We don’t have “normal” kids. Otherwise this blog would be filled with stories of my Hot Mess children. Instead, we have two incredibly large dogs who are loaded with personality and love. And a little drool. So when Momma Kat handed out the blog memes this week and I saw this one, I knew I had to do it.
If you haven’t heard of the “Reasons My Son Is Crying” tumblr page, it’s basically a Mom being creative and using tumblr as a sort of therapy/venting tool to laugh about the roller coaster existence you have when you have a toddler in your life. I was most inspired to create my own version of it…but my son isn’t human…and the only time he cries is when someone eats a piece of pizza too close to the crust and he thinks he’s not going to get any.
My son is a 1/2 English Sheep Dog, 1/2 Saint Bernard, 130 pound Hot Mess puppy dog. Named Dyson. Yes…he’s named after a vacuum cleaner (so is my daughter Kirby, the 100% pure bred Saint Bernard with a fetish for stealing hamburger buns).
Dyson wears many hats in our family. Playmate for Kirby. Protector of the family. Arch nemesis to Sarah the cat. Turd burglar. And now…photobomber.
Here is Dyson in all his big, brown-eyed, muppet dog glory:
By the way, for those of you who haven’t heard the term “photobomb”, it’s basically the word used to describe what happens when someone is taking a picture or video and someone else ducks in at the last minute and steals the focus. Sometimes it’s on purpose and sometimes it’s not, but the results are usually pretty funny.
Here are a few examples:
You get the idea…
Anyway, I was in California last weekend, and one of the things on my “to do” list was to show Mom how to use the webcam on her new computer. After I created desktop shortcuts for her email and YouTube accounts (she watches Englebert Humperdink videos online…I’m not even making that shit up), I set up Skype. I had Hot Mess Hubby call us on webcam. Not only did she get to see how it works, but she got to visit with her incredibly scruffy son-in-law for a while as well. Two birds, one stone. Everyone wins. Except me because, as you’ll see in the photo below, I have to kiss a beard with a face under it.
So…in the middle of our webcam visit, Dyson hears my voice. We couldn’t see him, but apparently he was looking everywhere for me. He could hear me, of course, but he couldn’t find me. And then it happened.
Mom and I were cracking up. It was adorable in a thousand ways I just can’t describe. Out of nowhere, this giant muppet head floats into view…and when he sees me on the screen, he tilts his head curiously and launches himself at my laptop. (I came home last night to find a giant spot of dried drool on the screen of my beloved laptop.) He was giving me kisses.
He just wanted his Momma. True to his personality, he inserted himself where he needed to be in order to find me. And get kisses.
I seem to bring out the kissy monster in this boy. He was just a 3 month old, 35 pound puppy when I met him at St Cloud’s Rescue. He was wearing the Cone of Shame and I was sitting on the grass waiting to see which puppies took an interest in me. He waddled right up to me, shoved the Cone of Shame over my head, and kissed me in the face. Between that and his adorable chubby butt, it didn’t take too long for me to fall in love.
Since then, Dyson has led a very pampered, spoiled life. If he was a human, his last name would be Kardashian. Think about it: long hair, big brown eyes, huge badonka-donk. Plus, he’s not the sharpest pencil in the box. Total Kardashian.
In his defense, though, he has a huge heart full of love – and he would never make a sex tape. My boy’s got class. He’s a snuggly, farty, unruly mess of love and devotion. He’s ever vigilant, never far away, and God forbid if I’m writing and he thinks I should be paying attention to him. He photobombs my laptop.
And what do I do about it?
I close the laptop, pat the cushion next to me, and let him flop his giant ass up on the couch. Many sweet nothings are whispered, many belly rubs are given.
Anything for my rescue puppy…who really rescued me. I can’t wait to see what he photobombs next.
Please consider donating to St Cloud’s Rescue. There’s a donate button on their website.
What silly behaviors do your pets do? Tell me.
So this is new…
Yep. That’s my left foot. Except no, it’s not new. Not really…because this has happened before. Because my feet hate me. Or I have sucky DNA. Probably both.
I was 13 years old the first time I heard the word “podiatrist”. Dr. Russell. He was kind of cute for an “old” guy (he was probably 35). I had been walking around Sea World all day with my family, wearing a pair of super cute sandals with daisies on them, and by the time we were ready to leave for the day my two older sisters had to carry me to the car. It wasn’t the first time I was hurt by fashion, but it was the first time I was hurt bad.
I was diagnosed with tendonitis – which is really interesting because you don’t have any tendons in your arches, but whatever. I would later learn that I had plantar fasciitis, which is very common but still altogether painful and extremely unpleasant.
Hunky Dr. Russell explained that my tootsie woes were due to the fact that I was a growing teenager and a dancer. He would slap some stretchy athletic tape up on my arch and send me on my way, so that’s what I learned to do. My dance bag was never without a roll of that tape. Every time I had foot pain, I slapped that tape up on my arch and kept on going. I had arch supports in all my shoes. Later, I had special inserts made that were molded to my foot. Still no relief…and I only weighed 125 pounds back then.
By the time I was in my late twenties, I was getting steroid injections in my heels. Yes, it’s as painful as it sounds. First, because cortisone stings like a mother…and second, because there’s an effing needle in your foot – but at that point, I had run the gamut from tape to inserts to physical therapy…and none of it was working anymore. So I would wait until the pain got so bad I couldn’t take it anymore and then I’d go in for injections. Thank God I had a good doctor with a sense of humor who never openly made fun of the fact that I started crying as soon as he walked in the room.
When you have plantar fasciitis, the mornings are the worst. It was nothing for me to roll out of bed and crawl to the bathroom to pee in the morning. It hurts like hell to flatten out your feet or put any weight on your heels. After you stretch out the ligament, normalcy returns except for the occasional jab. If you’re using your head and listening to your doctor, you should wear shoes that are comfortable and supportive, which is fashion code for “1970′s spinster librarian clod-hoppers.”
I was not a good listener. Besides, black leather lace-up grandma shoes with crepe soles just don’t go with a Dooney & Bourke handbag.
After a while, I’d had enough. One afternoon as my podiatrist was stabbing me in the heels with more cortisone and I was biting my wallet to stifle the screaming, I looked longingly into his eyes and said “Give me the surgery, doc. Give me the damn surgery.” And he did. And it was goooooood. Except for one really, really embarrassing moment – but that’s a blog post unto itself, so it’ll have to keep for now.
After surgery, I was joyously pain free…until I got my first stress fracture. I was training with a group at work because we were going to walk one of those breast cancer 3 day walks. I ignored the pain at first, but eventually I was limping all the time. Everything hurt.
Imagine my chagrin when I went to my regular doctor and he told me there was nothing wrong with my foot. What?
See, I didn’t think I needed a podiatrist anymore because I’d had the surgery to relieve my plantar fasciitis. Bwahahahahaha! Wrong!
I went to see my podiatrist. He walks in, squeezes my foot in just the right place and sends me through the roof in pain, then he smiles and says “Yeah, well…stress fractures don’t show up on xrays until they start healing. That’s why you’re supposed to come to me.”
Since then, I’ve had quite a few…and always in my left foot. In fact, I expect my left foot to just fall off by the time I’m 80. It’s always had a sucky attitude. It just can’t hang with the rest of my body.
So here I sit with my foot in this damn soft cast. Stress fracture #6. For the next four weeks, I’ll be lurching around Texas like a giant fat Frankenstein. Awesome.
The Buffalo Boogie 5K is in two weeks. I did ask my podiatrist if that was even feasible. Of course, he said no. From my own experience, I know he’s probably right – because you have to stay off your feet for these to heal. I would have argued…or at least asked more questions…but this particular podiatrist is a creep. I only went to see him today because he was the last one I saw and he had an available appointment this afternoon – but every time I go and see him I end up feeling like I need a long hot shower. You know, the kind in Silkwood or The Crying Game.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do about the 5K yet. This has all just happened and I need time to think logically. Right now, I’m too busy cursing my DNA/weak feet genes to make any real decisions.
Ironically, this brings to light the discussion I’ve been having with Hot Mess Hubby over the past several weeks about joining a gym again. I’ve been having foot pain (now we know why) and trying to figure out a way to get access to an elliptical trainer. We just can’t afford to buy one and I’ve been considering a venture back into gym membership for a few weeks. Elliptical is much lower impact than a treadmill.
Sometimes you have to dance with the devil even when you don’t want to. Maybe it’s time for me to join a gym. It’s either that or take water aerobics. I’d rather face the muscle-bound fitness dicks than let anyone see my in a bathing suit. Ever.
Do you belong to a gym? Which one…and what do you like/dislike about it? Help me work this out, peeps.
And don’t worry: I may be temporarily knocked down, but I’m most definitely not out.
Wanna know who won the raffle?
Post #5: Angie Jacobs!!!
Angie, please click here and send me your shipping address so that I can contact MIRA and tell them who to ship your containers to. :-)
Thank you all for participating in the raffle. I’ve got another one coming up shortly, so if you didn’t win this one maybe it’s just because you’re supposed to win the next one…right?
Stay tuned…and keep eating healthy!
MIRA Stainless Steel 2 Container Set – Small
It’s been awhile since I’ve hosted a raffle – and the good folks at MIRA Brands have graciously donated their Stainless Steel 2 Container Set for you to win.
Who’s feeling lucky?
Here are the facts on these great little containers:
* stainless steel
* the lids are non-toxic and free of BPA, phthalates, PVC and lead
* dishwasher safe
MIRA Brands sent me a set as well. I’ve been using them all week and I can tell you my two favorite features without hesitation:
1. Stainless steel keeps food colder/warmer longer than plastic containers
2. I can load these up with snack-worthy foods, throw them in my handbag, and the lids stay secure. Not once has the lining on my Kate Spade bag been threatened by these containers.
(You don’t know how cranky I can get if there are almonds crushed into the lining of a gorgeous bag!)
They go through the dishwasher like a dream (I use the top rack). And this may seem frivolous to some, but I love the look of these containers. I’m not carrying around some cruddy piece of disposable plasticware. They’re cute and stylish.
My fat free greek yogurt dip is my favorite snack to cart around in these containers. The stainless steel keeps the dip nice and cool until I get to my destination (usually work) and one container holds plenty of dip for a batch of my homemade fat free chips.
They’re also handy for almonds, granola, and just about any snack portion you can think of. I keep one handy for my yogurt dip…and the other? Well, we all have our bad days, right? The other one stays in my handbag and holds my “emergency stash” when the 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse are here.
So who wants a pair of their own?
All you have to do is post a comment here and tell me what you’d use your containers for – and LIKE my Facebook Fan Page. That’s it! The winning name will be picked using random.org.
One entry per person please. Winner must reside in the US.
Entries will be accepted from now through 12 noon central time tomorrow, Saturday, April 20, 2013.
MIRA offers varied sizes of these stainless steel containers. This raffle is for a set of 2 snack sized containers.
Good luck everyone!
This has been on my mind for days and days and I haven’t been able to put it into words. I keep noticing that I’m angry without having an obvious reason. This is the reason: my own lack of motion.
The scale is stuck. Actually, that’s not an accurate statement. The number on the scale is not moving…because I am not moving. There is no one to blame but me.
I recently had a conversation with a fitness writer whom I really respect. I was absolutely infuriated by the lack of quality, reliable information out there for obese people when it comes to any kind of resistance training. She confirmed for me that cardio is the best thing I can do to take off the pounds (which I knew, I just needed to hear it again…because sometimes I get all wrapped up in unimportant details). I walked away from the conversation knowing what I needed to do, but not doing it. Again.
Overall, my feelings are of outrage and frustration…at myself. It’s April. I truly thought I would be farther along in my efforts to make exercise a habit by now. It’s 4 months into the year and all I have to show for it is a longer list of what doesn’t work for me.
Training for the 5K in May? Not motivating me. (Don’t worry, I’m still doing it…so if you’re signed up, you’re still stuck with me!)
Zumba or other group fitness classes? Doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I’m already pissed off that I have to exercise, I don’t want to be around happy people – or worse, the kind who shriek and make “yippy!” noises while they exercise. I really hate that shit.
Watching tv or reading on the treadmill? I can’t focus and I actually can’t breathe right. I’m all uneven and funky. I need to walk to music or silence. But hey…at least that’s one thing I know I like, right? Out of all this negativity…at least there’s that.
And that’s what’s getting me: the negativity. And the self-loathing. And the absolute spoiled brat mentality that seems to be hard-wired into my DNA.
Do you know what I did today? I woke up early, ready to start the day and get some serious shit done…and I ended up sitting on the couch all day. Reading. Watching tv. Snuggling the dog. Talking to the hubby. Actually, my day looked more like this:
Watched news, channel surfed.
Started a load of laundry.
Realized I recorded “Prometheus” on cable the other day & hadn’t watched it.
Watched it, then resisted the urge to fly to California and kick the producer in the crotch. (As my mother would say, it was dryer than a cat’s ass!)
Started sorting out the crap on the coffee table.
Thought about putting my shoes on and walking The Path. Didn’t.
Watched more tv.
Read my Kindle.
Snuggled with Kirby. Snuggled with Dyson.
Greeted hubby when he woke up. Thought about getting on the treadmill. Didn’t.
Thought about cleaning the laundry room. Didn’t.
Played a computer game for an hour.
Chatted with hubby. Thought about going for a walk again. Didn’t.
Felt guilty about it.
You get the idea, right?
I think about working out, but I don’t. I’m so overwhelmed by everything I have to do in my life…and so I do nothing. I preach to the world that you have to take things as you can handle them…slowly & deliberately…and yet here I sit: paralyzed.
I’m physically neglecting myself more, not less. As if not moving wasn’t bad enough, there’s still make-up on my face when my head hits the pillow most nights. I don’t wash my face or take care of my skin. Not necessarily because I’m too busy, but because I’m angry at myself and I don’t care. I’m not drinking enough water. The skin on my shins looks like the Sahara after a 100 year drought. When I get up in the morning, I pass my bathroom scale and feel a horrible sense of dread. The number isn’t going down. Why? Because I’m not moving. It will move when I move. And still I sit here…not moving.
I just re-read all of this and it sounds so very depressing…and whiny. I want to cheer it up for all of you who are good enough to read my blog, email me, and support me every day. I feel like I shouldn’t be where I am – which is wrong, because we’re all where we are and there is no right or wrong. And I just said I was wrong in the same sentence where I said there is no right or wrong. It’s quite possible that I’m going insane.
All of this is true – but it’s also true that the 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse are getting closer every day and I’m extremely emotional/hormonal/fantastically pissy right now. I’m sure this all seems much worse to me than it really is if I think about it logically…if I just strip it back down to what I know and what is true.
Here’s what I know and what is true:
I haven’t quit. I feel like I’m on the verge of a nasty backslide if I don’t move my ass – but that’s only true if I let it happen. I am not a quitter. I may take a lot longer than the average girl to get my shit figured out, but I’m not a quitter. I don’t like myself right now – which is distressing when I consider how many years I spent in therapy just learning how to like myself. I know I need to dumb it down for myself again. I know I need to make myself move more and that I need to make it the highest priority before anything else. Every day.
And so that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to walk. I’m going to get up from my desk and move more at work. I’m going to dance around the house. Joyously. And when I hear myself get negative and I start talking smack to myself, I’m going to tell myself to shut it.
Every damn day.
I refuse to look back one day and see that the only person who failed me…was me.
What demons have you faced down and lived through? Share your stories with me now…I need to hear from my peeps.