I know every other blogger in the blogging universe will be participating fully in wordless Wednesday. And usually I look forward to Wednesday for that reason. Post a photo and move along. But this isn’t any normal Wednesday for me so I’m going to create a new Wednesday tradition.

I bring you: Wordy Whiny Wednesday.

Sponsored in part by Milo, Hormonal Imbalance and Tofu.

If that title sounds as awful as I think it does I wouldn’t blame you if you just closed this page and moved on to the next blog. If you decide to read on, I warn you, there will be whining. In excess.


If you remember Monday. There were woes. Woes and sighs of doggy distress.  $165 and three medications later, we find, the dog, Milo, as it were, turns out has sarcoptic mange. (If you are susceptible to suggestion and prone to psychosomatic medical disorders and imaginary itching, do not click that link. I beg of you.) What that link does NOT tell you is that if you find out your dog does in fact HAVE sarcoptic mange (aka dog scabies) you will immediately become a crazybugobsessedinsanewoman and set about cleaning everything in your house. OR you will sit in front of the computer in tears looking at photos of bugs and imagining your baby crawling with invisible biting dog mites while your husband tries ineffectively to soothe you by taking the cushion covers off the couch. Or both. And you will itch.Most certainly.  Because while the mite responsible for my current misery does not actually COMPLETE it’s life cycle on humans that doesn’t stop it from trying.

In the aftermath of The Scabies, the house was in complete disarray.

The next morning, Tuesday, it was still in disarray, only now, it was in disarray and I couldn’t move.

In the frenzy of cleaning I managed to hurt my back. So off to the trusty Hunting-White-Coated-Face-Lifted Chiropractor I went. (No really, that’s what we call him.)  After much gasping and scolding at the sounds my back made he sends me home. To bed.


Which is where Ella and I spent much of yesterday. While the house continued in it’s downward spiral of further disarray and what I like to refer to as The Bad Hormones were ravaging my body (along with other unpleasant things I won’t subject you to), I laid there. Which was actually quite lovely. For approximately five minutes.

At which point I began to lose my mind.

I busied myself knitting and I was able to finish this:










My phone cover, without incident. (pattern and tut to follow)

Ella nursed a fair amount because it was so readily available and within her grasp (quite literally)  and she cooed and smiled and babbled to me.
















Until she was obviously sick of looking at my face.

Which took about an hour.

I busied her with toys and moved on to working a bit on the blog. Productivity in the face of despair. Yes. Brilliant. I spent a bit fussing the sidebar and such until I was satisfied and when I saved some changes and loaded the page, excited to see my changes, I was not so excited at what I saw.

My sidebar was gone.

To fully understand this you must understand that I worked over a week on that sidebar.  WordPress. If you’re reading, I hate you. I wish upon you the plague or that thing with the locusts. Either of those.

Did I save a copy of my HTML? No. Of course not.

I cried.

For a while.

Thankfully the Man was able to run after the children. Once the children were home from school I set about having them put things back in order. You know, to what ever degree kids can do that sort of thing. Like putting the wrong covers on the couch and vacuuming half a room and those kind of things.  During this time I tried, without sobbing uncontrollably, to piece the sidebar back together. As some point the 15 year old said something like “Mom, why do you have two pimples? Are you stressed out or something?”

No. Not at all.

Because it was clear that I couldn’t under any circumstances cook dinner, we went out to Chinese food. It was nice to be sitting up. In a chair. And the kids were all agreeable and in a good mood. Lovely. And as he does often the Man offered the 15 year old $5 to eat tofu. It took her a while to work up to putting it in her mouth (15 agonizing minutes, but who’s counting). She eventually did.

And then she promptly began to gag and throw up.

At the table.

And then she went to the bathroom to throw up.

And while she was gone the boys started with the third degree about whether or not they were going to throw up.

And then I went to the bathroom to soothe her and hold her hair out of her vomit and dry her vomit-y tears and tell her she never ever had to eat tofu again ever in her whole life.

And I wanted to throw up.

But I don’t throw up, so we just left. And came home. And when we got home we gave the dog his $165 pills.

And he started to throw up.

Eight times.

On the rug. (And why can’t animals EVER throw up on the linoleum anyway?)

And when he was done throwing up he ate the throw up. Which made the 11 year old say he was going to throw up. Now everyone was nauseated and no one wanted to touch the dog anyway but if the vomit wasn’t enough he started itching. And I’m 117% certain I could see the microscopic mites literally flying off of him and into the air we breathe. And that made me itchy.

So I gave up and went to bed.

Today I don’t feel so much like I want to die. And the dog isn’t AS smelly or itchy. And no one is throwing up.

So that’s a vast improvement over yesterday.

I’m looking at things from a glass half full perspective.

It looks like it’s about half full of a bottle of Cabernet.

pets , whine , wordy whiny wednesday


Woe. Is. Me.

Before animal lovers all over the world unite to flame me to my internet death, let me say, I too am a lover of animals. At one time in my life I even thought I’d be a veterinarian. But that day is long, looong gone.  I have reached my capacity for animal love. Let’s review: my contempt for the cat. And now…


Is Milo.

Milo is a dog. He is a Boston Terrier as far as I can tell. Or part Boston, part sweet, part pain in the hiney, if that breed exists. We found him. On the road. In the country. No one claimed him, and he seemed alright, cute even, so we kept him.


Mistake number 2.


Mistake number 1 was getting the other dog. Lucy. If you haven’t see the Man’s blog about her. I’m not even going into it. I can’t bear it.


Anyway we kept him. We had him fixed and all that jazz. Got him chipped. Cause we’s responsible pet owners. Yes we are. Or we like to think so anyway. *pat pat on the back*


Well Milo has a bit of a complex. He’s little. But he doesn’t know. Also he doesn’t know when a much bigger dog can WHIP HIS ASS. So he fights. Over everyathang. Food. Toys. Balls. Name it. He is up in Lucy’s face. She’s going to eat him eventually. Because of this we decided that Milo would be better off inside.


Mistake #3.

I see now why Milo was in the middle of a country road. It’s becoming very clear.


In addition to thinking he’s a Great Dane, Milo pees. Every time he gets excited. So he pees on the floor. On people. And frequently on himself.


And he poops. Usually outside. But not always.

Double awesome.


The day after Milo came inside I noticed he was scratching. WITH RECKLESS ABANDON. Then the hair. All. Over. The. Place. The couch. The floor. Ella’s mouth. In my FOOD.


I swept FIVE TIMES. IN ONE DAY. And I vacuumed. Twice. And my vacuum sucks. Or actually it doesn’t, so that’s another problem altogether.


Then I realized (and it took me a while because I like to live in a place called Denial). CRAPTASTIC. He’s not just scratching and shedding. He’ sick. And I KNOW you’re supposed to feel bad for creatures that are helpless. Like babies and DOGS. I knooooow. But ARGH. WE FOUND THIS DOG ON THE STREET. Babies are cute.


Milo is a scabby snorting snoring balding mess of stench and annoyance.


And I have to take him to the vet. Because I’m a responsible pet owner. And before he was a scrabby snorting snoring balding mess of stench and annoyance he was kind of cute.

You know, like before I ate his hair for breakfast.


And the vet smells. Like bleach. And other stinky dogs. I don’t like it.


Thank you in advance for your time and commiseration.


In pet owning misery,




pets , Uncategorized , whine

To animal lovers everywhere, I apologize (also I’m going to say the word bitch. Twice.).

I hate my cat.

This is a new sensation, this feeling of utter disdain for such a creature. For you see, I am a lover of all animals.

I swear.

At one point in my life I had (this was at the same time mind you): chickens (dozens), geese (a gaggle), cats (13), dogs (3), Bunnies (2. then 7 {cause the first two got it on}. then 2 again when the first 2 for some reason ate their offspring. Disturbing. Moving on.), lizards (enough to scare people), parakeet (1. she survived 3 cat attacks) and tadpoles (a pond full).

I love creatures of all kinds.

Except this cat.

I love her because it’s the right thing to do. There’s no other compelling reason.

I’m just gonna call a spade a spade here, this cat is a Bitch. I’ve had a lot of cats, but never one that you can’t pick up. Or pet unless she lets you. Or even come near unless you’re invited.

I’ve been spoiled by excellent cats.

I brought three children into our marriage. The Man brought Edgard. No, not that ^ cat up there. This cat:

Now that is an excellent cat. Edgard had all the right cat qualities. He was big. Like an ocelot. And fluffy. Like a lions mane. And sweet. Like a little kitten. He’d lay near you and keep you company and meow only when appropriate. Plus he had his own little cat language of sounds I can’t type out. Anyway I won’t go into too much detail because he was the Man’s cat and the Man should get to go on about how wonderful he was in a post that belongs to him. He took ill not long after we were together and we said goodbye to the Best. Cat. Ever.

And got The Bitch.

Uh I mean Shelby. The worst part of it all is she KNOWS she’s awful. When I put the baby down at night, she RUNS all over the upstairs jumping on things and generally being noisy. When we go to bed she prances around the countertop making impossible to brush your teeth while waiting for the Man to turn the faucet on for her (He likes her. I don’t get it. He’s a saint.) She rolls her white hair all over anything I’ve recently vacuumed. She sleeps IN THE CRIB. To be fair, Ella will never use that crib, but still, it’s for BABIES. She peers down upon her subjects from Ella’s window and plots our demise. She’s planning a way to murder me in my sleep. I’m almost certain.

She does like two cute things. Maybe one. Yeah just one. She comes running when you turn on the icemaker because she likes to play with ice. It’s pretty cute.

That’s it.

It’s not her fault really that I despise her so.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I basically want to strangle anything that a. wakes the baby b. makes the house any messier than it already is c. looks at me like I OWE it something. I am BUSY cat. You are no on the top of my list. Sorry come back in 10 years.

It’s nothing personal. I don’t really like the dogs too much right now either.

But that’s a whole other thing.

cat , pets