bought you the cutest “something blue” for your wedding. Just because you aren’t getting it doesn’t mean you can continue to put off getting your effing dress. Get on it. April 29th is not so far away. (Believe me, my abs and I have been counting down the days until we see a bikini in Hawaii).

Aleah- There is this new brood of chicks that are disease resistant and have the most perfect fluffy yellow down. I had ordered you 4 of them. I’m sure they will find good homes (that aren’t haunted with the history yours has).

Julie- Custom bedding for the camper. Not that she needed custom sheets….she’s pretty perfect just as she is.

Brooke- Puerto Rican Coconut Egg Nog. You’re lucky. I’m making it anyway for myself and my brother-in-law, so I might as well make you a jug too. Kinda wish I had some right now.

Hope the rest of your Families’ and Friends’ basements are dry. I’d hate for your stocking to hang limp from the chimney’s.