The New Girl

It's A Shame, Shame, Shame. It's A Damn, Damn, Shame.

I could make that shit into a song, you know?  I was looking back at the holes where the posts about my boy should be and whoa, it's a DAMNED SHAME. There is an EMPTY VOID looking back at me.  I fail at record keeping in all it's forms, obviously.

Anyway.

Wanna take a guess at how old my baby is now?

...

He's NINE MONTHS OLD. Nine.

(Can you hear the angels singing sweet, sweet music?)

(I can.)

At nine months old, we have officially exited the DREADED MONTHS of infancy, at least for me.  At nine months old, I think babies hit some weird peak of cuteness.  They are Adorable and still so...Innocent.  No ulterior motives, no real Knowing-Better when they are doing something naughty.  They look at you like you are the SUN RISING when you come into their rooms in the morning.  Plus, they start doing all kinds of cool things.  For me, this is when it starts to get good.

 

It's funny to me, because somewhere I have pictures of TLNG doing almost all of this same stuff.  When she was nine months old, the [bitter, horrendous screaming] colic/reflux hell was mostly over, so she was pretty sweet, too. 

It's so hard not to compare them.

I try not to.

He's generally a super-happy boy, with an incredible disposition.  Meaning, I can go almost anywhere and do almost anything.  Provided that he has enough 1) food and 2) sleep. (In that order.)

He says, 'mmmmmmm' anytime he's in the presence of food or drink or anyone eating or drinking.

You could die from the cute of that alone, trust me.

He's curious and once he figured out how to crawl [omfg, I'm so dead, yo] he was on that shit like it was his JOB.

I guess it is his job, though. So, GOOD WORK, KID.

He's also clapping and waving.

And smiling. A lot.

Oh. And he found the dog.

Just for kicks, here's a picture of my daughter at this age:

And the dog says:

'Oh, what the fuck. Here we go AGAIN.'

In case you're [still reading] interested in a comparison, here's my girl at nine months. Holy hell, it seems like yesterday.

In a way.

If yesterday was also forever ago.

Her Name Was Chloe.

When I was in grad school, I decided that I wanted to get a cat for company.  My friend, The Kid, told me a few weeks later that someone had moved out of the apartment below her and had left a little gray cat outside in the alley.

 

'Let's go get her,' I said.  We went to the alley and waited around for about 2 minutes before she zoomed by, coming back around to visit with us.  She was tiny and stinky.  She had a collar with the name of her vet and her name: Freebie.

We took her inside and gave her a little dish of the food that they had been leaving for her. 'What are you going to name her?' they asked me.

There was no question of a moniker re-do. Freebie. WTF?  I never spoke it out loud, as to avoid embarrassing her.

With my BFF's Daughter, Quinlan

She was young and [crazy] energetic and would whip around my little apartment like a bat out of hell.  She had her tag numbers tattooed inside her ears.  She was incredibly social, more like a dog, really.  She would play fetch with little balls of paper for hours.  She was the kind of cat that even Cat Avoiding Dog People liked.  She was complete. mischief.

She considered herself an outdoor cat, despite the fact that she was strictly indoor.  The Man made her this contraption, which he called 'The Outdoor Get-Away For An Indoor Cat':

                            
We didn't habitually keep the children in there but you know, sometimes? It was so tempting...

She got out once about 5 years ago and was gone for 22 days, during which time, I could barely think of her, for fear of breaking down.  On the 23rd morning, at around 5am, I heard The Man shout, 'Hey! TNG! The cat's home!' before she tore through the house and raced to me, in the back bedroom.

What The Man did in his free time.

She lived with me for 14 years, in 6 different places.  She survived the arrival of The Man (whom she loved), The Dog (whom she grew to tolerate) and The Littlest New Girl (whom she deftly avoided). Having to put her to sleep is difficult.  I'm going to miss her, for sure.  My first companion.  My buddy.  More surprising, is the ache I feel for my Meow-Meow loving baby.  I don't know how to explain her absence to TLNG, who, without fail, calls her upon entering the house, 'MEEEEEE-OOOOOOWWWW-EEEOOOOOWWWW.'

It's going to hurt my heart for a while, I think.

The World's Most Expeditious Drinking Game

I tape a random 3-hour segment of The Littlest New Girl's Day.

And then, you drink every fucking time she says, 'ELMO!'

Bottoms up, suckahs!

How All The Other Beings In My House Drive Me Completely Insane

The Baby (AKA: The Night Terror):
Three nights ago, she awoke only once in the night to eat (at 2:30.)  Two nights ago, she awoke only once in the night to eat (at 4:30!)  Last night she awoke at 10:30pm and screamed and cried for TWO SOLID HOURS, despite being fed, medicated, consoled, ET CETERA.

The Cat (AKA: The Gray Nightmare):
I know, I know.  She's a six pound cat, for crizzakes.  But let me assure you, she's six pounds of night-time crazy-making assholery.  She stomps all over me trying to steal my heat .  She pushes all the doors w-i-d-e open so that she can march through them at will (even though she lays curled up in a ball on the bed for HOURS ON END, for whatever reason, all doors must be OPEN).  She comes into the baby's bedroom just as she's drifting off to sleep, (while on the nini, when I [am physically unable to get up and kick her] can do little about it), and MEEEOOOWWWWSS a meow that could WAKE THE DEAD.  She also makes that SAME meow in the EARLY MORNING HOURS about TWO INCHES from my face.  Her way I suppose, of reminding me that in a little while, she'd like to eat.

The Dog (AKA: The Slug)
Smells.  He rubs his butt across my floors.  He needs to have his nails cut. (Yes, I know that the remedies to all these things are within my [duties] capabilities as his owner.  Don't nit-pick.)  He's also shedding chunks of fur like a mofo.  AND he's taken to sleeping upstairs in The Man's office (whaa?)  Yes.  Like a teenager who's camped out in the room above the garage.  He joins us at, oh, around noon everyday.  (Just in time to get all the food that The Littlest New Girl [is not able to chew] shares with him.)  Until then, he's up there snoozing away. Lucky fucker.

The Man:
He doesn't annoy me at all.  He's perfect.

BBWWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.

*Hem.*

The Man (AKA: The Home-wrecker):
He continues [despite repeated threats of castration] to place his breakfast dishes on the counter, a spot which is exactly 1.4 inches away from the DOOR TO THE EMPTY, WAITING DISHWASHER.  He leaves his shoes in the MIDDLE of EVERY ROOM.  He stacks books upon books upon books on the bedroom floor (because he's reading 23449048 books at the same time.  A.D.D much?)  AAAAND after playing baseball for[ever] four hours, he wore his cleats back into the house, depositing mud on my newly cleaned bathroom floor.  (Which, as you might imagine, doesn't get cleaned ALL THAT OFTEN.)

Possibly My Favorite Picture To Date

Okay, I'm not a football fan and without that, I still have no *real* content. But you said it was all right to post pictures and make like that's content.

So, check this out:

Can you stand it?  With the peeking?

Illustrating An Old Adage

The one that goes:

Move your feet...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Lose your seat.

 

Looks like my cat's been reading my emails again, Heather.

I Think We'll Name Him Clifford

So, look at the dog that my SIL & BIL bought for my daughter:

Cute, right?

Perhaps you need a couple photos that show some scale.

Hmm? 

Whaaaa?

Why would they do this to me, you ask?

Now, that's a good question.

I'm not really sure.

Well.  It's possible, that when my niece was little, I maaaaay have purchased a gorilla for her that was, perhaps aaaaaalmost life sized.  And then, it's also possible, that I purchased for my nephew a stuffed black lab that was, well, preeeeetty much life sized.

But come on.

Their house is much. bigger. than mine.  (It's all about proportion and scale, right??)

And it was yeeeeaaaars ago.

Before I thought I'd ever have kids of my own.

In my late 30's.

Like a crazy person.

But, really.  When I gave them their gifts, the kids were old enough to enjoy them.  (My niece hugged that gorilla repeatedly.  And then sat in his lap.) 

My girl isn't even old enough to see this whole dog at one time.  I have to walk her around it.

That makes this a gift of pure vengeance.

A furry, cute gift of vengeance.

Which seems more a gift for the giver if you ask me.

Is Catsup Made From Real Cats?

People tell you that when you have a child, your pets turn into just pets.  They lose all of their shiny-furry-baby status and become--animals.

Some people even told me to prepare to hate my dog for the first year or so.  Because dogs are so used to being the center of attention, they are reticent to bow-wow out of the spotlight gracefully.  They get underfoot and drive you crazy.

I'm here to tell you that all those people are wrong.  My dog is just fine.

It's the cat that I hate.

If I wasn't a vegetarian, I might even make some [airquote] chicken [airquote] soup out of her ass, if you know what I'm saying.

Don't get me wrong.  I am a cat person.  I normally love my cat who's been with me since grad school when my friend, The Kid and I rescued her from an alley behind The Kid's apartment.

But this cat is tenacious.  And wily.  And heat seeking.  And she has absolute access to every nook and cranny of this place.  Because if you lock her out, she whoosh-whoosh-whooshes her paws on the door incessantly until you let her in.  In order to walk the perimeter of the bed that the baby is [almost] fucking sleeping in with a MEEEOOOOOWWWW that could pop and eardrum because she wants it to be like old days when she can curl up on my side to get some warmth already.  It's maddening, I tell you.

And so I hate her.

But I feel guilty about that (because I'm a real mom after all and what would that mean without any guilt?)  She's old, see.  And she's been with me forever.  And I don't want her last days to be filled with me hating her guts.

So I was relieved to find a soft spot in my heart still exists for her when I saw her comical desperation in an effort to generate some heat.

I also think it's somewhat of a 'statement' of how The Cat sees the order of things.

I just thank God that she's only leaving fur behind on those diapers.

Because seriously.

Kitty Lo-Mein would be sounding mighty tasty.

My Gentle Love For All Creatures Knows No Bounds

Otherwise, I would have wrung her little neck.

Instead, I just cursed at her under my breath. 

                                  

And then went quick-like to go get my camera.

 

                                 

That water was just poured.  And ice cold.

                                  

Who says pets don't prepare you for the self-sacrifice of motherhood?

                      

                                 

My utter selflessness shows in her satisfied, fully-quenched expression, no?                                 

And All This Time I Thought Devil-Dogs Were Delicious Snack Cakes

They looked like this:

                              

But I was mistaken, friends.  For this is the true face of a Devil Dog:

                              

For the "Renovation Situation," my Little Father brought his [wildly insane canine monster] newly adopted, 2 year old, 'So-Called Lab Mix' dog with him.  I'll call her Crazy-Girl Dog.

Behold.

                              

My Wonderfully Behaved, Handsome-as-all-Get-Out, Boy Dog would be the one on the right.  Quietly smiling for the camera.  Knowing how to act.  The (deceptively) dimunitive, mini-me version on the left, barking at me like a maniac, would be Crazy-Girl Dog.  While she is undeniably cute (which is fortunate for her, as it's saved her hide on a number of occasions already) she has absolutely no manners.  As in, none whatsoever.

Shall I run down a list of complaints? 

She gets super excited and barks.  And barks.  And barks.  Every morning.  At 5:00 AM.  I'm not kidding.  You can set your clock by her (right before you shoot yourself in the head because it's 5:00 AM, for fuck's sake). 

She chases the cat.  She also made her way downstairs and somehow managed to procure both cat dishes, which were on top of a bar that's about 3.5 feet high, to eat the entire contents. 

She escapes.  My Little Father had her for a whole two weeks before she learned how to climb the fence.  Yes.  Climbed.  When he fixed the fences, she continually circled the yard, checking for various 'loop holes.'  Even though we live seven hours away from them, I made her a tag with our number on it as well, just in case.

When I give each dog a rawhide, she takes hers and my Boy's and sits on one while she chews the other. 

Did I mention that she weighs only 50 lbs. and is barely a foot and a half tall?  How about some photographic evidence?  We blocked off the kitchen when The Men started to lay the tile floor yesterday.  We were all out and when I came in, I couldn't find Crazy-Girl Dog.  I called her name and she came leaping out of the kitchen. 

Over this:

                              

I'm talking, she cleared it.  Like a friggin' gazelle.

So, naturally, I've been feeling a little bad for my own, sweet, obedient Boy Dog.  You know, on his behalf.  But it seems as if things have a way of working themselves out in nature.  I think after last night, Boy Dog might have some genuine fondness for this little [beast] wacky guest.

I can only hypothesize what happened, as I had to re-construct the scene of the crime well after the fact.  But this is what I surmise happened.  When all the human beings went to eat dinner at The Little Sister's house, The Dogs had a rip-roaring, good-time, fun-filled doggie party.  I believe that Crazy-Girl Dog got up onto the table and proceeded to knock down anything and everything edible.  All totalled, the two of them probably consumed roughly 30,000 calories a piece (all carbs) eating: a bag of soft pretzels, a couple bagels, a few pieces of bread that were left in a bag and an entire box of mini-chocolate glazed doughnuts.

It amuses me a little to picture the amazed, perhaps slightly guilty, glee that exploded within Boy Dog's heart as all those tasty goods hit the floor.

The Man and I leave food out in this fashion on the reg.  Boy Dog would n-e-v-e-r have done that on his own.  Of this, I am sure.  I'm not just a biased parent.  It's really true.  He was a total victim of peer pressure.

I'm sure it went down something like this:

CGD: [circling table, looking up]  "Hmmm.  I'm gonna get me some of them snacks up there.  They're riiiiight in reach.  Don't worry, Square Boy.  I'll share."

--jumps up onto table, knocks down box of doughnuts, bag of nice, big, soft pretzels, etc.--

BD:  "Oooooh.  We're not allowed to do this here.  Heh heh.  Maybe you shouldn't.  [Looks around.] We might get in trouble.  Heh heh."

CGD: "MMMPPHGLP.  MMAPHHHGLBPH.  MMPHLGOLMPH."

BD:  "You have a point, there.  Well, I suppose one or two pretzels couldn't hurt...I really do love them.  And I've never actually had a doughnut before.  Plus, it's not like they're going to stay mad at us forever..."

It's a really good thing that they're both so stinking cute.  Really, really.