Blogging is hard.
Like "Trying to hide the fact that I get my period while I am still in middle school" hard....
Or "Running the shower for a longer than necessary to hide the fact that I am actually in the bathroom taking a deuce" hard...
Or even "Liking what my aunt gave me for Christmas even though it has a tin-foil lid and Iknow it came from her Gift Closet" hard.
I think it has to do with that fact that I really don't have anything to say. Really, about anything. Or if I do happen to have something to say, it really would not interest anyone...or may totally gross them out.
I have 2 dogs. They are great. A black lab-mix, named Jock (named after the old patriarch from the TV show Dallas), who is 12 1/2 (cause when you are that old, the 1/2 matters).
Then there is Charlie, a chocolate lab who is 7. We named him Charlie, because, well, I told The Husband that if we ever had a red headed little boy, we would have to name him Charlie. To which, he told me, that if we ever had a red headed little boy, we would promptly get divorced. So we settled for the dog name.
Jock is excellent and wise and a total couch potato. Although he is a 90 pound lap dog, he has magical powers. One time we left him at home while we went out of town and the dog sitter had to drag (literally pull) him off the sofa to go to the bathroom. His bladder truly inspires my dad to be all that he can be. He once ate a 6 pack of Sara Lee bagels and chased it with a 1/2 pint of Chinese liquor and was sound as a pound. No joke...we found this out after we came home from church. Upon telling The Husband, his initial response, was "Christ, is he drunk?". Good times. (And, no, he wasn't).
Charlie, not so much. Yes, he is tiny and cuddly and fuzzy, but he barks at everything. Like people walking by, other dogs, little girls in frilly dresses holding balloons, evil. Pretty much everything. He also has a liiiiiittle problem called....
His poop, Jock's poop, the poop of other dogs. It is very gross. I am, however, thankful that it isn't as bad as a friend of mine...their dog has an affection for lady-time things. They once got in a wicked game of tug-of-war, and I realize it could be worse. However, there is really nothing grosser that after your dog burps and smelling thenastiest fart, just knowing that he brings new meaning to the phrase "Shit Eating Grin". I can't even go into how nasty is has gotten in the past. Really, that is for your benefit.
However, Charlie never seems to eat the poop when it is good for me. Like when he had a wonderful smorgasbord of Jock's Meals Past, only to rid himself of them 9 times......in 3 different rooms of our house. What?? It is like leftovers?? Or when Jock has a slight accident, say on the wood floor landing, and I find it after I realize I didn't just forget a dirty diaper somewhere within the wall of out house. Why could he not pull his own weight and little clean up then?
Then, this week, The Baby is playing in his jump-a-roo and having all sorts of fun and laughing and cooing and basically being freakishly cute. So, I look at him, and think, "Yeah, I totally want a piece of that". I mean, who wouldn't? He is rocking that jump-a-roo and totally making it the master of his domain.
You see, the seat swivels and slides so he can rotate all around keeping him totally engrossed and "learning". However, The Baby is too short to reach the floor, so I put this handy tray underneath it so he can reach it and bounce his little heart away. He lourves it.
Anyway, so I look up at him and am truly admiring how he is swiveling and playing with all the toys. He is rocking this thing more than the You Tube video of KISS singing Rick Astley. (you know you want to.... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vf79MCuQ8jM) I wonder how I could be so lucky to be so blessed with such a smart child. What did I ever do?
Then I realized....yeah...
The Baby had taken a massive deuce and literally was playing in it. He was slipping and sliding in his own stuff while looking so cute in his jump-a-roo.
So I take him out to change him, and basically burn the entire toy. But wait, when I get back to the toy after giving The Baby a bath, and what do I find?? The little tray The Baby was playing on was totally clean.
You soooooo know where I am going with this.
I am not saying he didn't do me a solid, but still.