I may have crossed a line

But before I get to that, I must show you what horror I had to endure on Halloween. I'm pleased with myself that I've gotten the Halloween pictures up before Christmas (hold your applause).

Silas has wanted to be the Predator from the Alien vs. Predator movies for two years now. This year I finally got it together and found the mask and hands for him. Sidenote: Do NOT, ever, google 'child predator hands'. Google does not know you mean predator costume. Back to your regularly scheduled post. And we can all thank his father for letting him watch such a scary movie. You have no idea how many arguments have ensued in our household over this. His defense? "He doesn't know what he's watching". I beg to differ. Anyway, sorry, end of tangent.

So hold onto your hats, ladies and gents. This is the extremely scary and somewhat nauseating costume my six year old wanted:

He has the helmet with the dread locks on it, but chose not to wear it. I have no idea why. The poor thing was absolutely mortified when a little girl took one look at him, screamed, and ran to her mother. He pulled his mask off, fell to his knees, and told her "it's just me. I'm just a little boy. I won't hurt you".

Now on to the line I may have crossed.

I have put the dogs in pajamas.

I know. You don't have to say it. I'm just not sure if there's a way back from this.

I've painted the bully's toenails. I've put bows in the spaniel's ears. (are those apostrophe's right?) (Is that one?) Someone get me a punctuation teacher and have me a baby. That should solve both problems, don'tcha think?

At least they're cute pajamas, right?

My dogma ate my CAR-ma

Haha! See what I did there? Dogma/Karma?

I'm sorry. It's just that I'm light headed from all the numbers rolling around in my head. Big, huge, scary numbers that represent how much it's costing to get my car fixed. (If you're thinking 'well, that's what you get for driving a Jag', you're mean and you made me cry. Happy?)

It just overheated, no big deal right? Wrong. You couldn't possibly be wronger in the whole history of being wrong, ever. I put a thermostat in it ($200). It ran fine. Until it didn't. Overheated again. This time I didn't catch it quick enough and it cracked the overflow tank, which of course is custom molded to fit in the little niche and lined in gold and plated with unicorn farts so therefore stupid expensive ($500).

Problem solved, right? HAH! Non, mon amie, non.

A few days later: WONK WONK High engine temperature. Catastrophic failure eminent. Cease and desist immediately. (at least that's what I hear when I see the temperature hand climbing)

So I give up and take it to an actual mechanic who diagnosed it as needing a new cooling fan assembly and harness ($760). So, yeah. I really hope you didn't want anything for christmas. We can go for a ride in my car if you want. No promises we'll get back though.

Whatever car repair god I pissed off still has it out for me. I was driving my daughters' car while mine was in the shop. She took it out last night, calls me at 10:00 (why do these calls never come before I get in my jammies?) and wails "why does everything you touch explode???". This is not sounding good. I ask her what I've exploded now. Her car is overheated on the side of the road.

And the cycle continues. Good news is, she has an escort. It really was just the thermostat and it only cost $10 to fix it. Score! Perchance the auto gods have been appeased and my good car karma restored all around.

I have arrived

Finally, after over a year of blogging, I have been truly accepted by the community. I, my friend, have my very own troll. Yes, it's true. A lovely anonymous troll using the pseudonym 'snoop' (ironic, no?) left a message on my last post about my lovely little bulldog puppy. He suggested that she deserved to be abandoned because of her stench, and then should be 'finished off with a gun'. As far as trolls go, fairly benign I guess.

But none the less, I am honored to be inducted into the club and appreciative of the sentiment.

ps: THE Bossy commented on the same post, which totally negates the whole troll thing, but I'm keeping my membership card anyway.

I just don't understand...

...how anyone could abandon this adorable sweetheart.



She was dropped off at the vet for a slight respiratory infection and never retrieved. I can't fathom why. She's as fine a specimen of an English Bulldog as you'll find. Someone paid fat stacks for her and then just left her.





I'm sure there could be a myriad of reasons as to why she was left and I'm very sorry for the person who had to make that decision. I am, however, very glad they chose to leave her somewhere responsible instead of on the roadside.

So now, please welcome the eighty fifth fourth canine member of our household. Miss TrixieBelle Lollipop. Why yes! Silas did name her. How did you know? Trust me, the name fits in well as our other dogs are:

Gus, also known as, Gustopher, Gustafson and Gustafarian;

Penelope Pitstop, aka Nellie, Nellie Goat and Smelly Nellie with the big belly;

and Betty Boop, aka The Boop, Boop Boop a Doop, and The Big Booper.

So I believe she'll fit right in. I'll be applying for my kennel license tomorrow. If you have any experience with Bulldogs and have wisdom to share, I welcome it. Meanwhile, I leave you with some puppy butt. You're welcome.

Take a breath...

...September is almost over! What a crazy month it is for us. Silas had his first day of school in August, then, before I knew what happened, he woke up as a six guy:




There were wishes to be made and cake to be eaten:



There were parties to be had at the water park:

We had our first soccer game:

(somewhere in between here, we had my fortymumblemumble birthday and eleventh wedding anniversary)

Then we were off to the beach for my auntie's wedding:

Where there were dogs who wear eyeshadow:

and little redheaded babies that make my ovaries ache:

Then off to play in the sand before coming home:

Now for a slight breather before starting the holiday rush.

First Day

>

Mah baaybehh! He has gone to school.

For the whole day.

As in 8 whole hours away from me.

I don't know what to do with myself right now. I've spent the past six years with this child velcroed to my side. Sometimes by choice, sometimes not.

I'm sure once I get accustomed to having some free time, I'll find ways to fill it. Hopefully with something that doesn't involve mindless shopping to fill the void that is my broken heart.

At least someone is happy about it:







Here he is on the steps of his little academy. That's what it's called. The Academy. My heart. I can't take it.




Here he has to sign in. All by himself. Without me helping. I feel so superfluous.





And here is the sign that I'm putting up right down the street from the school. It reflects my mood wonderfully.

So here I sit. I've finished the post. I guess I'll go clean the house.

sigh

Sticks and stones

I met a little girl today with my name. She was probably around eight, which adds up. It was approximately ten years ago that the country singer Shania Twain became popular. Suddenly, I wasn't the only one who had ever heard my name. And I didn't have to spell it every time I said it.

Her popularity was both a blessing and a curse. As she got more popular and the name became more familiar, it was a relief not to be looked at askance whenever I introduced myself. Instead, I would get an "oh, like the singer?" More than once, I'd get an accusatory "that's not your real name, you changed it to be like her!" Which, no I didn't, but even if I had, how is it your business?

Living with an unusual name, you can understand my sympathy for children who have the same burden to bear. My compassion was kicked into overdrive at tennis roll call.

Argyle? Here.

Stetson? Here.

Paisley? Here.

Wrangler? Here.

Those poor kids.