Mother’s Day and Momsie

Here is a post about Mother’s Day because:

  1. I am a mother.
  2. There is a Day that we get.

Before I go on, let me just say that I never really thought much of Mother’s Day until I finally had my own wee babies bust of my own body parts. I know. I’m sorry, Mom. Because once I had my own spawn? Oh my goodness, y’all. It was like Mother’s Day came up and smacked me upside the head then and said, “YOU ARE TIRED. THIS DAY IS GOING TO BE A CELEBRATION OF HOW REALLY REALLY TIRED YOU ARE. SO, TAKE ADVANTAGE, WOMAN.”

By the way, the committee who decided all the rules with Mother’s Day? I am thinking they’re not mothers. First of all, they decided it was going to be on a Sunday. Nope. Sunday mornings at our house? Full on nutball. Even more so than a school morning, because on Sundays we have to BE somewhere by 8 am because our church likes to worship our Lord and Savior when roosters are crowing, evidently. AND – not only do we HAVE to BE there while the sun is coming up, we also have to be FULL ON TALKY-TALKY AND SMILEY AND CHURCHY.

AND. We have to be dressed up. 

And act like this is all totally natural. 

Also, Mother’s Day is in MAY. Really? MAY? May is the month where the calendar just flops over on its side and starts groaning. May is the month of Let’s Do Everything.

May is a firing squad with a day-planner, ya’ll. 

Why can’t Mother’s Day be on a Saturday in… say, February? It’s cold. Rainy. I could take a nap that completes me.

Anyhow.

Here was my Mother’s Day:

  1. Blonde’s card. The snark is strong with that one.

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2. Red’s card. img_8057.jpg

Two things: I have not ridden a bike since Red fell off his bike and we ended up in the ER due to the horrible injury involving THE SEAT OF HIS BIKE JUST LET YOUR IMAGINATION FILL IN THE HOLES ON THAT ONE.

Also, totes correct on the sleeping thing.

3. I keep finding pictures like this on my phone:

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Note the slightly-crazed expression. That’s what I’m working with here, people.

 

4. Here is this total moment of hotness:IMG_8038.jpgNo… I am not his mother. That would be so weird. But he is somewhat responsible for the other two spawn and so, yea.

Plus he’s Hotter Mchotterson in those bike pants. You’re welcome for the eye candy, ladeeeeeez.

5. Also because Hotter Mchotteson is wonderful, he bought me a Ninja blender. This thing is awesome, y’all. I make my smoothies in it. In seconds.  I can make homemade whipped cream (something I never knew I needed in my life quite so much as now) in seconds. I blend soups! I make lattes! I blend up ice because I just CAN! IN SECONDS! It cleans my floors! It tells me I have good hair!

Sorry. Perhaps the Ninja cannot actually talk to me, but it seriously rocks my world.  And, because my last blender was THIS:

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Yes. It’s filthy. And it’s circa 1897.

Let’s all just have a moment of silence, shall we, for Really Old Grungy Blender Ok? Let’s grasp hands and say a prayer:

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6. And finally, there was THIS:IMG_8062.jpg

No, not the value pack of Lysol Wipes. Those are just always sitting around in our house because I have boys with little or no concept of aim.

Yes, this is a box.

It’s been sitting on my dining room table, along with All the Clutter of the World  for about three days. I tend to ignore my dining room table, as the clutter sloooooowly starts to mingle, maybe start dating, and then starts to procreate all over the place until I lose it and start throwing stuff away whilst muttering under my breath about the bad choices that my Clutter has made.

Anyhow, this was a present, for ME that I completely ignored because Clutter, AND I thought it was for my children. And, since they get all the presents all the time, I just kinda plopped it there, for a rainy day, when they deserve a present.

My sister finally texted me to inform me that the box was for ME and to OPEN it for Pete’s sake.

And so, I did and voila!

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My sister totally gets me.  A jadeite butter dish! Cute!! A cute little measuring tape thing. So cute!! A game that I can play with my children! In a cute little whale bag!! CUTE!

Annnnnnd: IMG_8068.png

As God is my witness, I thought it was drugs.

I know. Pretty much sums up my complete inability to process things correctly and also I am a horrible person.

It’s NOT drugs. It’s Zinnia seeds from her garden that are huge and gorgeous and MY GOSH WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME DRUGS? YOU ARE SICK. SICK, MOMSIE.

Ok, I didn’t really think it was drugs. But maybe, yes, just for a minute. Maybe.

7. I can’t end on the drugs thing. So, if I haven’t lost your readership at this point, here is also this:

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Red drew our cats on the wrapping paper for one of my gifts. Vader and Steve. Pretty accurate, actually. One is round. The other, pointy.

And poor Bob. Always off in the corner and misspelled.

And here is this:IMG_8066.jpg

Steve got a nap in. I walked by, took this picture, and told him, “You go, you big fat furry. You TAKE that nap. And take one for me, too, today, ok?”

He didn’t answer, just kept on sleeping. Shocking.

 

And that was my Mother’s Day.

Oh, and here’s what else happened:

  1. 27 hugs.
  2. fourteen kisses (more or less)
  3. A whole bunch of “I love you’s”
  4. My Red coming in to the bedroom, all tossled with sleep, saying, “Happy Mother’s Day, mommah. You are the best mother in the whole world.”
  5. My husband telling me he is proud of me. And that I’m hot.
  6. My sweet Blonde trying to cuddle with me on the couch, all arms and legs and growing boy.
  7. Hosmer swearing his undying love to me. Again.
  8. I didn’t drink because I’m a sober mom and a walking miracle all at the same time.
  9. God saying, “You are a mom, and you are Dana, and you are blessed, and you are MINE.

God bless you, mommahs. In truth? Every day is Mother’s Day. It’s a privilege.

Amen?

Amen.

 

 

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Hosmer and a side of bacon.

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Hi! I’m Hosmer. I’m named after a Royals baseball player who has since left us because evidently he was not making enough millions dollars, whatever those are, so he went to another team to make more millions there. It was a cruel betrayal or so my human tells me.  Sometimes now they call me “He Who Shall Not Be Named” and I get even more confused than I already am, which is kinda all the time.

But this post isn’t going to be about baseball. Or money. INSTEAD, it’s going to be a list of things I don’t like. My human is muttering that this is some sort of cute-ification of her post because everyone loves either dogs or children, and her children have “killed off any sort of mammalian nurturing in her body” because they are “feral AND ungrateful, all at the same time” and this is clearly “why I am the lead today.”

I know. Try to control your enthusiasm.

Here we go:

A List of Things That I (He Who Shall Not Be Named) Really Does Not Like:

  1. The distance, in inches, between her and me.
  2. When she gets up and walks somewhere else. Why? Why the walking?
  3. When she goes to the bathroom, unless door is open. And even then, not so much. We could just go use the copious facilities provided outside. And we could do so, together. Which wouldn’t be awkward at all.
  4. When she makes the dinner for the male humans that always make so much noise. I am am never allowed to eat it. And, there is so much back and forthing while the cooking. Why? Why does she not pour the brown roundings into a dish?
  5. When she pets her children. The betrayal.
  6. When she does not allow me to press my entire body against hers, in fervor. It’s not weird. Why does she seem to think it’s so weird?
  7. When I lose my mind at the door. There are the awful people on the other side of it.
  8. When she LEAVES ME HOW CAN SHE DO THAT AND SHE’LL NEVER COME BACK I JUST KNOW IT.
  9. SHE CAME BACK BUT NOW THERE’S NO PETTING.
  10. Other small furry animals in assorted colors in this house that I am not allowed to touch for some stupid reason. Especially the big white one. Fatty.

Things I DO like:

  1. Ear rubs.
  2. Bacon. One time a piece was dropped on the kitchen floor. Since that time I have been waiting. I know it will happen again. I have the faith.
  3. Ear rubs.
  4. There was another one but I really just want some bacon.
  5. The human who is female. The soft one. She is my love. My life. My everything. I know she feels exactly the same way about me- Oh! We’re moving! Relocating! Another room! Alert! Another room! I must stay close or she’ll stray out of my range of vision! Vigilance is key!
  6. I also like bacon.

And… we’re seated. Deep breath. That was a close one. She was about three feet away for almost ten seconds and, as you know, that makes me all quivery. So, now I’m lying on her feet and all is right with the world.

So. Do you have any bacon?

 

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Ultimate Chicken Horse

 

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So, there’s this game that my kids like to play called Ultimate Chicken Horse.

This is the world we live in. Ultimate Chicken Horse. It’s a thing, people. And as much as I would LIKE to try and explain how this game works to you, gentle reader, I realize two things:

  1. It’s called Ultimate Chicken Horse. Where does one even start with that.
  2. No adult ever really wants anyone to ever explain a game to him or her. I mean, really. Your son wants to discuss Minecraft? That’s your cue to get explosive diarrhea. Every time. I know how this works.

Let’s just say… it involves farm animals and a raccoon and something called a “Party Box.” It sounds like something that would air on late night Showtime, in my opinion. But, let us proceed.

I experienced Ultimate Chicken Horse, in my own household, Sunday night. And so, let me tell you the story. (Please, really, it won’t take long and I haven’t posted in ages and this is the best I’ve got):

Game players:

Blonde: wee one, moaning on couch because he has horrible Chicken Pox virus that he should NOT have because we DID vaccinate him, so don’t email me.

Red: wee one number two. Sucker for all sorts of punishment.

Hubs: Tall, older one who should really know better.

Cat: gray assorted.

Cat: white assorted.

Dog: neurotic type.

Me: angry and tired. But what is new.

 

So, let’s begin the game, shall we?

BLONDE: MOANING.

ME CALLING FROM KITCHEN: WOULD YOU LIKE A SHAKE?

BLONDE: NO.

ME: JUICE?

BLONDE: NO.

ME: SOME WARM MILK, PERHAPS?

BLONDE: NO.

ME: A SMOOTHIE?

BLONDE: NO.

ME: HOW ABOUT A SHOT OF TEQUILA?

RED: MOM. MOOOOOM. MOOMMMM!

ME: RUNNING TO BATHROOM, RIGHT PAST HUSBAND WHO IS “DOING SOMETHING,” ON THE COMPUTER SO IS UNABLE TO HEAR.

ME: WHAT?!

RED: MY WOUND! MY WOUUUUUND! IT HURTS! IT HUUUURTS! (Red is in the bath. Red also has half-inch scrape on tummy and likes to repeat himself when dizzy with pain). THE PAIN! THE HORROR! THE PAIN! THE HORROR!

ME: WELL GET OUT OF THE BATH THEN. OH, BUT I’M SO SORRY YOU ARE HURTING. BUT NOT REALLY BUT I’M JUST SAYING THAT BECAUSE THE PARENTING BOOKS SAY EMPATHY IS THE THING SO YES, SORRY.

RED: I CANNA GET OUT OF THE BATH THE PAIN IS TOO MUCH. MOVEMENT WILL KILL ME. SO WILL SITTIN HERE. AYE.

ME: YOU ARE USING THAT SCOTTISH ACCENT THING YOU DO WHEN YOU ARE FREAKING OUT. SHALL WE PAINT YOUR FACE BLUE?

RED: NO JOKING. THERE IS NO JOKING WHEN THE PAIN IS NIGH.

BLONDE: MOMMMMMMM.

ME: WAT

BLONDE: I COULD PERHAPS HAVE A MOUNTAIN DEW. WITH A TWIST OF LIME.

ME: NO. SODA IS NOT ON THE TABLE UNLESS PUKING.

BLONDE: I COULD PUKE.

ME: YOU NEVER MENTIONED PUKING BEFORE.

BLONDE: I COULD THO.

RED: MOOOOM. I DINNA KNOW IF I CAN TAKE IT MUCH LONGER. BUT HERE I WILL STAY, TO TELL YOU ABOUT IT.

CAT, ASSORTED GRAY: I THINK NOW IS THE TIME TO PEE IN THE CORNER OF THE LIVING ROOM.

CAT, ASSORTED WHITE: I SHALL WATCH.

CAT, ASSORTED GREY: NOW I WILL START SCRATCHING AT THE FLOOR AS IF TO COVER UP THE CAT URINE BECAUSE CLEARLY I AM AN IDIOT.

ME: GOOD GOD WHAT ELSE?

DOG, NEUROTIC TYPE: HERE I AM! I SHALL-

ME: RHETORICAL QUESTION, DOG. GO OUTSIDE.

DOG: I AM NEVER TAKEN SERIOUSLY. THEY WILL RUE THE DAY.*

BLONDE: MOM? MOOOOOOM?

ME: WHAT?

BLONDE: NOTHING. JUST CHECKING THAT YOU WERE STILL LISTENING. MY THROAT IS STILL AWFUL. SO CAN I HAVE SOME HARD POINTY CHIPS AND SALSA?

ME: UH IF YOU HAVE A SORE THROAT THEN SALSA MIGHT- OH JUST FORGET IT. HERE. MAYBE THE CHILIS WILL BURN THE VIRUS OUT OF YOU.

RED: WHY IS HE GETTING CHIPS? I WANNA CHIPS! HE GETS THE BURNING AND I DON’T. IT’S NOT FAIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRR.

ME: GET OUT OF THE $##* TUB. YOU CANNA EAT CHIPS IN THE TUB. NOW I’M DOING THE SCOTTISH THING.

HUBS: HONEY? OH HONEEYYYYYYY?

ME: WHAT.

HUBS: I HAVE THIS FILE FOLDER HERE WITH ALL OUR TAX APPRAISALS FOR THE HOUSE AND I AM DOING OUR TAXES BUT REALLY WHAT I AM DOING FIRST IS INPUTTING THEM ALL IN A SPREADSHEET THAT I WILL THEN FORGET ABOUT BUT BY GOD I HAVE TO DO THIS RIGHT NOW AND SO I AM WONDERING, WE HAVE ALL THE APPRAISALS EXCEPT FOR 2014. WHERE IS THE TAX APPRAISAL FOR 2014? FOR THE HOUSE? BECAUSE IT’S NOT HERE IN THIS FILE AND RIGHT NOW I REALLY NEED THIS. LIKE RIGHT NOW.

ME: YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE TAX APPRAISAL FOR 2014 IS?

HUBS: I NEED TO KNOW. RIGHT NOW.

ME: YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE TAX APPRAISAL FOR 2014 IS? RIGHT NOW?

HUBS:…

ME: IT’S IN YOUR BUM. WHY DON’T YOU GO LOOK FOR IT.

And that is how I won Ultimate Chicken Horse.

 

*DOG HAS SO FAR NOT DONE ANYTHING TO MAKE ME RUE ANYTHING. SWEET BOY.

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You’re Only As Old as You Feel. Or something.

Linking up with my happy place today over at Five Minute Friday!

The theme?

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It’s my birthday today. I’m forty eight. Which is impossible. I kinda feel like that “Sunrise, Sunset” song, only all that sweet nostalgia is not about my children growing up. I’m all… “Is this the little girl I carried… Is this the little boy at play?”

NO. NOT IT’S NOT. IT’S ABOUT ME AND I AM REALLY OLD AND I CAN’T CARRY ANYTHING IT’S MY BIRTHDAY.

I walked to class this morning and the sun was all crisp and cut, coming through the trees, and it was so cold. It was the perfect winter day. And THEN a small deer came out of the woods and waved and a bird came and alighted on my shoulder and sang to me. A chipmunk handed me a gift card.

Not doing drugs on my birthday, I promise. This really is just how I am.

I arrived at my classroom, and one of my friends came in, singing happy birthday to me. (No, she really did. She was real.) And then, she told me this:

“You know you’re only as old as you feel.”

“But, what if you feel sixty-seven? Like… I have things on my body heading south. Things on my body are traveling to places where they are not supposed to go. There is sagging. Sagging is not good.”

“Well. Just keep looking up. That’s all that matters.”

(This was not the exact conversation. I don’t remember it exactly because I’m too old, and your memory’s the first thing to go.)

Here are my top ten reasons why it is a happy birthday:

I REALLY NEED TO EMPHASIZE THESE ARE IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER.

1. Larry, Moe, and… Bob.

Note: The image of Bob in this picture is not actual. I didn’t want to go search her paranoid little furry self out, and so there you go. Also, I would like to note that Steve and Vader are giving kisses in this pic because they are preshus woodum coodums.

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2. This morning, Red greeted me with one open eye from his top bunk, and said: ‘Happy birthday mommah” then rolled deeper into his blankie.

3. From the bottom bunk, Blonde swung his hand out and hit me right in the crotch, meaning to spank me, I guess? So, you know. Love is painful. But I thank you for Blonde, and, I thank you that my crotch is still ok.

4. Did you know, if you write “crotch” more than once in a few sentences, you start to get really obsessed with that word and it starts to sound all weird? And it’s just an awful word anyway? So from hereon, I will now refer to it as The Honorable Lady Fagina.

5. Don’t really know what #4 was all about but let’s keep moving. I am ALSO grateful for the fact that I woke up this morning. Boom.

6. My book. The second one. I am editing it right now which is kinda like having a hang nail and then pulling it off so your finger starts weeping blood all over and then you try to put a bandaid on it but that just gets soggy and then you accidentally spill a bottle of lemon juice on your hand and you get the idea.

I realize that doesn’t sound very grateful. But, it’s always darkest before the dawn. And what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Also, when God shuts a door somewhere he opens a window?

Cannot you just SEE how I got a book deal in the first place?

Anyhow, the book is all about perfectionism and so of course editing it is going REALLY well. Irony is just coming up and bludgeoning me over the head with this whole thing. “HA!” says Irony. “You gotta perfect a book about being PERFECT!” *SMACK!*

And then Irony snaps and sashays away. Such a jerk.

7. My husband. I was gonna post his as #5 but that seemed weird. I love it that he gets me. That I can bed-shame him (no, it’s not what you think).

This morning, I came upon the bed looking like this, and so I did what I had to do. I texted him about it:

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And then, later we had this conversation:

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He gets me. Which is so very necessary because otherwise I don’t think we woulda made it past date #1. And then, there would be NO Blonde, or Red… and I would probably be living in a van down by the river.

Whoa. This is so very It’s a Wonderful Life. This will be a future post, I promise. I bet you can’t wait.

8. A Muppet Christmas Carol

Although, the first time I tried to watch this movie with the boys Red was about three and he took one look at the opening number and ran, kind of bleating, from the room. I never really got it out of him, what terrified him so. I think somehow he still thinks that this whole real people/ muppet people universe is really out there, just waiting for him to happen upon it, and he is so creeped out. I have tried for FIVE years straight to watch it with him, and each time he sort of shudders and avoids looking at the dvd, like its a portal to the netherworld. Who knew that Fozzie could cause such stress?

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9. I forgot the rest. I feel the need to go lie down and watch Golden Girls for a few hours. Maybe drink some Ensure.

10. You guys. I just love you.

In the span of I don’t know how many years now, I have gained so many readers, written for all sorts of magazines, published a book, am working on a second one, and a partridge in a pear tree. None of this (maybe excepting the partridge – debatable) would have been remotely possible without you.

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Quite Possibly, I Am the Best Wife Ever.

First of all, the day started with me trying to give two of the three cats in our household medication.

The third one is meds free. Probably not for long, though. That’s how we roll.

And, just bear with me, this does actually pertain to the wife thing.

Anyhow, one cat in the household (Steve) is a darling fluffy fat furball of deliciousness, and he just sits on me as I put the pill in his pink mouth. Like, he sits STILL, and then he just swallows it. And purrs. Because, did I mention, Steve is JUST THE MOST ADORABLE LUMP OF FURRY GOODNESS?

Seriously. He swallows the pill. No problems. We get in; we get out. Over and done in seconds. Then, he gets up and offers to help with the laundry. (Not really, but I know, I KNOW, if he had opposable thumbs, he would.)

Perhaps all this lead-up would give you a bit of foreshadowing for how the second cat deals with medication?

Second cat: Hi! I’m all furry and purring and rubbing up against you! Cuteness is here!

Me: It’s time for your pill, Second Cat.

Second Cat: I SHALL SMITE THEE WITH A THOUSAND CLAWS.

Me: I’m ready for that. This time I have a towel.

Second Cat: THAT’S NO PROBLEM JUST LET ME GO GET MY CHAINSAW. AND SOME DYNAMITE. MAYBE ALSO A NUCLEAR DEVICE. THIS IS SO ON.

Me: I think perhaps you are over-dramatizing the whole situation, Second Cat. You could, you know, just take the pill and we’d be over this in seconds. Like, oh I don’t know… your buddy-

Second Cat: Don’t do it.

Me: Like your buddy, STEVE? The preshus?

Steve: Dude. Every time you compare me to one of the other animals, or children, in this house, you break their spirit. You know I’ve set some impossible standards here.

Ok, I promise I’m going to get to the wife thing. The issue here is that I have now been treated poorly by a cat, and my feelings are hurt. THEN, when the husband came downstairs, this happened:

Husband: Hi honey! What’s with the bandaids?

Me: DON’T SPEAK TO ME EVER AGAIN.

It’s possible I too was over-dramatizing. Forty million tiny slices from a tiny ninja cat will do that to you.

A lot of times, when you are Mom-ming, you should be able to shake it off. Like, all of it. Shake off the furry disasters, the endless laundry, the fact that no matter what I cook for dinner it always ends up being one color.

My friends, I am not much of a shake it off kinda girl.

So, perhaps, just maybe …  as I was preparing the mashed potatoes for dinner, I overheard Blonde’s commentary on his dislike of such a dish:

“Ugh,” Blonde said,  “I don’t LIKE mashted potatoes. They’re kinda tasteless. And squishy.”

And then, maybe… just maybe I said:

“Huh. That’s exactly how I feel about your father. Kinda tasteless. And squishy.”

I know. Tbe ninja snark is strong with this one.

After copious apologies and kisses on the husband, I then decided to add this to the menu for dinner:IMG_7185.jpg

Note the strategic coffee cup placement. Foreshadowing.

We had BLT’s with fresh tomatoes from my mom’s garden:

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Along with squishy and tasteless mashed potatoes. And at the table was seated a husband who forgives me on a daily basis. Also present were two kids who ate a lot of bacon, after delicately removing any trace of the T or the L, and bread. And the heavens smiled.

Because carbs and bacon will solve all the world’s problems.

Problems like:

  1. Snarkitude
  2. Mashed potatoes (Also, add cheese. Oh my goodness.)
  3. North Korea
  4. Mullet haircuts
  5. Reality television
  6. The deep sucking void that is, basically, 2017

So we end this little tale happily.

My cats are medicated.

We’ve had our fill of pork products.

And I am, most surely:IMG_7185.png

 

 

 

 

Depend on it.

Linking up with my favorite writing community – Five Minute Friday!

The theme?

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I have to admit. The first thing that came to my mind were undergarments. We’re going to skip that one, ok?

In fact, I would like to forego any attempt at something spiritually encouraging. Instead, I would like to talk to you about my cat, Steve.

Some of you know Steve. He has his following. Steve is a large white cat who came into our family a few years ago. He adopted both boys as his own, and his large girth has been a well loved pillow, blanket, toy, attraction, distraction, and mascot, ever since. And then, he became quite sick.

Very sick.

I know. He’s just a pet. Just a furry white behemoth that lounges about and kind of reminds me of a slow-moving, furry barge. But there was this moment, when I was carrying him across the room to the bath, he looked up at me with such patient love. The poor dear was in pain, and tired, and covered in filth, and I had bathed him, without incident, a few times already. He never complained. He never fought. He allowed me to lower him into the water and wash his soiled fur, and then gently wipe him dry. He allowed me to administer pills at numerous times during the day. He watched me through all of it with a sigh and shrug, like, “All right, get on with it then.”

So, as Steve and I were working on getting him well again, I was reminded how much this small(ish) creature depends on me, for his food, for a warm place to sleep, for water in which I put ice cubes every morning, because God forbid my sweet babies not have nice, chilled libations for them.

He depends on me, and I am so very grateful for that. We call him Biggie Meows. Or, Sir Meows A Lot. And he depends on us.

This is a good thing.

Steve is all well now, and seems to have gravitated to my side more so than normal. He comes to me whenever I am seated at my computer, and sits next to me, waiting for me to pat his wide head. I swear I see a smile on his face when I do so.

I just love that cat. And that’s all. I have no moral of the story, or bible verse to tie in, or a Jesus moment for you. I just have this:

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Poor dear. He’s tired. And too big for the couch.

And that’s more than enough.

 

 

I’m the Dog. I’M THE DOG.

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Best. Movie. Ever.

So, in today’s post, one of us is going to be the dog.

And, as so often the case, I really REALLY think if you just stay with me, it will all make sense at the end.

That’s how I feel.

Really.

Today I’m linking up with my oh so happy place, favorite people: Five Minute Friday!  The theme??

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Right now, I am writing this on the couch, because I can’t move. I can’t move because of two neurotic and highly co-dependent beasties have wedged themselves in on either side of me so closely that I can use one as an armrest and the other ones heartbeat is thumping up against my thigh. That sounds kinda weird, but she has a really pronounced cardiac rhythm going on. I am kinda impressed. She must have just finished her bootcamp  workout.

I give you… exhibit A:Photo on 4-28-17 at 11.59 AM #2.jpgI loooooooooooove you. That shiny, silver thing has come between us, yet again, but still, I loooooooooooooove you.

And, also, exhibit B:

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I loooooooooove you too. Not quite as effusively as the Missing Link dork-dog to my left, but you know.

Anyhow. Here I am. Stuck in the middle with you.

And, as I am typing away, I hear it: A sort of squeaky rumbling. It’s a weird sort of gurgling, actually. I look around the room for the culprit, but my living room doesn’t house a lot of things that… gurgle.

It’s the dog. I’ll just take the suspense away, right here. Hosmer’s stomach is jangling with such intensity that, clearly, he’s hungry. Like, LOUD hungry.

Honestly, it’s hard to type over all this racket.

But, yet… he remains varnished onto my side. His precious bowl of Doggie Lickums is right there, in the other room, but he’s seemingly content to sit here and rumble.

It is rare that I ever allow my stomach to get to this stage of gurgle (Hosmer is at, like, DEFCON level light red or two or whatever is really, really highly bad), but if I did… and about ten steps away was a bowl of chips? I would get up and go to the chips. It doesn’t really matter if I was cuddling with the husband prior or not. Food wins, when the stomach is in high alert.

Besides, I know too that I can always eat a few chips and then GO BACK to the husband on the couch.

So… basically? The dog would rather starve to be near me.

Perhaps I am exaggerating a little, but you’re not here. The rumbling is like that scene when the T-Rex finds the poor people in the jeep in Jurassic Park. Ominous. Thumpy. Has its own soundtrack. Jeff Goldblum is involved. That sort of thing.

Ok, so HERE IS MY POINT (Hallelujah!)

We need to be the dog. We need to be like this with God. And… since I am so happily wedged into my Congo fast these days… I get it. I am needing to be more dog like. Content. In the moment. Furry and sacrificial. That sort of thing.

I apologize for making you the dog. It’s the best I’ve got today. And truly? Dogs are awesome. We all know that.

 

And then, there’s this guy:Photo on 4-28-17 at 12.13 PM.jpg

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