Patti The Purfumerarianist

The year was 1978. I wanted this for my birthday, and I wanted it bad. THIS was my calling. I would be a perfumerarianist. A maker of smells. I would make smells the likes of which had never been smelled since the beginning of time. Smells that smelled better than Sweet Baby Jeebus's little baby noggin. Smells so glorious and hypnotic that when I wore them to school, kids on the playground would be drawn away from their games of four square to sniff me and look at me in awe. Strangers would stop me on the street and ask me how it was that I came to smell so fantastic. I would reply "I am a perfumerarianist, and I own my own perfumerarary." People would beg to buy my bottles of amazingness and their nostrils would delight in what they inhaled, as their nose hairs danced a happy jig. I would become rich. People around the world would be wearing my smells. I would go down in history as the most successful perfumerarianist EVER.

That was the dream. The dream I saw as clearly as if it had already happened.

Here's the reality: 

After months of incessant whining about how desperately I needed this, and even though my mom thought it was a stupid waste of money, she gave in so I would not fulfill my threats to sell our fine china in order to acquire the contraption that was going to make my whole life worthwhile. After opening it, I ran immediately to my lab, AKA perfumerarium, AKA playroom, to make the dream happen. No matter what portions of what smell I mixed together, it smelled like a dead animal's bunghole. So I went to get some extracts from my mom's baking cabinet and threw a few drops of those in. That made it worse. It was like the bunghole of a dead animal that ate a lot of cake. So I got some mouthwash and mixed that in, and nearly vomited because it smelled like the bunghole of a dead animal that ate a lot of cake, then died, then had a case of Scope mouthwash poured on his carcass. In the end, I dumped out my creations, rinsed out the bottles, opened my Love's Baby Soft, and poured it into the Barbie bottles. I then drew my name on the labels in marker, and went door to door and sold them for about 50 cents apiece. I told the buyers that when they were done I was gonna need my bottles back. Which they never gave me. Sometimes dreams are bullshit, you guys. Total. Bullshit.

P.S.

Visit my store and buy something this month, cuz all proceeds go to Project Night Night

OR...If you don't want any of the amazingly stupid stuff that I sell in my store, you can just go straight to Project Night Night on the interwebs and donate there.

Thank you to everyone who has ordered things the past 2 months. In case you didn't know, ALL money made from my Zazzle store goes to charity. I will choose a different one each month. The money from November goes to the Fisher Center for Alzheimer's Research Foundation, and October's earning were for Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

THANK YOU!! xoxo

My latest art boner. Yes, it involves unicorns.

You guys know a lot about me. Like, a crap load about me. Literally. Just read the poop blog I wrote last, and see.  I tell you (and my Facebook readers especially) all about my weird thoughts and happenings, in sentences that ramble on and on like they were written by a psych ward inmate. Yet here I sit, totally free in the world. I don't know how or why, but I sure am glad I slipped under the radar of the people who make those decisions. If there's one thing I've learned from watching this season of American Horror Story, it's that I couldn't handle it in an asylum. At all. And 'm pretty freakin' sure that they don't allow you to have sporks in there. And this girl has gots to have her sporks. I also learned while watching that show, that even when his arm gets ripped off by a scary-ass monster, Adam Levine is still sexy as heck. He's so sexy that you don't even notice that he's screaming and waving a bloody stump around.

I get lots of email. They send me pictures, links, articles, kind words, they tell me their problems and want advice (Yikes!), and they ask me questions. One question that a few people have asked me, is, what would people be surprised to know about you? The answer to that is this: A helluvalot. So much so that I can't write about it in a blog. I gotta save that stuff for my book.

But one thing that you might not know about me is that I am artsy. Artsy, as in, I used to paint anything I could get my hands on, and people actually paid me to do it. I did canvases, furniture, murals, etc... and I loved it. Then, since I am flighty and fidgety, I got bored. Then I started to write my blog. I guess creativity is creativity and it comes out in different ways at different times. I think I finally found my "thing" though. It's much easier to sit at my desk and type a stupid story about how I am constipated, than it is to climb ladders and inhale fumes and paint a bunch of stuff on a wall for days and days until you feel like your body is 90-years-old and arthritic.

My mind is a jumble of odd pictures, songs, and stories, and it never really stops working. It's like some strange, colorful, picture book in there that is almost impossible to keep up with. Some people call that creativity, and I am happy that such a kind word is used to describe it. I have a soft spot for other people who are "creative", and I also get excited when I see someone come up with something that is so amazing that I hate myself for not thinking of it first. I am in awe of some peoples minds and ideas, and I like artists who make me smile and get a bit jealous of their skillz. Case in point: Sebastien Millon, who designed my new blog header. It's like he draws what is going on in my head. His talent makes me giddy.

I recently came across another artist that made me mega happy. her name is Serene Bacigalupi. Her stuff is so creative, unique,  and magical that I fell in love with it immediately. She takes vintage paintings and paints things on top of them. Here are a few of my favorites:

I would have done way more Bible reading if this had been in there.

Dear Hollywood, this is better than 90% of your ideas.

I mean, COME ON! It's a monster sitting in a pond, having a refreshing beverage!

After stalking all her stuff, I totally fan mailed her and basically told her that I was in mad mad love with her, and instead of calling the po po, she was kind enough to write back to me and  I told her that I wanted to share her with you guys ASAP. Well, she liked that genius idea, and she wanted to give you a discount code for her Etsy store as well as 2 prints of some of her most popular pictures to one of you guys. Yay for nice people, right? Nice people give you free stuff. And who doesn't like free stuff? An idiot, that's who.

To enter to win the prints, leave a comment with your name and email address in it, and I will draw one of you randomly with the help of computery shit that my pathetic brain can't even begin to understand. Also, please go like Serene's FB page HERE and her Etsy store HERE. You can use the code MOMICORN to get 10% off anything in the store. FYI she has some Hall and Oates earrings that are pretty amazingly badass. Seriously. Bad. Ass.

Winner will be announced Monday, 12/10.

Good Luck! 

And P.S. I moderate comments so it might not post right away. Be patient. It will. lease only enter once. xoxo

***Contest ended on 12/10/2012***

Dear Universe, Stop Taunting Me: A Story About Poop

WARNING:

This post is in no way appropriate. But since when am I appropriate? On a mature day, I have the mind of a 13-year-old boy who got held back a few grades and has irresponsible parents.

If you can't handle talk about poops, or the lack thereof, then I suggest you stop reading now. But if you CAN'T handle talk about poops, then honestly, I have no idea WTF you're doing here. Because it's kinda something I talk about. A lot. There's a reason that "Everyone Poops" book became such a huge seller, and that reason is, duh, everyone poops. It's right there in the title, you guys. Holy balls.

As my avid readers know, I have a thing about poop. That thing is that if I don't have a morning one, it can and will, throw off my entire day. I learned from my dad to call this special morning time "My Morning Constitutional," which seems totally appropriate considering that one of the definitions of "constitutional" is "beneficial to ones general physical well-being," and a good poop is nothing if not beneficial to my well-being. It keeps my clothes fitting well, it keeps me healthy, and it keeps me from sporking idiots in the nutsacks. So actually, my morning constitutional is beneficial to not only me, but to everyone around me, too.


So last weekend we went with some friends to the Texas Renaissance Festival. I love the RenFest for two reasons:

1) It's a total freak show
2) They have food on sticks

So the day we went to the RenFest, I did not have my morning constitutional. It was just literally, a no go. I could barely move. My pants wouldn't button right, and I felt all discombobulated and frumpy and slow. I even broke one of my cardinal poop rules and tried in vain to make a deposit at a McDonald's along the way, but some woman beat me to it. Nothing ruins your shot at a good poop like someone else stinking up the joint so you can't stay in there long enough to give it a go.

Basically, by the time we got to RenFest I wasn't feeling the traditional Patti Perk.

And ya know how when you've just had a bad break-up or something, every song that comes on the radio is about a break-up and you feel like The Universe is taunting you and your pain? That's how I felt at the RenFest. Every sign I saw made me curse my inability to perform on the potty.

The photo on the left is of me (duh) in front of a Hot Tamale stand, and the red circle is around a sign that is advertising Fudge Puppies. The photo on the right is of me (duh, again) in front of a pewter stand (pooter is a fart, you guys).

This is a photo of me in front of Ye Village Flutemaker. Oh, how I envied that flutemaker.

This is a photo of me in front of King of the Log. Need I really say more?

THEN the tide turned. The clouds parted and the Heavens shined down on me:

I think these two speak for themselves.

(A big shout-out to my friend Jenny R. for taking these photos and laughing with me at all of the signs, and not cringing when I constantly talk about poop.)

Beach vacations are relaxing and lovely. At least until you witness a mass murder.

It was the best of times.
It was the worst of times.
But mostly it was the best.
Except that one time when it was the worst. 
That time totally sucked.

As most of you know, The Hub and I ran away from home last week and went to play Lost meets Survivor meets Gilligan's Island in a place in the middle of nowhere in Mexico.  Seriously, you guys. Middle. Of. Nowhere. It's one of those adventures where halfway along you start wondering if you've made a terrible mistake and what if the website photos look nothing like the place you're going? And you pass little towns on dirt roads with donkeys (AKA the local transportation) tied up in front of "stores" and think to yourself "WTF was I thinking?" or if you're me, "I wonder if I'd get shot if I surprise buttsecksed that burro?"

And because we are not totally insane (well, I am, but The Hub usually handles all the mature and responsible thinking), instead of trying to navigate this journey on our own, we had a wonderful driver named Manuel who took charge. Although, truth be told, if we had been carjacked at gunpoint, aside from the ability to speak Spanish, I don't think Manuel was gonna be of any help. Not once did he mention anything to us about his mad mad ninja skills or show us his gun and knife collection in the glove box or anything. He did mention that he'd love to go to Disneyland, though. Which isn't something that someone usually says if they are a badass Mexican version of Chuck Norris or something. I don't picture a professional ass-kicker saying "I love Disney characters!" Actually, I really saw no similarities at all between him and Norris except for the fact that they are both short. I'm super positive that I've heard that The Chuckster is quite small. Which kinda makes me think that that whole think about him kicking ass is bullshit and is just some voodoo movie magic. I'm a tall spitfire with a short fuse, and my legs are probably longer than his entire Norris-ness, and I'm fairly confident that no matter what fancy ass moves he came at me with, I could just windmill kick him into oblivion. As least that's the delusion that I'm choosing to go with. 

Obviously my relaxing, peaceful vacation did nothing towards making me more focusey. Thank god. Cuz in case you didn't notice, rambling is my jam.

Anyways...

So we're driving around in total nowhere land when suddenly The Hub noticed an oasis. It was truly a sight so majestic that I thought it was a dream that would disappear when we got closer to it. But it didn't disappear. And for a brief moment I though to myself "what if it's a trap?" Like a siren beckoning me to her bosom with a beautiful song, only to leave me with my head chopped off and organs in a styrofoam cooler? But it was totally real and totally AMAZINGLY PERFECT:

THIS

I know...right??? When The Hub spotted it we told Manuel to make a u-turn and take my sweet, thirsty, travel weary ass back to my Nirvana. I'm pretty sure that this was a sign from The Universe that I was heading in the right direction. And also that I needed alcohol. STAT.

After quenching my thirst we headed on to our final destination, which was at the end of a long dirt road. The gate was made of giant sticks or bamboo or something, and looked like the entrance to Jurassic Park, minus that whole dinosaur's from hell situation. It didn't take me long to realize that this place is now my dream location in the event of a Zombie Apocalypse.

Step one: Kill all the zombie mofo's in between me and Norman Reedus. 
Step Two: Locate Norman and use my feminine wiles to make him mine. 
Step 3: Go to there. 

Not only was this place beautiful beyond belief, but it had gates, fences, lagoons (aka, moats), multiple towers to view your surroundings, fruit and veggie orchards, chickens, cows, lambs, donkeys, and beach and ocean along one side. If the ZA were to hit and you ended up here, you'd probably be so mega excited about the apocalypse that you'd be hi-fiving everyone about it, cuz aside from the whole keeping the undead hordes who wanna eat your flesh away from you thing, life would be pretty amazingly awesome. 

Just so you can get a lay of the land that is gonna save our asses. Study this and save a copy so you can help me set up our camp.

As an added zombie-free compound bonus, the lagoons and ocean in this place are deadly or something, cuz you have to sign a waiver saying that if you get into them and die, it's your own damn fault cuz you're an idiot and they told you not to. So that whole thing in that one zombie movie where the zombies were walking along the ocean floor like "la de da de da da I'm aqua zombie and I don't have a care in the world besides eatin' me up some brains?" It wouldn't work in my zombiepocalypse paradise. Nope. The ocean is too open and rough and they'd just keep on getting undertowed back out into oblivion. And the lagoons have crocodiles and I'm pretty sure piranha and miscellaneous unidentified aqua monsters, cuz you aren't allowed to swim in there either. Zombiepocalypse paradise: Win.

And by the way...I was telling The Hub's parents about how we were planning all the ways that this resort could be used in the zombie apocalypse and The Hub said "And by 'we were planning all the ways' she means that she was incessantly talking on and on about it while I was just nodding my head the way I usually do when she's on one of those tangents."

So he's probably not gonna be invited to keep his brains un-eaten and his bod tan.

One morning The Hub wanted us to go on a lovely kayak trip around the lagoon, which I hesitantly agreed to. In Hawaii I flew over volcanoes and ocean on what was basically a tricycle with wings. In Belize I jumped off of a boat way out in the ocean into water full of sharks and stingrays. And on previous trips to Mexico I've zip lined off the side of cliffs and let a murderous monkey sit on my shoulder before attempting to pull my hair out by the roots. But this lagoon/kayak/crocodile situation had me all kinds of twisted up. It started out ok. The Hub was doing all the paddle work and I was chillin'. But then he decided to leave the open water and head into the reeds. In case you aren't rockin' the ocean swampy lingo like I am, the reeds are where the crocodile gangs hang out and wait to make you their bitch. It's like human gangs and their dark alleyways. But instead of switchblades and snapping and singing about being a Jet, they just knock your wussy boat over and eat your ass. When the hyperventilating started, The Hub took my back to shore, and even though I gave him a recap of the documentary about Gustave The Killer Crocodile that I saw on the National Geographic Channel, Mr. Bravey Pants continued the death journey on his own, while I went to lay on the beach, drink a margarita, and plan out how I was gonna buy this entire property offa the life insurance money I was about to get.

Well, miraculously, The Hub survived. That dude is one lucky bastard. I'm assuming that his survival is only due to the fact that the crocs could see that I wasn't with him and they didn't give 2 craps about getting all murdery up on him without me there as the main course. And since I willingly got outta the boat, I saved The Hub's life. 

You're welcome, Hub.

This place was an eco resort and had no electricity and was like fancy camping. They lit torches and candles at night, which came early and because of some New Moon situation. No, Twihard freaks. Not the movie about sparkly vampires. Everyone knows that mexico doesn't have vampires, they have chupacabras. DUH! I'm talking about the actual moon. There was absolutely no moon while we were there. You know what happens when there is no lights and no moon? It gets dark. Really, really dark. And it gets dark early, like 6 PM. And dinner is at 8. On the other side of the lagoon. Which you go across in a rowboat. In the pitch black night. While crocodiles lie in wait for you to fall out on the return trip after dinner and mucho margaritas and beers. And THAT, my friends, is the only thing that kept me sober on this trip. The thought of marinating myself in alcohol only to become a tasty treat for an alcoholic croc. And it was really really hard, cuz there was an employee there named Diego who made THE MOST AMAZING margaritas that we had ever tasted. We re-named it The Diegorita, and he needs to bottle it and become a bazillionaire, buy the resort, and let me stay for free.

One of the missions of this resort/wildlife sanctuary, is to protect sea turtles. I had my fingers crossed for days that some turtle eggs would hatch while I was there so that I could release them. For years I've seen photos and videos of people doing this, and ever since I was a little girl I have loved turtles and I was that freak who will get out of a car to carry a wayward turtle across the road, so the idea of getting to release new babies to the sea was making me a happy camper. One day at lunch the manager found me to let me know that they had a few hundred turtles that were ready to roll and that they would be on the beach that afternoon if I wanted to participate. Oh. Hells. Yeah. 

The Hub and I stayed on the beach all day, and I was impatiently waiting for them to show up with the turtles. Finally, they came and brought these:

Little baby turtle wants a hi-five

I really wanted to do this right, so for once I took things seriously and listened to the directions and rules and did everything exactly as I was told. Umm...yeah. I freaking know. That is totally messed up. But I was all about being the best turtle releaser EVER. They made a line in the sand and we had to let the turtles go behind the line so that they could find their own way to the water, so the location would imprint on them and they could come back in 12 years to lay their own eggs in the same place. MAGICAL, right? I was as happy as I'd ever been. I felt like I was a part of something amazing, and watching these adorable little turtles make their way to the water was making me super excited and smiley. 

Run, Forrest, Run!

I felt like I should write a children's book. What a beautiful story this could be! The turtles are saved from the egg stealing a-holes by wonderful research scientists dedicated to their survival, then after they are hatched they're set free by me! Mom-Brain: Freer of Turtles! Then they go on to live happy lives in the ocean and raise families of their own, each one naming their first born after me.

Then it happened.

Once most of the turtles had made their way to the ocean, the other people lost interest and wandered off to drink their wine, which pissed me off because (a) our turtle mission was incomplete, and (b) who drinks wine on the beach? It's beer and Diegorita's, people. I mean, seriously. But Mom-Brain: Freer of Turtles was still there, and I wasn't leaving until I was sure that each and every turtle had made it off the beach. Then, just as it looked like things were clearing out, I looked down the beach and saw something. At first I couldn't figure out what it was, but then I realized that it was turtles that had made it into the water, then were washed back onto shore farther down. And then I saw something else. Something much bigger than the turtles. Lots of somethings much bigger than the turtles. I started to walk down there and as I got closer I realized that they were crabs. Giant, asshole, douchebag, bastard-face crabs. And they were taking my turtles! So I ran down there and shooed those mofos away from my babies and then I saw it: Holes in the sand with little turtle butts and legs sticking out. The crab bastards were eating my babies! Head first! I was horrified, but there was nothing I could do. I am not trained in emergency turtle trauma, although if you ask me, if you're gonna run this kinda operation then you should have a MASH unit set up for this kind of catastrophe. Or you should warn your turtle releasers beforehand that after witnessing something amazingly beautiful, they will most-likely witness a mass murder and be scarred for life. I stayed on the beach to guard the turtles and cuss out the crabs until the last turtle made it into the water. That night I had nightmares about those crabs, and for the remainder of my trip, every time I saw one I told him what a piece of shit he was. I totally get why people eat them. Personally, I think they taste gross, but I might start eating them anyways just to show them who's boss. And every time I crack one open I'll say "This is for the turtle babies, muthafucka."

Basically, I'm gonna scratch that whole idea of the children's story about the turtles. Unless you wanna read your kids a bedtime story about a cute little turtle getting his brains eaten by a f@ckface crab. If you do, I'll call Random House. I'm sure they'll give me a deal faster than you can say "years and years of therapy".

It's interesting that one of my first thoughts when I saw this resort was "This is the perfect Fortress to protect us from brain-eating dead people," and one of my last experiences there was watching giant (zombie?) crabs eat baby turtle brains. Ah, Universe...thou art a hilarious a-hole.

At least I got to see this little cutie pie and since I didn't witness her getting her head eaten off, she made me forget my trauma just a little bit:

Ain't no way in hell I'm taking my eyes off you, lady. I know what you're up to.

And then I got to surprise buttsecks some scary dolls:

Nothing like giving it to a bunch of paper mache dolls to make you forget about turtle murder. Remember those words of advice. They could come in handy some day. Or not. Probably totally not. 

Me and The Hub. With Diegorita smiles.

P.S. When The Hub showed a tv slideshow of our photos to his parents, he purposely deleted the doll buttsecks one in order to shield them from his inappropriate wife (ahem...losing battle). So in-laws, if you're reading this, THIS is the kinda thing I really do on vacation. Or when I go to Target. Or for a walk. Whenever.

For once I'm glad that The Hub never bought me a finger monkey, cuz if he did, this puppy woulda eaten it by now.

Please hurry and take the damn photo so I can eat these glasses.

I am currently puppy sitting.

Puppy sitting is really a whole lot like babysitting. They lick you, chew on you, there are poop and pee situations, they smell good yet bad all at once, they freak out for no reason, and they make lots of noise. The main differences between the two are the hair (if your baby is as hairy as a puppy then you have genetic issues that might need some looking into), and the fact that you can leave a puppy home alone, but if you leave a baby home alone, it's sorta frowned upon. So thank god this is a puppy and not a baby, cuz I can't possibly stay home all day. No way no how. I cannot be confined to these 4 walls. I have places to go and people to see. This crazy bird has got to fly free. And by the way, I have more than 4 walls. I have, like, eleventy something. Or something. I'm not gonna count them for you guys, because that's math, and math can suck my balls. But I do have more than 4. Who the hell has 4 walls? Even back in the Little House on the Prairie times the Ingalls family had more than 4. They even had a loft. With a ladder. And a pretty sweet ass barn. At least until that jackass Mary burned it down.

Regardless of the fact that I can leave the house sans puppy, I am still feeling a bit tied down. I can close her up in the office when I go out, but I have to be home within a couple of hours before she poops on something, eats something she shouldn't, or logs into my Facebook account and posts mean things about cats or something. Which would be mega clever of her because nobody would be the wiser since I do that too. Smooth, puppy. Smooth. I can also crate her, but then I end up feeling guilty. Like I'm some a-hole puppy veal farmer or something.

The Puppy eats everything. It makes me feel like I have a toddler in the house again, because when The Boy was a toddler, HE ate everything. You couldn't turn your back for a second or he'd be chowing down on a throw rug or a table leg. Every single photo we have of him from birth to age 4, his entire shirt is covered in drool because of the chewing of all of the things. In 5 days time, The Puppy has already been caught eating 3 of my shoes, my expensive neck thingy from Relax the Back, multiple dryer sheets and tissues, a pencil, her leash, dried up leaves, mulch, a baseboard (she removed it from the wall and ate it on my bedroom floor), and Soft Blue Esquire. Yes. My blankie. And I think I have PTSD now after witnessing that whole situation. I'm still having flashbacks and waking up in a cold sweat, clutching onto Soft Blue like Rose clutched onto Jack until her selfish ass fell asleep and he died.

Dear Rose,

If I can fight a vicious canine to save the life of my blankie, you can sure as heck keep your privileged ass awake and share your floating door with the dude who saved your life.

xoxo
Patti

And to tell you the truth, I'm still in shock that The Puppy survived after eating one of The Boy's socks. I shudder at the thought of what kinda funk his socks -THE SOCKS HE WORE IN GYM CLASS- have embedded in them. If she doesn't either die or turn into some kind of mega comic book superhero dog after eating that business, I will be in shock. Forget about radioactive spider bites and accidents at nuclear power plants. We're talking about tubes of absorbent cotton that were on an 11-year-old boy's disgusting feet all day.

The Boy covered in slobber and the remnants of a pile of dirt he ate.

The Cat has about had it too. I know I talk about what an ass pain our feline is, but that girl is chill. Sure, she talks a lot. But so do I. She is like the kitty cat version of me, combined with the kitty cat version of Hyde from That 70's Show. Whatever will be will be. She's easy going as hell. Ya know how I go to my Pattitopia when something unpleasant is happening around me? She goes to her Catitopia. Her eyes glaze over and you can see her leaving her body to go run free in a field of catnip and Fancy Feast Tuna Feast. In the past few days, The Cat has been cowabunga jumped on, knocked over, chewed on, pushed off of furniture, licked, tripped, barked at, and nearly butt raped. The Cat will honestly put up with anything. But last night she had finally had her fill and she was possessed by a kitty demon. Her ears laid back, she growled, and she went total badass Mohammed Ali on The Puppy's face. It was like an interspecies Fight Club and she was Tyler Durden and The Puppy was some drunk ass hobo she found in the alley. I had hoped that the repeated face punching would at least make some impact on The Puppy, but since The Cat has no claws I guess it just wasn't a memorable ass whooping. This morning she was pissing The Cat off yet again, and I am thisclose to duct taping some toothpicks onto The Cat's paws so she can kick some butt.

For a tiny little ball of fluff, this animal also barks a lot. She's like a little cloud floating around the house with thunder sounds coming out of it. And she'll bark outta nowhere at absolutely nothing. She can be in a totally comatose state, when suddenly something invisible pisses her off. Like an a-holey Casper the Ghost who hates dogs. Or a ghost cat, or something. And as you guys know, I scare easily, and I scare a lot. And there is absolutely zero way of preparing oneself for a peacefully sleeping dog to suddenly jump 5 feet in the air and bark so loud that the sound waves actually force urine out of your own pee hole. Zombies I can be on alert for. They make those dumb ass moaning noises and shuffle their feet. Burglars? Yes. They pick locks and break glass and set off alarms. But that outta nowhere, erratic, canine insanity? There is no preparation for that. All you can do is get used to the screaming and pooping of your pants 10 times a day. Sometimes she does actually bark at real things. And by "real" I mean things that I can see but are in no way threats to her or anyone else. Yesterday she stood by our pool and barked at a ball that was floating in the water for approximately 2 hours. Then when she came inside, she barked at The Boy's backpack for 30 minutes. Then last night she decided that the Halloween candy bowl was her arch enemy, and barked and growled at that for awhile. I had to put it in the closet in between doorbell rings. I was about to go all Elaine Bennis on her ass and re-locate her furry butt, but that takes energy. And planning. And driving. And I am far too lazy for all of those things.

And just so you guys don't think I'm an animal hating a-hole, ya gotta remember one thing: I am nothing if not a sucker. After writing all this stuff about The Puppy, she came up and starting barking at me, like she KNEW I was talking shit about her. And I picked her up and starting talking to her in an embarrassingly pathetic baby talk voice. I said "You're soooo fluffy and cuddly and snuggly and I would totally eat you but you're so furry that if I ate you it would clog up my throat and I'd have to drink a case of beer just to push all the fur down and then I'd be drunk and I'd vomit all the fur back up and it would be the worlds biggest beeriest hairball ever, so I am not going to eat you, but you are soooo fluffy!"

That's honestly exactly what I said.
I know. I have issues.

And just now The Dog finished drinking her water and then walked out of the room carrying the empty bowl, sat it down on the hall rug, picked up some mulch that she carried in from the yard earlier, put them in the bowl, then picked up the bowl again and took it to the living room. There is definitely a variety of odd noises coming from that direction, but I'm kinda at the point where I don't even want details. Every time I enter a room there is a new surprise waiting for me. And not the balloons and 4 foot, million dollar check kinda surprise. It's more like the Jerry Springer paternity test "You are not the father" kind. The discoveries are never, ever good. But let's face it, even if I did get a giant check and balloons, she'd eat them before I got to them. And that's a disappointment that I just can't take. I'd rather watch a dog poop out a baseboard than a pile of paper bits that used to be a million bucks.