Enjoying Life with 3 Dogs, 2 Kids & an ADHD Husband.

At 1:30 pm on Saturday, I am hauling my butt to Target at warp speed (which, thanks to the vast array and disgustingly numerous amounts of yummies I’ve been consuming lately, is no small task).  My son has a birthday party to get to by 3:00, and of course, we don’t have a present yet.  I don’t know how many preschooler parties you’ve attended lately, but here’s a tip—it’s generally considered a faux pas to come empty-handed.  Even by four year-olds.

Not that this last-ditch effort to grab a gift is any big news around here.  In fact, an hour and a half lead time is something of a blessing–we’re usually talking minutes.  But it’s okay.  I’ve recently come to terms with the simple truth that procrastination is a valid life-choice in our home. 

So, I fly into the Target parking lot, and lo and behold, I have to slam on my brakes, because some dude in a Lexus is just sitting there picking his butt, without a care in the world.  Hello–doesn’t he know that I’m on an emergency gift-getting expedition?  Apparently not, because he’s just chilling, lolly gagging even, and refusing to turn left.  Which would be fine, except for the fact that we have NO STOP SIGN.  And I need a birthday present–NOW!  And unless the moron in the Lexus suddenly whips up a dinosaur or soccer ball and tosses it into my window, I need to get into that store.  Fast. 

The other driver facing us in the straight lane does have a brain, along with a stop sign,  and is trying to wave him on.  But Lexus man is oblivious.  It really shouldn’t be shocking,  since there’s obviously some kind of crappy-driver pre-requisite one must meet before being allowed to purchase a Lexus in the first place. I mean, when’s the last time you’ve seen anyone drive a Lexus in a style that didn’t resemble that of a 100 yr-old blind woman?

So I beep my horn.  Of course, Lexus man doesn’t deign to notice.  We’re still sitting there.  And, last time I checked,  we still have NO STOP. I mean, come on—even my 4 yr-old can decipher what the letters S-T-O-P mean, especially when found on a red octagonal-shaped street sign.  Which is completely beside the point, since there WAS NO STOP SIGN.

At any rate, finally the driver in the opposite lane gives up and goes.  Of course, at exactly the same time it dawns on Lexus man that, hey, there’s no stop sign here, and he goes, too.  Then I have to wait through the inevitable almost-crash and its aftermath before finally turning left and getting to park.

So now, thanks to the German automotive industry, I have zero time to spare.  I fly out of my car and run into the store, grabbing a cart along the way.  I have absolutely no intention of stopping anywhere other than the toy aisle, and I even tell my cart, for good measure.  My cart, it seems, has other ideas.  Or else the listening skills of my 4 yr-old, because it starts steering me right towards the dollar bins, which the diabolical Target-minds place in the very front of the store.  Bastards.  I struggle with my cart, gasping for air, desperately yanking it away from the dollar section with all my might, but it’s got superhuman strength.  It drags me, kicking and screaming, right to those lovely, lovely bins, the 4th of July section no less, and I have to concede defeat.  Man, those toxins from China must have some kind of magnetic superpowers.

Okay, so maybe the kicking and screaming part was all in my brain.  But its the thought that counts.

Somehow, I manage to get my kid to the party, right on time.  But, because of my renegade cart, not only does a little boy have a new science kit, but my dog Skye has these.  It’s kind of strange, though—who would’ve thought they’d sell hound dog ear warmers in California in the middle of July?

So, last night I went to one of those Tastefully Simple parties.  You know the ones—where they let you sample food in hopes you’ll buy a ton of crap, and somehow, if they sell enough, some random lady out in the Midwest scores a vanity-plate Hyundai.  No, that  can’t be right–it’s illegal to put a vanity plate on those.  At any rate, I don’t really care about the logistics.  All I care about are the yummies.

I know they hate me at these things but for some reason, they invite me anyway.  The point is to sample the food.  Key word here?  Sample.  Me?  I act like I’ve been subsisting on a diet of rats and toilet paper for the past ten years, and grab a handful of everything, stuffing as much into my mouth as I possibly can before the dirty looks I’m getting from the woman sitting next to me force me to pass the plate. 

Oh, bite me, I think.  We’re in SoCal–and Miss Manners don’t surf. 

Then, once the plate’s made its rounds, I hunt it down in the kitchen and eat some more.  Have I mentioned that I’m a yummy-addict?  But really, when you think about it, I’m just getting my green on.  Because if I don’t eat that stuff, it’ll just end up lining a land fill somewhere.  Or contribute to the child labor in China.  Or something along those lines.   Oh yeah– and on my way back to my seat, I managed to finish off the box of toddler cookies sitting on the counter.  They went great with the key lime pie dip.

Honestly?  I just don’t fit in at these things.  Apparently, its a no-no to ask about the toxins, like BHT, in their salad dressings.  Who would’ve guessed?  Thankfully, I managed to keep my mouth shut.  This time.  But somebody else was commenting on how much “prettier” the produce is at a huge supermarket than at the local farmer’s market store, and how it stayed fresh soooo much longer.  Um, hello?  Ever heard of the word preservatives?  No?  Then how ’bout chemicals?   I couldn’t resist jumping in on that.  Somehow, I also managed to work the merits of fermented vs. unfermented soybeans into a conversation.  Just call me the quintessential sample party guest.

And then there’s the drinking.  You know it’s sad when you have to use a Tastefully Simple party as an excuse to pound alcoholic beverages, but hey, my chances for a good margarita and no kids are few and far between.  And I wasn’t the only one.  Thank God the hostess is was a friend, because the sampling started at 6:00 pm, and almost five hours later, five of us were still holding down the fort in her kitchen.  And we managed to clear every last beer out of her fridge.  Although, to be honest, I only consumed two of the drinks.   See, I’m a total light weight these days.  I’m thinking my liver took enough of a beating in college, and now gets it’s revenge by making my head explode if I even so much as glance at a third beer.  Hey, its progress.  For awhile there, I could have one Coor’s Light and still get a hangover.  And Coor’s Light isn’t even beer.

Of course, this morning, it’s not my liver that’s kicking my ass, it’s my stomach.  I guess there’s only so much dip, beer bread, and toxic salad dressing your belly can take it just one sitting.  And I’m thinking the toddler cookies pushed me over the edge.

This morning, we’re laying in bed watching cartoons, listening to JoJo tell us we’re going to do some things with our bodies that feel really good.  Yeah, I don’t really know what the writers were thinking either.  Suffice it to say that JoJo’s Circus will not be making the leap to PBS anytime soon.

 Randomly, my son turns to me and says, “Mommy, when I grow up, can I be a baker’s man?” 

 My first thought?  Wow, we’ve got to cut back on the Bravo TV.  Then it dawned on me.  He meant baker, not baker’s man.  As in chef.  My second thought?  Much, much more profound. As in, Score!  Please, please, please, major in desserts.

Later, though, I find him standing in the shower, naked, tousling his hair.  “All done?” I ask.  “Almost,” he replies.  “First, I’ve got to fix my hair, so that I’m pretty.”  He pats it a few more times and proclaims,   “There!  I look good!”

I’m thinking about canceling our cable.  Or at least, all Bravo programming.

On the plus side?  At least he didn’t say “fierce”.

I have a confession to make—I’m a Target dollar bin junkie.  I seriously must have the biggest collection of their random holiday crap on the face of the planet.   When I see all those little holiday knick-knacks, thingamajigs, and doo-hickeys, I just lose it.  I don’t care that they’re utterly useless, that they’re going to fall apart as soon as I get home, or even that they’re made in China, and probably letting off enough toxic emissions to blow up our house.  I don’t even care that for all I know, they’re lining those suckers with crack. I just have to have them.  All of them.

And I had every intention of putting this special Target purchase on my daughter for an Easter photo.  Of course, they immediately got devoured by my closet, never to be seen again.  Until today.  Come to think of it, I forgot Easter photos entirely.  Oh well, there’s always Christmas.  And as long as a Santa Bunny craze is sweeping the nation this year, I’m all set.

At any rate, I’ve decided to get my money’s worth out of these things.   I like to think of it as an unconventional temperament test.

Skye:  You bore me with your undignified human tomfoolery.

Now I’m ignoring you.

Fergie:  Yeah, yeah, this is great.  So when do I get to eat them?

Finley:   Yeah, yeah, this is great.  So when do I get to eat them?

Peanut:  I hate bunny ears.  Come to think of it, I hate cameras.  And photographers.  In fact, you have exactly three seconds to start running.

See?  Those Target dollar bins really are useful.  You just have to be creative.

You know how you hear stories of parents just sticking a baseball bat in their kid’s hand, and voila, a young Babe Ruth is born?

Yeah, well, not so much with my son.  At least, not when it comes to cameras.

In fact, I’m not sure if I should be alarmed.  It seems not only does my son have a psychadelic take on life, but apparently, he also has a foot fetish.  I’m really hoping it’s just a skill issue with the camera.  Otherwise, we’re looking at a lifetime supply of psychologist bills down the road.  Not that there’s anything wrong with feet, per se.  Other than they’re dirty and yucky and smelly, and I really, really don’t like them. 

But here, you be the judge.

We like to call this one “Breakfast on crack”

And now we know what he really thinks of his baby sister.  From a psych perspective, decapitated infants can’t be a good thing.  We call it “Baby, Schmaby.  Get a load of those bananas!”

This one’s titled “Never piss off the photographer”

And of course, the heart and “sole” of his work:

“Baby, Schmaby.  Get a load of those toes!”  (maybe headless babies are his forte)

“My left foot, I mean, my right foot.” 

“Foot on crack”

Yeah, I don’t know what this one is called, either.  But it disturbs me.

Lord only knows what he could do with a video camera.  

Is it just me, or are ants some of the most disgusting creatures known to man?  Second, of course, to cockroaches.  I mean, I don’t mind seeing an ant here or there when I’m out and about.  And yes, I get that ants are amazing—they’re strong, organized, and cooperative.  In fact, they’d probably fare better in the corporate world than most humans.  But there are rules.  And I draw the line when the little bastards sneak into my home for a morning snack.  Then, amazing or not, they must die.

So, I stumble downstairs this morning, into the kitchen, and there they are.  Dozens and dozens of ants, crawling all over our counters, in our sink, on the floor, and on the sliding glass door, where they’ve apparently snuck in. (By the way, my computer is telling me that “snuck” isn’t actually a word.  Are you kidding me?  Who the heck uses “sneaked”, anyway?)

Hubby was down here earlier this morning.  He keeps his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter.  Did he notice any ants?  Of course not.  Most hubbies, as you may have realized by now, have a great knack for tunnel-vision.  If it’s not a snack, a golf club, or a completely unnecessary and useless electronic gadget, then it might as well be invisible.  Our phone conversation goes something like this:

Me:  “Um, honey, did you go into the kitchen this morning?”

Him:  “I think so.”  (See that?  He’s already hedging his bets—his “danger-meter” must be going off like crazy).

Me:  “Did you notice anything….strange?”

Him:  “Is this a trick question?”

Me:  “How about…did you notice the ANTS ALL OVER OUR KITCHEN COUNTER??”  (voice rising about a hundred decibels)

Him:  “Ants? 

Me:  “Yes. Ants.  You know,those little six-legged black insect things that like it when you leave PEANUT SHELLS ALL OVER THE FLOOR??” (Voice rising again, most likely loud enough for the neighbors to hear.  The ones that live three blocks away.)

Him:  “Peanut Shells?”

Sigh.  The next step, of course, is to kill the little suckers with my non-toxic dishwashing liquid and water spray.  That part, at least, goes as planned.

Then the clean up.  After wiping up as many dead bugs as I can possibly find (yum), I head to the garage(always a scary undertaking, at our house) for the vacuum.  I get super excited at first, because I could see the vacuum right off the bat.  For once, I thought, I’d escape from the garage unscathed.  No searching under totaled cars that should’ve been enjoying a view at the dumpster for the last year, no getting bombed by precariously balanced pieces of junk.  No getting blown up by fireworks.  Or eaten by a rat. 

I should have known better.  Because as I get closer to the vacuum, I do a double take.  Something appears to be missing.  And in fact, something is missing—the hose. 

Now, I don’t claim to be a vacuum expert, nor do I play one on TV, but even my housecleaning-impaired brain is pretty sure that since we do not own a Dyson (nor any other vacuum from the twenty-first century, for that matter) the hose is a crucial element to getting that particular appliance to work. 

So, I call hubby again—I seem to remember he and my son playing with something which, in retrospect, may have resembled a vacuum hose while in the kiddie pool on Saturday.

Me:  “So, I found the vacuum, but there’s no hose.”

Him:  “Hose?”

Me:  “Yes, hose.  You know, the thing that actually makes the whole thing work?”

Him:  “Um.  I think maybe Connor was playing with it.”

Me:  “O-k-k-k-a-a-y.  So do you know where it is?”

Him:  “Um.  No.”

Me:  “Just for curiosity’s sake, do you think it’s a good idea to let our 4 yr old play with the parts to our major appliances?”

Him:  “Um.  No.  But he likes it.”

Me:  “He also likes to eat ice cream and candy and Oreos right before bed.  And smash things with a hammer.  Shall we let him do that?”

Him:  “Um.  No.  But maybe ask him where it is.  I haven’t seen it.”

Me:  “You mean, you haven’t seen it since he played with it?  Because obviously you saw it then.”

Him:  “Oh, yeah. ZZZShhhshZZZ (obviously man-made static noises).  Do you hear that static?  You’re cutting out.”

Double sigh.  So I ask my son where the vacuum hose is.  In fact, he does remember where he put it–on the floor of the garage.  Now, if this were your garage, maybe this is the point where you start jumping for joy, or singing “Whoomp, there it is!”, or whatever ritual it is normal folks perform when they’ve located something in their garage, knowing the hose would be in your vacuum-grasping hands at any moment.  But we’re talking our garage, where the word “normal” doesn’t even exist, home to a million pieces of junk, and that junk’s offspring.  And, of course, the occasional rat.

At any rate, I finally locate the vacuum hose.  It is, indeed, on the floor of the garage.  And I guess I can understand why hubby couldn’t recall seeing it. 

 Now, I think my son is amazing and gifted.   Really, I do.  But even I’m pretty sure that he didn’t heft up the pedal car, which I can barely lift, and toss it right on top of the hose.  Nor, to the best of my knowledge, did he suddenly grow about two feet and trade his training wheels in for an adult-sized ten-speed.  So, it begs the question—how did that hose get there?

I’d ask my hubby, but I already know what his response would be.

 ”Hose?”

Seriously, do you think I could make up something this insane?  I’m warped, but not that warped.  (And no, my degree of warpedness is not up for debate).

I mean, I could maybe see suing Victoria’s Secret for causing undue distress to my body image (Have you seen those commercials?  Women who look like that should be banned from our planet), or possibly for the butt-floss they masquerade as undies causing a hideous case of hemrrhoids, but eye damage?  Puh-lease. 

Just to be safe, though, maybe VS should put a warning on their labels.  Something like “Caution–not for use as eye-wear” or “Create G-string slingshot at your own risk”.

The moral of this story?  That’s a no-brainer.  Next time, buy less “eye-catching” lingerie.

I forgot to mention—another big thing that happened while were in Colorado?  Finley started solids.

 Well, that’s not 100% accurate.  Actually, my baby started solids when we were in Utah, before we got to Colorado.

Here I was, so proud of myself for delaying solids.  Not that I started Connor super early—he pigged out on his first bowl of rice cereal right at six months.  But this time, I wanted to be more patient.  I waited.  And waited.  And researched.  I carefully read all the websites and articles, and then picked out a few things to start with.  No overly processed grains for my little girl, no sir.  I was going to start with wholesome organic avocado, bananas, and maybe a little sweet potato.  And I was going to wait until around eight months.

So, what happened in Utah?  Well, apparently, Finley wasn’t interested in waiting.  Basically, she decided to take matters into her own little hands and feed herself.  Of course, her choice didn’t quite make my list of top ten super baby foods.

Instead, Finley’s first foods were comprised of this:

In case you’re wondering, “this” is a dog toy that Fergie won lure coursing.  Fergie, being the dainty little hound that she is, promptly destroyed it in about three seconds flat once we got back to the hotel room.  Of course, the fuzzy stuffing exploded everywhere, and I obviously missed a few of the fuzz balls.  So Finley just helped herself.  Yum.

She followed that meal the next day with a bit of paper, at which time I threw in the towel and decided to start her on real solids.  You know, the kind she might actually be able to digest.

Here are a few photos from Colorado of Leo and Fergie helping “clean her up” after she dined on some bananas.   So thoughtful of them.

 Oh, and for the record?  This is what Finley thinks of avocado:

I guess the dog toy was tastier.

So, back to my 3-week trip to Colorado, kids and dogs in tow, sans hubby.  (Yes, I realize, I must be certifiable.  Then again, if you’ve read much of this blog ((or even one other post)) you’re probably already familiar with that neurotic and crazy place I like to call my brain.)

You may know this already—I think most sane folks do.  But just in case you don’t, let me just state for the record—taking a ten hour road trip following a lure coursing weekend with two kids and six dogs, from Utah to Colorado?  Not the brightest idea.  To be honest, the kids did pretty well (except for maybe the time when Connor dumped his water on Fergie’s head).  But I certainly don’t think any of us would classify it as a treat.

Did I mention yet that my 7-month old daughter decided to start crawling and standing right before we left?  How very thoughtful of her.  Especially in light of the fact that my parent’s house contains possibly the steepest staircase in all of the Western hemisphere.  And it goes down to the basement.   Also, for reasons unknown to me, their kitchen chairs have rollers on them.  Yes, rollers.  It should be illegal.  And their coffee table?  Bi-level and glass topped—just the right height for a baby tunnel.  All of this, of course, made for great fun.  I think Finley had a bruise on her forehead within milliseconds of our arrival.

And then there were the dogs.  All five or six of them, depending on the day.  And that’s not counting the other four or five at my aunt’s house.  Hounds galore.  Yes, they did have their own “dog room”, which is actually about ten times larger than any of the human guest rooms (I see where the humans figure in to my parents’ equation), complete with nice white pillars, a mirror (those Ridgebacks are quite vain, you know), carpeting, and of course, a slider and French doors.

It was great that the dogs could be sequestered to their own space when the kids were sleeping. Except, during this trip, I learned something.  I learned that we have some of the nicest puppy owners ever.  Why?  Because they’ve never once to complained to us about Leo, who just happens to be Fergie’s liver nosed litter mate.  And let me tell you a little something about Leo.   He is, without doubt,  the noisiest Ridgeback on the face of the earth.  And I’ve lived with his mom Sunni, so I knowabout noisy Ridgebacks.  You see, when Leo wakes up, Leo lets you know.  When Leo wants outside, he lets you know.  Of course, if Leo is outside, he usually wants inside.  And yep, he lets you know that, too.  He lets you know when it’s breakfast time, he lets you know when it’s dinner time.  And when there’s nothing else going on?  Well, Leo just likes to let you know he’s alive.  All I can say is, thank god my mom bought some white noise-makers for our rooms.  My kids are pretty good sleepers, but heck, it’s challenging for even good sleepers to snooze when they’re being serenaded in the morning by the Happy Hound.

Leo is lucky that, like the Ferganator, he’s also about the sweetest Ridgeback on the face of the earth.  Plus, he’s quite the kennel decorator.  And so generous with his skills–not only would he pull his own cover into his crate, but often, the covers of the dogs on either side of him as well.  I’m sure Skye and Sunni were thrilled.

I have to admit, the five acre backyard was great for my son.  Although I’m not sure my mom was super jazzed about the million or so pine cones and rocks he collected and arranged on her dining table.  Or the fact that he liked to roll in the dirt.  In his pajamas.

And of course, there was the dog show weekend, thrown in to make things even more exciting.  I was trying to juggle the four dogs I was showing, help make sure the other three my aunt was showing were okay, call my dad to check on the kids, and still manage to squeeze in a few minutes to use the old breast pump once in awhile (thank you , Patty, for the use of your motor-home–you’re a lifesaver!)   And people wonder why I don’t get to many dog events any more—sheesh.

Okay, so I know I’m supposed to post more about my 3 week trip to Colorado, kids in tow, but I have to digress. Something much more crucial came up Actually, it’s kind of scary. Terrifying, even

You see, I just found out I know a SECOND person starring in a TV reality show.

But let’s back up. Several years ago, I was sitting in our old house, minding my own business, exercising my thumbs with a little channel-surfing. For whatever reason, I started watching some horrible show debut called “For Love or Money” For those of you who (rightfully) shun all types of reality dating TV and aren’t in the know, it was basically a rip-off of the Bachelor, only cheesier (if that’s even possible). As I’m getting ready to flip the channel for something a little more intellectual, like, say, Sesame Street, I notice that the main star looks familiar. Really familiar. I note his name is Rob. And he’s a lawyer. As I try to put these facts together in my then-pregnant and therefore rapidly deteriorating brain cells, it hits me.

Of course, I think I must be crazy, so I google who I think it is, and sure enough, it’s him. Rob Campos. JAG drop-out, female groper, and, as my friend Lindsay and I knew him, step aerobics dude extraordinaire. Even after verifying the facts, I found it hard to fathom. The seemingly sophisticated man on TV was the same gangly guy who used to bop around at SMU step class several times a week? Of course, later in the show, he got a little drunk and obnoxious, which I remember as being more in character. And in case anyone is interested—no, there was no groping involved in our (platonic) relationship.  To be fair, he seemed like a nice guy.  Albeit a little goofy (I mean, let’s face it–how many cool guys did you know in college that went to step aerobics class?)

At any rate, that brings us to the second reality show star. I just opened an email from my aunt, with a link to the “Celebrity Circus” website. Apparently, it’s some new show on NBC where famous people train and perform various circus routinues  Yes, the premise is lamer than lame–in fact, it ranks right up there with that pet grooming competition show on Bravo (Hey, I love dogs too, but even I can’t think of anything less exciting than watching a pet getting it’s weekly hair-cut.  If that’s considered entertainment, then maybe I can get a gig on a reality show seeing who can Dremel the most Ridgeback toenails without being growled at, kicked, head-butted, or, as once happened to my aunt, getting the Dremel bit caught in your hair and whipping out a chunk of scalp.)

But back to Celebrity Circus.  I click on Clip 8, as instructed by my aunt, and there she is—Janet Evans. I couldn’t believe it.  I used to swim with that girl for about five years when I was a teen. My sister used to coach her.  And the clip was very disturbing.

No, not because little Janet Evans was dangling from a trapeze, looking like she was going to bite it at any moment, in a next-to-nothing purple spandex outfit. Rather, because the woman didn’t have an ounce of cellulite. Tell me, after all this time, how is that possibly fair? And those six-pack abs? It’s just wrong. My own six-pack morphed into a two-pack long, long ago, and the other four have never been heard from again.

So, seriously, though—what are the chances that I know two reality show stars? Is that normal these days? Are reality shows really so pervasive that it’s like six degrees of Survivor, or American Idol, or Joe Millionaire?  If so, how many reality show “stars” do you know?

 And what I really want to know is—-who’s going to show up next?