Straight Up Gangsta, Yo

Meet Wilson: 

I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.

Don't be fooled by that innocent look in his eyes, he's a straight up Gangster. And he'll bust a cap in your ass.   It's been a couple of years since I've been his victim Mom and he's a handful.  And by "Handful" I mean he's a total dick.

I don't know why I adore the little shit, but I do.  Stockholm Syndrome?  He's the complete opposite of the dog that we thought we were adopting and he still managed to crawl up into my heart and settle in.

I'm no trouble.  I swear!

This is Wilson's picture on the rescue group website when we found him (and I wholeheartedly recommend You Lucky Dog Pet Rescue - they're spectacular!).  Doesn't his face say "take me home and love me forever"?  Suckers.

His foster parents told us that he "really likes to sit on your lap & snuggle all day".  Sounds great, right?  Except the only reason he was sitting on anyone's lap was because they had a pocket full of treats.  Since I don't generally carry a stockpile of treats in my pockets on a regular basis, or ever, Wilson spends zero percent of his time on my lap. Or sitting.  His foster parents also said he likes to run around a little and then he falls asleep.  Nope.  He likes to run around All. Day. Long. and take 10 minute power naps to recharge before he begins again.

Anyway, we chose him and we brought him home.

First day in our family and ready to commence home annihilation.

Jeff worked from home every Wednesday when we adopted Wilson, and he lasted exactly one week before he told me that "Wilson needs to be out of the house on Wednesdays from now on, starting immediately".  Guess *somebody* doesn't enjoy a dog party.

Enter Doggie Day Camp:

Why yes, you can take my picture.  I'm also available for autographs.

 

I dug a hole for you guys.  Do you like it?

The Day Camp staff immediately dubbed his visits "Wilson Wednesdays" and after a couple of weeks they said his camp name is "The Wilsonator". Of course it is.  Every time I drop him off I say "God help you" to the employees and run back to my car as quickly as possible.  They seem to have a very high tolerance for a-holes at Day Camp, because they love him. More suckers! 

So we settled in with our new buddy and things were going great until we discovered: he's a runner.  Oh, God, is he ever a runner.  And nothing good comes from "Dogs Gone Wild".

Exhibit A: One Wednesday morning on the way to camp, Wilson jumped out the tiny rear window of my car for a little rush hour romp along Buford Highway.  Good Times.  It was right after this incident that I realized I would have to trade in my beloved BMW convertible for something more appropriate for transporting the little shit my boy.  Hello Jeep!

Buford Hwy Escape Pod.  It was too nice for me anyway.

Exhibit B:  When my brother opened the front door of our house one Saturday a few weeks later, Wilson decided he'd step out to stretch his legs a bit.  He stretched them all the way down our street and almost to Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. When Scott finally caught up to the little turd, he called me to bring a leash and pick them up and I accidentally rammed the hood of his Honda with my Jeep when I pulled out of the garage. Wilson still owes us $1,500 for the repairs.

It actually gives the hood a bit of character.

We got the running away under control by never, ever using the front door to our house.  Ever.  Problem solved.

But we had another problem - the chewing:

Nom, Nom, Nom.

I was just deciding what to read, Mom.

At this point we had been Wilson's prisoners family for 6 months, so we did the only thing we could think of to keep him entertained.  We got a dog for our dog.

Welcome to the family, Gracie:

Good Girl!

And these two?  Inseparable!

How cute is this?!?!

My heart can't take it!

Stop already, it's too much!

So sweet!  Until we realized that Gracie also enjoys the occasional leash-free romp through downtown Buford, particularly in the late evening hours.  Bonus points if it's winter, close to midnight and Jeff's already asleep.  She doesn't leave my side if we're outside without Wilson, but if The Canine Crusader is in the vicinity all bets are off.  Like the time he pulled me down into a face plant on the driveway, yanked his leash out of my hand and took Gracie on a scenic tour through downtown at 1 a.m. on a February night, dragging his leash behind him the entire time.  I had to wake Jeff up to find them and I probably should have headed to the ER for stitches to close the gash in my forehead where my glasses hit me, but I decided it was a better idea just to pretend it never happened.  More good times.

There's also a great deal of wrestling in our house on any given day, which usually occurs on the exact spot where Jeff or I are standing. Being upright is overrated. And I don't mean a little playful tussling.  I'm talking full on balls-to-the-wall, hounds of hell, somebody's gonna die throw downs.  All in the name of fun.  I'm thankful every day that Gracie is much bigger than Wilson and can put him in his place, normally by throwing all her weight on his back and pancaking him.  He loves it more than he should. Guess all the men in our family like big girls.

And why do I put  up with this foolishness?  Because Wilson may just be my favorite dog ever!  Sorry, Max.  He genuinely tries to be good.  He just sucks at it.  He can be the sweetest, most affectionate boy ever.  He'll walk up to me, rest his chin on my knee and melt my heart.  And when I wake up every morning, he's plastered next to me in bed with his head on the pillow next to mine. Then all transgressions are forgiven.  Except the couch.

I know I should get him some training. OK, a lot of training.  With a side of more training.  But I kind of like him just the way he is:  Loud and crazy and silly and sweet and strong and a little bit sensitive and whole lot bad ass.  He's just Wilson.  And he's my boy!

Yo, G. Straight Outta Buford!

My lunch art experience didn't help much with pet portraiture.

Yes he is!

What's 30 Years Among Friends?

Howdy Peeps! I've missed you!  After an almost two year hiatus, I have plenty of new material, so here we go...

First up: My 30th High School Reunion

Our 30th reunion was an informal affair at a bar, with an open invite for any other classes who'd like to attend to join.  Which means I was able to convince my best girlfriend / younger brother, Scott, to come along. You can probably guess how the rest of the story goes.

Our party foursome included me, Jeff (my ridiculously tolerant, long-suffering husband), Scott, and Scott's delightful girlfriend (whom he better make my sister soon if he knows what's good for him because I'm totally keeping her).

 

Pre-Reunion, I had the following conversation with my stepson (name withheld to protect the innocent):

Stepson: What were you like in high school?

LAB: A little bit bookish.  Crazy about dogs.  Hated rules.  Liked to do my own thing.

SS: So basically exactly like you are now.

LAB:  Exactly.

In the car upon arrival:

LAB: I’m only taking my phone, my ID and my lipstick inside.

Jeff:  You’re bringing your ID?  Do you think they’re expecting underage kids to crash your 30^th high school reunion?

LAB:  I may need it.  Better safe than sober.

At the Reunion:

LAB: I don’t remember everyone being so tall!

Jeff: That’s because you’re wearing flat shoes.  And why do your shoes look like they have sea urchins on them?

LAB: It’s called fashion.

Jeff:  Sea urchins are in style now?

With my high school girlfriends:

LAB: Is it just me, or do you recognize all of the women here and none of the men?

All the ladies:  It's not just you.  Who are these guys?

After a few drinks:

I’m not sure who orchestrated “Operation Get LAB Sh*thoused” at the party, but it was an unparalleled success.  There were times when I had more drinks than I could carry.  And I can easily carry 4.  I know drinks with 2 limes came from Jeff.  Drinks with 1 lime came from Scott.  Drinks with no limes?  I have no idea.  But I really wanted limes, so I kept asking Scott to take limes from my old drinks and put them in my new drinks, which he did.  Now you know why he's my best girlfriend. 

Now that I think about it, I’m not sure all of the drinks he took limes from were mine.  Or empty.  Do I owe anyone an apology? Or a bag of limes? 

More drinks later:

For some reason, the name of our high school was misspelled on the cake at the event.  I don't have the words for how spectacular I thought this was.  With encouragement from my enabler, Scott, I decided to fix it with a sharpie, but the marker kept sinking into the frosting.  Apologies to any of my classmates who may have eaten a fair amount of permanent marker.  It's probably not toxic. 

Even more drinks later:

Scott:  Do you know you’re sitting with half of your ass on the ottoman and the other half on a serving tray? Your butt has the tray tilted up at an angle.  I keep waiting for you to notice, but I’m pretty sure you’re not going to.

LAB:  Oh.  I thought I was on a sofa and that was the arm.

Scott:  *blink* *blink*  Just give it to me.

After all the drinks:

LAB: I can’t say words.
Scott, Jeff, et al:  That’s a wrap.  Get in the car.

Sunday Morning:

Jeff: How do you feel?

LAB: I tell you after you get me some KFC.

Jeff: Be right back.

It was awesome catching up with everyone! OK, may be not *everyone*, but most of you.  Thanks to the party planners - I had a blast! From what I can remember.

Seriously?

I had the worst nightmare last night.  Worst, worst. And that's saying something since I have very vivid dreams.  Probably the result of having two X-chromosomes and an open mind. 

I dreamed that Jeff met a girl named Jocelyn and they decided to move away together.  He thought the best way to tell me was to take me on a road trip to a car show and tell me on the way there.  We were driving through an old civil-war-era city in which all the buildings were red brick and I jumped out of the car to hide from him so he couldn't finish telling me.  He started driving around a roundabout that went around a park looking for me and I was hiding behind giant Oak trees and brick columns so he couldn't find me.  Eventually he drove away.  When I got home, I didn't want to tell my parents that Jeff left me so I hid it from them and they never found out.  Then my alarm went off. 

You know how you have a dream and when you first wake up you aren't sure if it's real or not?  That was how I felt today.   I was happy my parents weren't dead but I lost my man in exchange.  Crap! 

You guys have probably figured out by now that I'm pretty devoted to my Jeff.  I'm aware that nobody is less deserving of a happy marriage than I am, but screw it.  I won him fair & square and I'm keeping him.  And I'll cut a bitch who tries to steal him away.  OK....not really.  I don't do that anymore.  Because I'm a lady.  And I have people to do those things for me now.

So Jeff got home from work this morning at 7:15 and I told him about my dream while he was brushing his teeth before he went to bed.  Our best conversations occur when he can't speak.  I told him how I was still shaken up by the dream because it seemed so real.

His response?  "Was she hot?"

Whatever. I'm over it. I heard Rico Suave on the radio in the car this morning, so I'm pretty sure everything will be OK.  Gerardo, baby!  Plus, my hair is super straight and I really like my work outfit.  Classic, but stylish.  Kind of like Heavy Audrey Hepburn.  Just go with it, people.  It's a good look for me.  I think that's what I'll name my style from now on:  Fat Audrey Hepburn.  I'm getting a trademark on that, so don't even think about stealing it.

In other marriage news, last weekend I made the mistake of asking Jeff what my Dad said when Jeff asked him if he could marry me:
Jeff: Seriously?
LAB:  Yep.  I want to know what he said.
Jeff:  No, that's what he said: Seriously?

And you people wonder what's wrong with me.

Stay of Execution

For those of you who are interested, I just got a last minute reprieve from the potential demise of my marriage.  Wow...somebody's got a case of the big words today. 

Jeff is still scheduled to change work hours in the near future.  Just not next week.  And by "change work hours", I mean start a schedule that puts him at home with me every night and every weekend.  Indefinitely.  This could be a problem.  Luckily, the guy they hired to replace him in his current position didn't work out, which leaves Jeff right where he is for at least another month.

Being hardly ever together has worked surprisingly well for us. There's a reason I refer to him as my "fictional husband Jeff".  That's also the reason why people assume my brother, with whom I spend a lot of time, is my husband.  Gross.  No offense, Scott.   

I've had many, many glorious years of eating puffed Cheetos and a piece of cheese for dinner while Jeff works nights.  The cheese is for protein to make it a balanced meal.  I'm healthy like that.  Did I mention the copious amounts of wine? I have a feeling that Jeff is not going to consider this an appropriate meal.  And those weekends when he works?  PJ's all day, baby!  Sometimes I don't even wash my face until he calls me to say that he's on his way home.  Good times.

Jeff's about to realize what a lazy shit bag I can be, and he's going to trade me in like an '86 Saturn.  For someone new, with firmer suspension and a tighter turning radius.  *ahem*

We worked the same schedule when we were first married, but I'm fairly certain that he overlooked my shortcomings because we were young & in love.  We're still in love, I just don't have that "new wife smell" anymore. Now I smell more like day-old wine and mediocrity.

The only bright spot in this potential catastrophe is that with Jeff home on weekends to take care of the dogs, I can get on the road for a Magical Mystery Tour of Girlfriends.  And Guyfriends.  I don't discriminate.  All my highly functioning alcoholic friends are equal to me. 

Plus, we just built that Mack-Daddy garage so Jeff has a place to escape the chaos.  Where he can bang his head against the wall in frustration privately.   And I can cook.  Really well.  My Chicken Pot Pie will make you wanna slap your Grandma. 

I figure I'll just feed him and stay out of his line of sight for the first few weeks.  For a break-in period, if you will.  Besides, he can't divorce me.  I'm not through ruining his life!  He still thinks I'm kidding when I tell him this.  Poor guy.

Now I'll Never Know!

Here's a snippet of an actual conversation I recently had with a friend (who will remain nameless unless she wants to out herself, which I doubt after she reads the post): 

Nameless Friend: What do you hate more than anything?
LAB: Digital watches.
NF:   No, what do you *really* hate more than anything.
LAB: I guess the only thing I hate more than digital watches is the Oxford comma.
NF:   No.
LAB:  Stop saying no.  You asked me what I hate the most and I told you.  You don't get to tell me I'm wrong.
NF:    No what do you really, really, really hate most of all.
LAB:  Seriously?  OK, I guess it's men who wear sleeveless shirts on airplanes and then sit next to you and rub their underarm hair all over your shoulder.
NF:   Gross.  And nope.
LAB:  You're obviously trying to tell me a story about something I hate.  Can you just get on with it?
NF:   No.  You're ruining it.
LAB:  How am I ruining it?  You're asking.  I'm answering.  We're conversing.  Tell the damn story.
NF:   Forget it.
LAB:  Are we even speaking the same language? Is this what people feel like when they're talking to me?  I don't like this feeling.  Is that what I hate most of all?
NF:   No.  God.  Never mind.
LAB:  But what do I hate most of all? 
NF:    Not telling.
LAB:  Shit.