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Tag Archives: dogs

Teenagers, ammirite?

9 May

So…I have that heard of teens and that one who dared to turn 21 this year. Which, in retrospect, is great, because I can send the 21 yr old on a wine run for me.

Never leaving the house for the win!

I love my teens. But I’m no fool. I know not to trust them with anything. I mean, if my grown siblings and I still can’t be trusted together, why should I trust my teens?

Case in point –

Sean (the second eldest, the spare to the heir) was blowing bubbles in the house the other night. Mainly to get the Zoey dog in a lather. Because Zoey is an idiot for bubbles and leaps about biting them all.

Collin (the heir to our kingdom) thought this was hilarious. And then thought “Why not drive the dog crazy by holding her?”

The dog was like “No sir! You will not keep me from killing every bubble!” and leapt from Collin’s arms to do so.

 

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Zoey chasing bubbles outside. See that crazy look on her face? Yeah.

 

I find out about all this as I walk in the next day with groceries. Because they’re blowing bubbles for the dog to attack. In the living room.

Then Collin produces a balloon. “I can’t believe we still have one left.”

See, Sean decided to cover someone’s bed in balloons on April 1st. Then the balloons were scattered over the living room. I don’t know who enjoyed it more – Maura or Zoey. Between the two of them, they eventually died.

Except one.

Which Zoey was now chasing between snapping at bubbles.

I, of course, ignore all this. Because this is what passes as normal in our house. As I walk away, I hear someone say the words “water balloon”.

“NOT IN THE HOUSE!” I yell back.

And the boys died laughing because they didn’t expect me to hear it.

Fools. My brother and I – as teenagers – had an epic water fight which ended in a truce (he with the hose at the gate, me with a super soaker pointed into the window of his brand new pick up truck) and then having to mop the kitchen floor (it wasn’t me who was using the sprayer from the sink.)

I’m a gypsy raised by wolves, who produced her own carnival. We invented shenanigans, dear offspring of mine. I know all, see all.

And remember, Mother’s Day is coming. Buy me something hard to break.

 

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Last night while crocheting…

17 Jan

My friend came over yesterday to knit. I crocheted. I showed her the big box of yarn I got for my 2016 temperature afghan – version 2.0. Because I started one, but found another pattern I liked more, which required different yarn and well, yes, I have a problem

However, I now have spare cheap yarn to throw at Maura, as she loves to play with yarn too.

Anyhoo, I’m crocheting away, trying to catch up, as my friend (not Jen, Jenn, or Jennifer) is working on her own knitting project. Basically, we sat across from each other, doing things that mystified ourselves – I’m impressed with her double-knitting, she is trying to figure out my witchcraftery with a crochet hook.

As we chat about life and stuff, all of a sudden, my friend says “Um, what is that over there?”

I’m all “Huh?”

“Over there, in that corner.”

I get up and go around the table – ours is an open plan living/dining room, and the corner of which she spoke of was holding a square pouf that had sprung a leak, and an Ikea bag.

“Is that a snake?” she says suddenly.

I immediately teleport twenty feet in reverse. My brain starts running 30 miles a second – a snake? What kind? OMG, it’s probably poisonous, because I’ve never seen a harmless snake here, OMG, how the hell do we get a snake out of here? What if it hides?

“Just kidding.” she says.

Because she’s horrible. It’s why I like her.

“There is something over there though, I heard something.”

Now my brain is all “What if it’s a mouse? I hate mice.” My friend goes over, lifts the Ikea bag off the pouf…and does find a rodent-sized creature. However, it’s our rodent-sized creature. as Sky the Tiny Wonder burrowed up onto the pouf under the Ikea bag, making all sorts of rustling noises along the way.

This led to me telling her how much I hate mice, how one jumped out at me when I was 12 and opening a kitchen drawer, how my mom then called the exterminator and had to explain that the chemicals he used needed to be safe for our dog and two cats (all three obviously useless, as the mice would cross in front of the sleeping dog to eat out of his food bowl), and how the cat we had used to actually catch mice.

“Oh God, the cat didn’t bring you the mice, did he?” my friend asked.

“No…but…OMG! I can’t believe I forgot about this!”

See, our house in Michigan doubled as a wildlife refuge. I watched a snake crawl up between the siding and the foundation of the house one day. We had a toad living next to the back door. We had bats fly through on multiple occasions. Moles terrorized our front yard. We also had mice, which, after everything else, didn’t seem to big of a deal. Not after bats. And the cat would take care of them, which would leave me going “EW!” and Josh going “Good cat! Earn your keep!”

But one morning, early morning because these things always happen at the crack of stupid, little boy Sean entered our room. He was in second or third grade. I woke up instantly.

“What’s up Sean?”

“I think the cat killed a mouse.”

I start nudging Josh, because I don’t deal with dead mice, especially not half-asleep.

“Where’s the mouse Sean?” I asked

“Well, it was in the bathroom…” he began.

And I looked at my son. My son, who’s carrying something shrouded in toilet paper in his hands.

“OH MY GOD ARE YOU HOLDING IT?”

Josh jumped out of bed as Sean did the “yeah why?” oblivious boy thing, and I did the “ew gross” mom thing. “Take that into the bathroom, put it in the trash.” Josh directed.

“AND WASH YOUR HANDS REALLY GOOD. TWICE!” I shouted.

So yeah, I don’t deal well with critters in my house. I’m so happy I have a husband and sons who do.

Oh, the things I find in my dishwasher!

neither a rodent or a snake

Financial planning lessons for the teen

16 Jan

So we didn’t win the Powerball billion. I’m very sad about that because I had plans to go all Oprah Winfrey giving away all the cash to everyone. Spread it around like manure and watching things grow, to quote Dolly Levi’s husband.

My daughter Miriam asked about it that evening.

“When’s the drawing for the lottery?”

“It’s already happened. We didn’t win.”

“Well shoot.”

“Don’t worry honey, we’ll just sell the little dog.”

The girl looked at me in horror. “Not my puppy!”

Me, sighing. “Fine, we’ll sell Zoey instead. To the highest bidder. She’ll get more money anyway.”

The girl was now clutching both dogs. “No! Zoey’s our protector!”

“Eh, it’ll be fine.” I said. “Uncle Patrick will outbid everyone because he loves her the most. And then you can be all sad-eyed and “Uncle Patrick, I really miss my Zoey, can I have her back?” and Uncle Patrick will cave and give Zoey back. Then we’ll have the money AND the dog.”

Miriam eyed me. “That’s genius. See, this is why you’re the smart one.”

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bidding starts at one million dollars…

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