Okay, so things are FINALLY settling down to normal here after my 5 day stint at the Ridgeback National Specialty in Gettysburg, PA, which involved me leaving my almost one year-old and 4.5 year-old home alone with my cleanliness-challenged husband.? Although I have to say, I was completely shocked in a good way? when I arrived home and? our house was not only still standing, but actually didn’t resemble a recent bomb site on the inside.? And nary a broken glass to be seen.? Honestly, I’m left sort of wondering when the bulldozer came and how long it was here, but that’s okay.? I mean, I don’t really care what means achieved these ends, as long as? they don’t? involve me wading knee-high through daddy-was-home-alone-with-the-kids carnage.

At any rate, I’ll try to write some about my adventures this weekend, but for now, here’s a photo of me and the Ferganator in our hotel room, with all the awards she helped win.? As it turns out, Fergie apparently is good for something other than destroying random objects around the house.? Although saying she was? “good” at the show would probably be a bit of an overstatement—just ask my aunt.

Just lock me in a padded cell.  Please. Because the enormity of my decision to leave? the kids with hubby? while attending the annual Ridgeback Specialty is starting to sink in.? And the deeper it sinks, the more obvious it becomes that I have utterly and completely lost my mind.

Any mother with even an ounce of sanity would spend her first kid-free days in over a year doing something relaxing. Like soaking in a spa while eating bon bons and getting a foot massage by a young Antonio Banderas doppelganger.  Or lounging on a squeezably soft yet tasteful comforter at the Four Seasons while ordering room service and reading trashy novels, only venturing out to float on a raft in the pool while sipping a strawberry margarita.? ? Or perhaps even sending the kids away so she could hole up in the house ALONE while eating Dulce de Leche Haagen Dazs and watching endless reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Veronica Mars.

But apparently all my sanity was sucked away into? the black hole of? motherhood long,? long ago.? Because instead of doing any of those things, I’ve chosen to squander my hard-earned freedom at a dog show.? Where the dogs will be pampered more than I.? This wonderful trip involves me flying on a red-eye (read, no sleep whatsoever) and arriving? at 6:00 a.m.–just in time to shower and throw on some show clothes so I can take the Ferganator into the ring.? Where instead of humiliating me with her naughty antics in front of just a few local Ridgeback folks, she’ll get to take on the whole nation.? Then, there’s the endless pottying of dogs, exercising of dogs, grooming of dogs (okay, so at least with Ridgebacks, the grooming part is? pretty brief–thank god I didn’t choose Samoyeds), before staying up late at the Top 20 event, followed all too quickly by the next show morning, where I will attempt to split myself in two so that I can show multiple dogs and puppies in stud dog and brood bitch.? Speaking of which, maybe I should just enter myself in the latter category.? Think I’d have a shot?? My kids are pretty cute, if lacking in ring demeanor.? Which basically is to say they’ll fit right in with the rest of the crew I show.

And then for the grand finale, I get to drag my kid-free butt out of bed at? 4:30 a.m. so I can have the supreme honor of driving 50 miles to the lure coursing field,? because nothing says relaxing like being? dragged willy-nilly across a dirty old field by four absolutely bunny-crazed Ridgebacks.? And of course, there’s the peaceful event of chasing the especially naughty ones down after the course is over.? To add to my vacation, I’m sure I’ll fall a few times, as well as almost pass out from the humidity.? Oh, and lets not forget that during this entire “vacation”, I’ll be pumping at least four times a day.

And then there’s the return home, where my house will surely look like a condemned property inhabited by one hundred transients and ten families of rats upon my arrival.

So, please, lock me up.? And make sure you do it before 7:37 p.m. Otherwise, save me a strawberry margarita? (or five) in Pennsylvania–I think I’m going to need them!

Hold on everyone, because here comes Armageddon.

Well, maybe not for you.? But for me?? It may as well be.? Because next week I’m leaving for four days to attend the annual Rhodesian Ridgeback National Specialty in Pennsylvania.? Which means the hubby is staying behind.? With both kids.? In the house.? ALONE.

And while the idea of a four day kid-free vacation sounds like a little piece of heaven right about now (even though I’ll miss the little stinkers like crazy), the idea of returning to the shambles of what was once my fairly structured life is going to be something altogether less angelic.? Not to mention that I expect my house to be in shambles as well.? Literally.

It’s not that I don’t think hubby can handle taking care of the kids, dogs, house, shopping, chauffeuring, and all the accompanying chaos that makes up the life of a stay-at-home parent.? It’s just that I don’t think he can complete all those tasks without letting a few things slide along the way.? And I’m shuddering inside at the non-stop visuals my overactive imagination is so thoughtfully providing me.

I know, I shouldn’t sweat the few, minor little details. Like what they’ll be eating (for my son, whatever no-no’s he can coax out of daddy–which is to say, Oreos for breakfast and? Ho-Ho’s for dinner.? The baby will probably get her first taste of? Ho-Ho’s as well.? Okay, now I’m REALLY hyperventilating).? Or what they’ll be wearing (striped shirts with checkered shorts that have already been worn five days in a row.? In the mud.? And rain or shine, the baby will likely be naked).? What they’ll be doing (watching non-stop episodes of entirely inappropriate violent cartoons.? And possibly even my hubby’s favorite–zombie movies).? What they won’t be doing (managing to find the trash can or the diaper pail.? Or buying more toilet paper when they run out, and instead, resorting to hubby’s old sock method.? Gag).

I know.? I KNOW.? I shouldn’t? fret so much over my husband’s priorities.? Or lack thereof.? And just because last time I left him unattended with the kids this happened doesn’t mean anything quite so dramatic will happen again, right?? Especially given the fact that we’re down to only a single table in the entire house now. Statistically speaking, our odds of breaking the one remaining glass table have got to be pretty darn low.? Right?? RIGHT???? ? And as a plus, the Ferganator? will be in PA as well, leaving? only the marginally naughty, shoe-eating? Skye hound and the growling Pig dog.? ? Fergie alone is the equivalent of about eight GOOD dogs, so surely this has to be helpful.

Seriously, though, I’m okay leaving the kids with hubby.? He’s got to be one of the most involved fathers I know, and as a consequence, he is entirely secure in his ability to take care of the kids while I’m away.? And so am I.?

Really.? It’s the house I’m worried about.

But maybe I’m overreacting a little.? I mean, just because the house looked like this last time I left hubby to his own devices–WITHOUT THE KIDS–doesn’t mean it could get that? much worse? in just four days WITH the kids.? Right?? RIGHT???

Yeah.? Right.?

So, hypothetically speaking….is it too late to change my ticket?

Yes, I realize these photos are long overdue, but I’ve been BUSY, people.? First, with the still flowing copious amounts of snot, and second, with the posting of hideous ancient photos of old friends on facebook.? Just because I can.

At any rate, here is the damage that hubby managed to inflict on our home while mommy was away.? Mind you he was watching two very small children at the time, children I’d like to keep for awhile longer.? Even given the feisty mouth on the older model.

Just in case you needed to see it from another angle:

And here’s a little something to warm? every mother’s? heart—a close up of? the particularly? large and undoubtedly deadly piece of glass hanging out with? your daughter’s ride-on toy:

Of course, then there’s the part where my husband reaches INTO THE BROKEN GLASS–HELLO!!!—and nearly becomes intimately acquainted with the trials and tribulations of being a four-fingered man.?

Apparently, my son, upon viewing hubby’s gushing finger, asks, “Daddy, are you going to die?”

My hubby of course tells him no, he’s fine, to which son matter-of-factly replies, “No, you’re not.? I’m pretty sure? you’re going to die.”?

Ah, such a glass is half-empty kind of kid—he does his mama proud.? Although, given the carnage, can you really blame him?

?

You know how dogs possess preternatural powers of sensitivity in all the old animal stories?? Like whenever Timmy’s sick, Lassie mopes? for days, fretting about him while laying plastered? by his bedside, until at long last his fever breaks and she’s instantly joyful again?? Well I’m hear to tell you, when it comes to Ridgebacks, it’s all a crock of crap.?

Unless, of course, Ridgebacks typically express their sensitivity by eating your favorite pair of shoes.? Because that’s what happened here.? There I was,? practically dying from some preschooler-induced illness consisting of the production of copious amounts of snot and feeling hotter than Brad Pitt in a loincloth? , and what does Skye do?? Why,? in her extreme empathy for her? nearly dead master, she mangles my fabulous kitten-heeled, goldish-bronze, go-out-and-party sandals beyond any hopes of recovery.

Or maybe I just jinxed myself by talking about how she’s the good one in the house.? I can hear Fergie snickering all the way from Colorado, while Grandmama Shani is giving her the paws up from the Bridge.

So tell me–how does she manage to look so innocent:

while performing deeds of such? vile depravity:

All I can say is, she’d better not think she’s crawling into my bed tonight with the reek of her? hideous dead shoe breath.? Sole killer.

So I know I’m supposed to tell the story of my husband nearly castrating his finger after smashing our glass coffee table while watching the kiddage, but I have like zero time.? After staying up until 4:00 am–4:00 AM–on Saturday night for my 20 year high school reunion, I am pretty much a zombie right now.? I figure at my age, I can expect to be fully recovered sometime late next week.? Which would be fine and dandy, except I have three articles due this week.

Since I have no time to write on subjects that don’t involve dating in random cities strewn throughout the United States, I’ll instead post some photos of Skye I found on my computer while searching for some specific baby photos of Finley, which of course I was an utter failure at locating.? ? Not to worry–no doubt I’ll? stumble across the baby pics? when searching for? photos of Fergie eating our vacuum cleaner? at a later date–that’s pretty much how stuff works around here.

At any rate, back on topic.? It’s official–there’s some major Fergie hound missing going on around here. I actually find myself following Skye around, hoping she’ll do a no-no, and my son has taken to asking, “When’s Fergie coming home?” on a regular basis.? Meaning about once every ten minutes.? Even hubby admits that he misses our naughty liver girl.

And since I couldn’t ever get Skye to perform any misdeeds in front of me (she’s more of a closet bad girl, that one), I had to instead settle for looking at these photos I found.? Still no misbehavior, but they are kind of cute.

So without further ado, here’s Skye performing her patented spin moves:

?

Today started out much the same as any other day? except that my husband stayed home from work. Why?Because the two of us have? turned procrastination into an art form.

In a roundabout way, my husand? took a day off work due to our failure to? file? our ’07 taxes.? You may remember that we, or more correctly, I, birthed our? second child? at home.? Supportive as my husband was, I don’t recall him straining his nether regions for hours attempting to push our 9+ lb daughter’s head into the world.? Private parts aside, when you deliver your child at home, you must apply for a birth certificate through the? Office of Vital Statistics, presumably to make sure you and your child are actually legal residents of the state of California.?

Personally, I fail to see how this all works.? Us homebirthers have to cough up three proofs of address,? three notarized affadavits as proof of preganancy and residence, and a bunch of other completely nonsensical papers.? When I had my son at the hospital?? I’m pretty sure I just filled out? this two-minute? form and paid my hospital bills and they were all like, “Okay, here you go–your son’s all legal and stuff.”? ? Obviously, I need to send the midwives of our state some industrial strength backscratchers and? then? thrust? them forth into the governement offices, to perform a few backdoor deals of their own.

The? government? generously grants you a year to apply for the birth certificate before you have to appear in court and explain to the judge why you are so lazy and imcompetent that even with a twelve month allowance, you failed to drag your sorry ass? and that of your infant to the designated government? office.?

So yes, we pushed it a little close for comfort.? In fact, had we been participating in a drinking game in which every time our government worker tsked or commented on how LONG we waited to get our daughter’s birth certificate, pink elephants would have started appearing.? But really–we did have over a month to spare.? I guess the converse of that is we waited eleven months to get the certificate.? And truth be told, we weren’t really motivated by concern for our daughter’s legal status, but rather, by greed.? Not only is that second baby a big tax write-off, but we want us some of good old Georgie’s economic stimulus money as well.? I figure it will buy my Orange County commuting husband about one day’s worth of gas.

So most likely our tardiness in procuring the most important document our daughter will ever possess alone grants us the imcompetent parents of the year award.? And then there’s the part where later that same day, my husband? shatters our coffee table and manages to bleed all over my son and the rest of our house, right before people are? scheduled? to take a class in? our home, except they’re really not because I got the date wrong.? But that’s going to have to be part two—all that bleeding and tsking and goverment office smell makes me sleepy.

?

I wasn’t going to say anything. I really wasn’t. But the more I think about it, the more I’m just so completely dumbfounded by the absolute retardedness of it all that I can’t possibly keep quiet.

So Friday afternoon I get an email from my husband at work. Here’s the email:

That alone is beyond my comprehension. How does a grown man reach the ripe age of 37 without knowing a failproof way to tell if his shirt is on correctly?  But it gets better. Because then he shows up at home at 6:45 p.m. on Friday night AND HIS SHIRT IS STILL ON INSIDE OUT!

Me: “Hello there, King of the Dorks. Just out of curiosity–did it ever occur to you at any point throughout the day to put on your shirt correctly? Just for kicks?”

Hubby, eying me quizzically over a mouthful of pasta: “Huh? Shirt? Why?”

One of our more scintillating dinner conversations. But back to the point–it’s not like my husband works at—at—at a place where inside-out shirt wearers work, whatever planet that might be on. He works in a large, professional building, full of lots of professional-looking people. Minus one, of course.

And this isn’t the first time. I remember an occasion ten plus years ago, before we were married. My husband flies in for the weekend to visit. We’re hitting a “trendy” bar in Newport Beach, so en route from the airport we stop by the mall so he can pick up some appropriate clothing. Indeed we have to stop BECAUSE HE FORGET HIS LUGGAGE.? ? ? As in, all of it.? Who does that? The man literally shows up at the airport without a suitcase, without a duffel bag, without anything other than his wallet and the clothes on his back. Which were so not appopriate.

So he puts on his new clothes and then we’re in line at this bar in Newport? and my husband is smiling and chatting with the girls behind us. He then remarks to me, “Oh, the girls out here are so friendly!” Color me thrilled.

About an hour later we’re walking around inside and my best friend suddenly points at hubby’s back and starts laughing and I notice his shirt is on INSIDE OUT with the price tags dangling halfway down his back. And it hits me. The “friendly” girls he’d been talking to in line had giggled and said, “Is that the new style?”

Of course hubby just laughs it off as always, citing his “boyish and amusing”?defense. But now I’m wondering if there’s some kind of latent pathology here. And Stacy and Clinton, where the hell are you when you’re needed?

You never know when life is going to throw you a curve ball. Take Skye, for instance.

One day, she’s basking in the sun without a care in the world:

The next, disaster strikes in the form of an absent hot tub cover:

It’s like the epitomy of the Project Runway slogan, only in reverse: One day you’re out, and the next–you’re IN! And I guess Skye is a glass half full kind of girl, because this is the second time she’s made a splash and yet she’s already back in the saddle, sunbathing on the hot tub again.

Or maybe she thought we needed a little excitement around here, since Fergie and her crazy brother Leo are visiting “Nana” in Colorado. You see, my family is entirely insane and to ensure we demonstrate this adequately, every few months my dad takes various dogs on interstate road trips between California and Colorado. I wouldn’t be surprised if a clause of “Do you, Jerry, solemnly swear to rent a variety of minivans and drive the family hounds thousands of miles each year to different households, purchasing them burgers along the way and letting them sleep on the hotel beds with nary a complaint, so long as you both shall live?” was added in to my parents wedding vows. I guess that would involve some special telepathic gift on my mom’s part seeing as how we didn’t have Ridgebacks until after I graduated college. Which could explain why I was always getting busted in high school before I even got the opportunity to do anything wrong.

Anyway, we said our good-byes on Saturday. Leo was in his crate less than a minute before wreaking havoc on his bedding:

And Connor says good-bye to Fergie:

It’s really nice to share the chaos for awhile but I have to admit—we miss our little Ferganator.

I don’t mind the fact that hubby routinely wakes me up at 5:30 a.m. by cracking his knuckles so loudly I bolt upright in bed, sure that a SWAT team assault is under way. (Okay, actually I do mind. Although perhaps halting the espionage reading right before bed wouldn’t hurt.)

It’s also beyond me how he can sit and watch television in Spanish. He doesn’t even UNDERSTAND Spanish – except maybe a few of the words that appear on a Taco Bell menu. But even those he can’t pronounce. I know, I know–that “quesadilla” is a tricky one.

And then there’s the music. You see, hubby doesn’t take the time to actually learn the lyrics to anything, but he routinely sings (loudly) the words he thinks they are singing. Words that typically have no bearing at all on what the songwriters actually put to paper. Any attempts at correcting him fall on completely (tone) deaf ears. That’s if he doesn’t get mad at me because, “it ruins the song” for him. Because apparently he’s never recovered from the heartbreak of learning that Sugar Ray was actually singing “Every Morning” and not “Captain Morgan”, his favorite rum.

Anyway, the last few nights have been espcially painful because he’s rediscovered some random 80′s song by Pizzacato Five. He just can’t get enough of the video, which features two dudes and some scrawny chick wearing racoon hats and executing the most random dance moves known to man. He literally plays it about fifty times in a row, over and over again, until I want to pick up a stapler and shove it right into the varmit-killing lead singer’s brain. And as an added bonus? MY HUSBAND SINGS ALONG!!!!!!!! Which is beyond the realm of all that is decent and good, considering the entire song is IN JAPANESE.

He also had to point out how some random French band, Nouvelle Vague, looks like they attempted to rip off the dancing from the Japanese video. So not only do I have to listen to him butcher the lyrics to yet another song, but as an added bonus my brain is now being tortured by two horrible dancing sequence rather than one.

And now I have the damn song stuck in my head only I don’t know Japanese either so “Twiggy yo shee hee yo hee haw” is about as good as it gets. Maybe I’ll just stab myself with the stapler instead.