Funny

The Elmo on the Shelf

A baby, two jealous bulldogs and an annoying Sesame Street character. It sounds like the beginning of some really lame joke, but it’s actually our very own, brand new Christmas tradition called The Elmo on the Shelf.

Like The Elf on the Shelf, Elmo on the Shelf is also a thing that sits on a shelf of some sort. Except our tradition started after Christmas, is not at all magical and you only move it when the bulldogs find it.

So, we just celebrated our first Christmas as parents with our 10-month old daughter.  She was elated to find a small Elmo in with her Christmas presents, her favorite Sesame Street character. Elmo immediately became her favorite Christmas toy out of the bunch. Christmas was all about her hugging him, burying her face in his and doing that nails-on-the-chalkboard shrieking thing she does when she’s happy.

You know who else was excited about that little red Elmo? Mack.

At 14 years old, Mackie has a touch of the Doggie Dementia, which means his behavior is starting to revert back to a puppy-like stage. Which also means that Mack is not above stealing a prize Christmas toy away from an unsuspecting infant, for the sole purpose of ripping Elmo’s little head right off, purely for sport.

While Hubs and I were preparing a Christmas dinner for my mother (who was not at all thrilled at having someone else host Christmas for the first time in 25 years) I was also busy trying to gently wrestle Elmo (don’t want to tear it!) out of Mackie’s mouth. I tried coaxing Mack with treats, blowing in his face, flicking his nose, trying to pry open his jaws, all while hearing the tiny threads of Elmo’s legs pop one by one. Eventually he dropped it once it became a team effort of Hubs and I sticking our fingers in his mouth and screaming obscenities at him (all the while my oblivious mother was clamoring on about what time we should eat dinner next Christmas at her house, a year from now).

After that scenario replayed itself a few more times, Elmo got a Christmas bath in the washing machine, Mack was separated from the baby toys and I cracked open a new bottle of wine.

The next day or so we paid extra attention to make sure that Mack didn’t get a hold of Elmo, coming close several times. Just when it seemed that Mack had given up on Elmo, here comes Peterbilt trotting into the family room with Elmo in his mouth, ready to curl up in front of the fireplace to disembowel that poor, now slightly tattered, red muppet.

And that is how Elmo on the Shelf was born.

Elmo’s been sitting above our fireplace now for the last 48 hours. Fortunately for our daughter, she’s young enough where once something is out of sight, it’s out of mind as well. Not so much for the bulldogs, who have been looking woefully at our fireplace. Until we figure out how to keep those cold, calculating, murderous bulldogs from torturing a baby toy, Elmo is going into witness protection as an Elf on a Shelf.

 

 

Categories: Babies, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Farts, Funny, Old People, Pets | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Love Triangle

OK, not a triangle exactly. Maybe a square. Or a pentagon. But either way, shit is going down in a polygon kind of way.

The addition of a baby to our family has been the equivalent of taking an ant farm and shaking the living shit out of it. With schedules, restful sleep, meal times (and blogging times) disrupted, we didn’t know which way was up. Now, 9 months later, the little ants of the family have picked up the pieces and finally have some normalcy again. However, the pecking order has changed.

The pattern has been emerging over the last few weeks. It goes something like this: Me <- Peterbilt <-Peanut <-Mack <- Hubs.

blogpic1Nov2015_edited-1

Actually, that diagram is only representative of us on our best days. Or best day. Meaning that one Wednesday a month ago where we were a well-oiled machine for like 2 hours. Most days it’s just me leading a farty, 4-legged parade throughout the house while I cook and clean and Hubs is over there somewhere on his iPhone:

blogpic2Nov2015_edited-1

Okay. So maybe it’s a shape. More like a line segment. Or a bulldog-baby conga line. Either way, this is how it works. Starting from the bottom:

Mack loves Baby Peanut: Mack doesn’t move around much. He’s old. However, that dog can still bust a move for a tiny, single baby puff, stuck to the ass of a crawling infant.

Mmm mmm. Ass-puffs.

Ever since Mack rearranged our kitchen table and chair set over a small noodle, carelessly tossed by a crabby infant from her high chair, Mack has been banned from the kitchen during Peanut’s feeding times. Now, the highlight of Mack’s day is tracking that squirrely little girl down after meal times and giving her a good ol’ thorough lick down, eating those stuck-on pieces of food straight off of her fanny. And they way that kid smears food all over herself, it’s like a tiny, mobile butt buffet cruising through our house, just ASKING to be nibbled. At least, that’s how Mack put it. At first, Peanut found these bulldog cleaning sessions delightful and hilarious but now in their frequency, they’re annoying and intrusive. The minute that high chair tray comes off, Mack comes barreling out of nowhere like some young and spry 10 year old bulldog. And the unwanted licking advances ensue.

Peanut loves Peterbilt: Babies always want what they can’t have. Mack is the dog that is always available for her to climb, pull his ears and touch his paws, when he’s not forcefully licking her face. Peterbilt, on the other hand, doesn’t put up with ANY of that baby grabass shit and tends to keep his distance from the baby. And that makes Peter all the more enticing to a curious 9-month old.

While Mack spends his non-eating hours laying around, Peterbilt is still young enough to have daily bursts of energy. Much like cats getting ‘the zips’ once a day, Peter does funny things like races through the house on hardwood floors, bumps into furniture, spins, twirls, leaps and shakes his toys….much to Peanut’s delight. She squeals with excitement if he actually stops to acknowledge and sniff her. She watches in admiration as Peter does his best Whip-Nae-Nae (I’ve seen it. It sucks).

Peanut is the only living thing on this planet who thinks Peterbilt is cool and most of her time is spent trying to get on Peter’s good side.

Peterbilt loves me: Meanwhile, Peterbilt spends his time trying to get on my good side.

A year ago, Peter was the type of dog that tolerated my hugs and kisses at best. He’d grunt with annoyance if I tried to snuggle with him. Now that his ‘mom’ is a mom to another, more high-maintenance member of the family, Peter has changed his tune. He’s now constanly on my heals; stealing kisses, hugs, snuggles and nuzzles from me while I’m down on the floor with the baby. He’s also been getting in the habit of laying ON me on those rare occasions I get to lay on the couch. That’s 91 lbs on top of 112 lbs. He’s not exactly a dachshund.

Most recently, he’s taken to licking and being nice to Peanut, just for the praise and kisses he receives from me in response.

And I love….uh…: Mostly I just look at the clock to see if I can start drinking wine.

So here’s an example of how this works: I was playing with Peanut in our family room one evening, before dinner. I opened my arms, knelt down and called Peanut over. Peanut smiled, squeaked and started to crawl over but before she could get to me, Peterbilt walked into my open arms and turned his ass towards my face for a butt-scratch.

Peanut, seeing Peterbilt in my arms, races over.

Mack then follows that tiny, graham cracker flavored cherub.

So it ends up looking like this:

comictiles1

So, as you can imagine, household chores get kind of …..crowded:

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That’s right. Multiple bodies packed into a 8 square foot area. Everyone with their smells. I found myself relishing my commute to work as it’s the only time of day I’m was myself.

Then one day the in-laws decided to babysit Peanut overnight. Ready for a break, I had her packed up and ready in record time. They came and left. Now was time for a celebration! Kid free adult time!

Hubs and I went out for dinner early and came home. I was leisurely putting away laundry (yes, even baby-free time is still full of chores) and I noticed how eerily quiet it is. Just one link of the chain was missing and everything was different. Peterbilt, no longer competing for attention, was sleeping on the couch. Mack, with no baby butts to lick, was sleeping on the area rug. I was by myself. And although the peace and quiet was nice, it was also rather boring.

It made me count my blessings. Although I’m always followed by a crowd of knee-high animals, I am needed and loved. And with Mack’s limited time left on earth, I now try and take snapshots with my mind so years from now, I can remember clearly when the time when it was just me, my husband, my baby girl and my two crazy bulldogs in our Minnesota home. I may feel pulled in all directions at once now, but one day, I know I’ll give anything just to relive one of these hectic, fart-filled days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Categories: Babies, Being Married, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Farts, Funny, Pets, Potty Humor | 4 Comments

“You’re Killing Me, Smalls.”

It still amazes me that such a tiny demon human can wreak so much havoc.

7 months old. The “golden age” of babyhood, so they say. Baby’s developing sense of humor, curiosity and inquisitive nature are in full force and boy is it a fun time. Except when it wasn’t, recently.

Peanut was (still is) such a good baby. Good sleeper (kind of), cute, happy and healthy. Always eager to try the next step, I started her on solids at 5 months old. Baby sweet potatoes. Baby carrots. Baby peaches. All met with a gooey, smiling face smeared with food. ‘What a good eater!’, I thought to myself.

And then it came to a screeching halt when she turned 6 months old. I started having a real time trying to feed her dinner. I’d get home. She’d start to fuss, I’d whip out her favorite, pureed carrots, slap a bib her and BOOM!….ready to go, right? Yeah no.

Her cute little nose turned up at the sight of carrots, meal time soon became a horrible shit show of screaming, tears, a messy child and mom cracking open the wine a bit too early.

“What IS this kid’s beef?”, I asked myself. “This kid is hungry but she’s not eating. I must be doing something wrong.”

“Probably!”, said Hubs with a grin, the smart assery not being withheld.

So I had Hubs try to feed her, thinking maybe she just hated my face.

Nope. Apparently she hates his face, too.

Golden age my ass.

For weeks we struggled with dinner and during the weekends, all meals throughout the day. I’d get 2 spoonfuls in of food in and the crying would begin. I’d have to resort to force feeding her during her loudest, open-mouthed wails. Meals typically went like this:

Me: “Okay, peanut! We’ve got some carrots tonight! You like carrots, right??”

Peanut: (staring back, suspiciously.)

Me: (getting about 3 spoonfuls in)

Peanut: (turning her head and starting to fuss, closed mouthed)

Me: “Oh, c’mon. You’ve barely started. C’mon! Say ‘ah’!”

Peanut (continuing to fuss)

Me: (getting a spoonful in when she opens her mouth to moan)

Peanut: “Pbbbbpbbb!” (yeah, that’s her razzing, spraying the food out back at me)

Me: “C’mon! Say ‘ah’! ‘Ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah ah!”

Peanut: (starts to dance to the beat)

Me: (eating her carrots)

Peanut: (starts playing with her hands)

Mack Truck: *fart*

Me: “You’re killing me, Smalls.'” (and I start to make her scrambled eggs for the 3rd night in a row)

The shittiest part? She’d eat for everyone else in the world except me. Daycare lady reported she couldn’t feed her fast enough during the day. Grandma said she eats just fine for her. Hell, I’m pretty sure that shifty homeless character that roams our neighborhood and remarks at how good of a watch dog Peterbilt must be (ha!) would have better luck at feeding her her strained peas. Cigarette in tattooed hand and all.

I felt ashamed. “I’m a joke of a mom!”, I’d say to myself. ‘I might as well get Mama June’s phone number so I can get pointers on how to integrate Mountain Dew into Peanut’s diet.’ As a mother, I’m supposed to be the one to keep her well fed, clean and happy but meal-times were the exact opposite of that. To add salt to the wound, she’d wake up hungry multiple times in the night. So now not only was I Suck-mom, I was a very sleep deprived Suck-mom.

I ran myself silly trying to figure out what was wrong. I tried using different high chairs (nope). Different bibs (still ripped them off). Not using a bib (lol). Finger foods (kid can’t live off of scrambled eggs and baby cheese puffs, despite what Mama June said). Buying a special high chair toy (she chucks it across the kitchen. Now a bulldog toy). Re-positioning her high chair to face a different direction (running out of ideas here).

I even (stupidly) tried introducing meats during this time. DO YOU KNOW WHAT JARRED BABY MEAT SMELLS LIKE? For those of you who don’t have kids, it smells an awful lot like wet cat food. And for those of you who have never owned a dog and a cat at the same time, cat food is like caviar for dogs, the holy grail of all foods. It’s stinky and they’re not supposed to have it, which makes it even more irresistible. All it did for me was create an audience of wide-eyed, drooling bulldogs around me and the high chair while Peanut wailed in frustration. Peterbilt with 6″ drool fangs, trying to lick the air and Mack licking the baby’s feet, probably imagining that they were cat-food flavored Popsicles.

I was about to accept the fact that mealtimes were just going to suck thoroughly until Peanut went off to college.

Last week, on whim, I gave her a taste of pears while preparing her dinner. She opened her mouth for more. And more. And more. And I opened a full container of pears which were inhaled. Once that was done, I had her finish off her carrots from the day before. Done. Cracked open a jar of baby beef. Woofed down. No tears. No crying. In fact, she was doing her little happy little babble noises and performing a primitive form of ‘wax on, wax off’ on her high chair table.

Holy crap. I figured it out! I have to prime the Peanut. Basically, start off each meal with a food she really enjoys (pears, yogurt, etc) and then once her appetite has been whetted, start with the veggies and meats. It’s worked every time since. We even have a baby food vocabulary built up:

Baby opens mouth, eats food, gulps, opens mouth in fast succession = Is good.

Baby casually eats = Meh.

Baby sprays out food at face = Rather not.

Baby spits out food and shudders = Um, yuck?

Added bonus? Her large supper allows her to sleep through the night. And I’ll drink to that.

Cheers. To the next hurdle. *Clink!*

Categories: baby, Being Married, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Farts, Funny, Pets | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Second Fiddle

Having an infant in the house has brought forth a lot of changes. Out of everyone at Casa del Fartos, I’d say that as a mom, I’ve naturally had my world turned upside down more than anyone else. Baby cries? Everyone hands a crying baby to Mom. Baby sick? Mom is the one up with her all night, rocking her. Baby not going to sleep after being rocked for an hour? I’m the one sleeping in the rocking chair with her, as she gleefully whispers “Ahhh! Ahhh!” and plays with my face at 3AM. This is the definition of a sleepover when you’re 5 months old.

My husband and Mack would agree with me: Hubs, because admitting that I have it hardest is still easier than having to get up every night to feed the baby and Mack…..well, it’s not that he agrees, it’s just things really haven’t changed much for him. He laid around the house farting before the baby and continues to lay around the house farting now. “Oh, you had a baby? Right on. (ppppffftt).”

Peterbilt, however, would argue that his quality of life has gone down the shitter now that the baby absorbs our time, energy and attention.

Like most couples, you get a dog because you like dogs, you fully intend to take care of a dog and it’s good training for when you have kids, with all of the poo and vomit and eating of the vomit……wait……

And like most couples, we knew that getting a dog would mean that one day, this dog would take a backseat to future babies and kids. After all, if everyone who bought a dog didn’t have kids in fear of hurting their dog’s feelings, the human race would pretty much be wrapping shit up in a matter of generations. You just expect your dog will adjust to it eventually and just be happy with the larger family. Except that we picked out a Peterbilt, the most emo of all bulldogs.

It tugs at my conscience to see this bored, mopey looking bulldog sulking on our couch because now I only speak to him when I’m whisper-yelling “NO BARKING! BABY IS SLEEPING!” at him, usually followed up by me grumbling his eternal damnation when I hear the baby is awake in her crib.

So my days now go something like this: I get home from work and my husband is already there with Baby Peanut. I walk in the door, both bulldogs come to greet me. Then, Peter tears ass to his basket of toys, usually pulling out a rope to play with, and runs to me to play with him. This has always been this way; something about mom coming home that makes this dog’s heart sing.

I grab onto his toy and we play tug of war and catch a few times. Then Hubs comes at me holding out a wiggly baby, who’s reaching out for me. I drop the dog toy, take the baby, and Peter is left standing there with a look on his face that screams, “God DAMMIT!”

Playtime isn’t the only facet of Peter’s life that has taken a proverbial dump. Even his walks have turned to suck. Although I have now mastered walking with a baby stroller and a 90 lb clown on four legs, Peterbilt really wants to walk on wooded paths and terrain that isn’t easily navigable with a stroller. So he’s left to just doing that same old boring walk around the block at a snail’s pace with me and the stroller.

At home, when I’m on the floor trying to entertain an infant with one hand and playing with my iPhone in the other, I will catch Peter out of the corner of my eye, gloomily looking over, wishing he could play with his Mom. After all, I was his Mom first. Stupid baby and her awesome toys.

Meanwhile, baby is really getting good at her army crawl and is so excited to see and touch everything in sight, including the bulldogs. She’s their biggest fan.

Mack conflicted by his love for Peanut and his hate of having his paws touched.

Mack conflicted by his love for Peanut and his hate of having his paws touched.

While Mack is more than willing to let the baby pull at his ears and grab at his face (which I can tell you from experience, is quite painful), Peter will grumble and walk away when the baby touches his face, collapsing into his nearby dog bed with a heavy sigh.

Going through my pictures the other day, I was surprised at the amount of Peterbilt photobombs. For a dog who used to just HATE it when I took pictures of him, he now photobombs baby pictures in an attempt to get any kind of attention. “Look at me, everybody! I’m that cute, precocious bulldog with all of the health problems, remember? I eat left shoes? What did I get into now, right?!?!” Poor guy.

See the baby legs in the background?

See the baby legs in the background?

The following night, after two glasses of wine, I sat outside in a lawn chair despairing over Peterbilt’s quality of life. “What happens if he never grows to like Peanut? What about when we have more kids and even less time on our hands? Will we ever be able to provide this dog with the proper exercise, love and attention that he needs? Is this just temporary? God, I’m such a dick.” I walked over to Peterbilt, laying on his dog bed and gave him a hug. He grunted.

The next morning, the in-laws showed up to take our Peanut and spend a day doting on her with grandparenty love at their house. When I came home from work that afternoon, I was the first one home, for once. I fed the bulldogs, let them out and soon after Hubs showed up.

In laws texted me apologizing that they were going to be an hour late dropping Peanut off. I replied “DON’T APOLOGIZE.” Do you have any idea how much stuff I got done??!?! Do you know how hard it is to vacuum your house when you have a baby? There’s never a good time for that when the baby’s around.

Once they did arrive, they brought in Peanut in in her car seat, dropped her off in our kitchen, waved goodbye and took off right away. Peterbilt ran right over to Peanut, slobbered her face with kisses and ran to his toy basket to get that same rope. There he went, running all over the house, leaping and spinning. He ran to me with the rope in his mouth, stopped and went into a play bow.

“Well, shit.” I thought. So it wasn’t me coming home that made him happy after all. What made him happy was the pack being complete and totally accounted for. Peanut was the last member to arrive home and now that everyone was here, it was time to celebrate and play.

I did Peterbilt one better and took him outside in the backyard to play frisbee until he collapsed in exhaustion the cool, green grass. That is all any dog wants: to be exhausted.

I learned that even though Peterbilt still isn’t crazy about the change in our family dynamics, he still loves lil’ Peanut. It’s going to take some extra work (and caffeine) on my end to make sure Peter gets his time everyday. Hopefully, Peanut and Peterbilt will grow to be good friends.

 

Categories: Babies, Bulldogs, Dogs, Farts, Funny, Pets | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

Double Trouble

2014 has been the year of change at House of Farts.

Ladies and gentlemen, after 4 long and work-intensive years, Mack and Peterbilt have decided to bury the hatchet and have agreed to coexist (somewhat) peacefully on the same level/room/area of the house. That’s right, no more keeping the bulldogs separated within the house.

This was decided recently by Mack. The older and more deaf Mack gets (and the more visibly pregnant I get) Mack is finding it harder and harder to leave my side. “Ok, Ok, I concede”, Mack told me one afternoon about 2 months ago. “I’ll acknowledge Peterbilt as my son. Now let’s all lay on the area rug and lick our paws.”

Peterbilt, less than enthused about now having to split our attention with his dickhead dad, agreed to treat his dad’s now constant presence with respect.

Yay! Right?? We can have a normal-ish family again! Eh, Yes and no. As much as we are happy to have everyone get along, having 170 lbs of bulldog to deal with versus 85 lbs at a time, is a lot of work!

Over the last several weeks, Hubs and I have noticed that there are as many PROS as CONS to our new living situation.

PRO:

1.) Less Shrieking.

Having both dogs in the kitchen as I make dinner is a lot quieter than having Peterbilt in the kitchen and Mack in the finished basement, shrieking with every pang of his broken heart at his exclusion. Now both bulldogs can stand by my feet and hold their breath as I chop carrots, hoping to God that one slips off the counter and falls to the floor.

CON:

1.) Higher fart content

Having both bulldogs in close proximity means more fart air to regular air, in parts per million. Tonight, we will be serving Dijon Chicken and baby carrots with hint of fart. Just dab some Vicks under your nose, dear, It’ll be alright.

 

"We heard there were carrots..."

“We heard there were carrots…”

PRO:

2.) Bigger fan base.

Now instead of one bulldog totally devoted to following me and watching my every move, I have two. The bulldogs totally give my location away every time, no matter where I am in the house. Are the bulldogs totally quiet? That means they’re laying with me on the bed sleeping. Do you hear thunderous noises? That’s the bulldogs following (trampling) me as i go downstairs to put in another load of laundry? Two bulldogs glumly laying outside the shut bathroom door? Well, you know I’m doing then. Painting my nails. Because ladies don’t poop.

CON:

If I don’t close the bathroom door all of the way, it means now two heads are poking inside to check on me instead of just one. I get very little privacy.

The good old days of only only bulldog head.

The good old days of only only bulldog head.

 

They’ve already figured out that they have Hubs and I evenly matched with a 2:2 ratio and have used this to their advantage already, using teamwork to knock a bag of dog treats off the table and to take out a 40 lb bag of kibble, even sharing the spoils. And our bedroom has been converted into “Bulldog HQ”. They’ve taken over that room as their area of choice for gnawing on their bones, Kongs and other toys. We kick twice as many dog possessions of our of bed now and It is almost guaranteed I will stub my toe on a half-chewed up antler on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

 

We love it and are daunted by it at the same time. With the new workload, it makes me wonder how we will ever fit in time to take care of a newborn, but I guess that will all work itself out somehow.

 

In the meantime, Hubs and I thank God that he’s given us what we’ve asked for, for so long: a loving, little bulldog family. At least, that’s what we try to repeat in our heads while cleaning up 40 lbs of kibble and drool off of the floor.

Categories: Babies, Being Married, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Farts, Funny, Pets, Potty Humor, Pregnancy | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

And Baby Makes……5?

Yes, it’s true! We are expecting our first child! We are due right around Valentine’s Day, Feb 13 to exact and we couldn’t be more thrilled.

Pregnancy has been treating me well and isn’t nearly as scary or weird as I thought it would be.

It’s funny how this pregnancy has altered our household already, even though I’m just now starting to show. The Hubs is racing to get all of his race cars up and running before the end of the year. Without my consent, my brain has switched into full-on nesting mode and can only comprehend words and notions as they pertain to the baby.

For example, when my husband talks about spraying weed-killer on the lawn, my response is “Make sure I’m not around because I can’t be exposed to those chemicals with the baby.”

Or when the conversation shifts to ordering custom seat covers for the backseat of our Jeep, my reply is “Make sure they also allow hook-ups for a baby car seat for the baby.”

Sounds normal enough, right?

It gets more obscure. When Hubs talks about:

-The weather

-Apples

-Snowglobes

-The conflict in Israel

he gets:

-“The weather is going to very cold when the baby is born.”

-“Babies can’t eat apples, Stupid.”

-“Fake snow is toxic to babies.”

-“………..I’m sorry, what? I was thinking about paint colors for the baby’s room.”

This mindset was funny at first, but is now taking a toll on my husband, who is perpetually taking off his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Even the dogs have been stepping it up a bit. And by stepping it up, I mean Mack has put on about 3 lbs in sympathy weight and Peterbilt has resorted back to peeing in house, after a nice 4 month break. See? Everybody is chipping in to make sure the house is baby-ready.

Plus, everybody in the house has benefited greatly from my recent subsequent sobriety. As someone who regularly walked the line between wine-lover and high-functioning alcoholic, I’m actually surprised at how easy it was to give up drinking. Mack’s relief is palpable now that 9:30 PM surprise dress-ups have ceased to exist

Mack is ready for his date!

Mack is ready for his date!

and Peterbilt has enjoyed the decrease in humiliating, Pinot Grigio-induced iPhone pictures. The Hubs is happy that he just doesn’t have worry about stepping on any verbal land-minds past 9PM, or about walking into our bedroom and finding me half-sloshed and crying, watching Ice Age 3 on Netflix.

And finally, although I’ve managed to escape fatigue and nausea for the most part, I have experienced some of the classic early pregnancy symptoms, so I though it would be only appropriate that I update my banner drawing, now that I am a major contributor:

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More fart-filled pregnancy stories to come! Stay tuned!

Categories: Babies, Being Married, Bulldogs, Farts, Funny, Pets, Potty Humor, Pregnancy | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

Mack’s Staycation

It may seem that Mack has it real easy, but if you ask him, he’d say that he gets just as burnt out as you or me. I mean c’mon….you sleep 8 hours, get up, woof down your food, shit, climb back up onto your couch and sleep 8 more hours, get up again, woof down your food, shit, shriek for an hour or two, chew on a toy, grumble through a walk around the block and climb back up onto your couch and sleep for 8 hours.

Modern Bulldog Life. It’s stressful.

Mack appreciates an occasional escape from the daily rigors of being a dead-beat father to Peterbilt. And one of his favorite places to stay is at my in-laws house.

As soon as the last mound of snow melted, my in-laws showed up on our doorstep, just in from Arizona, ready to spend the next 6 months in their Minnesota home. Within minutes of their arrival, they had already asked to dog-sit Mackie for a few days. Here’s how that conversation went:

In-Laws: “Hey guys! Good to see you! Long time no see!’

Us: “Good to see you guys, too! How was–”

-and then they rush over to Mack to say hi.

So on Sunday, my husband dropped Mackie off at his parents (or Mack’s grandparents) house so Mack could chill with them for a few days. As always, Mack could care less about you when you turn to leave. The minute he’s at his grandparent’s house, you’re now chopped liver. Not even so much as a good-bye glance when you head out the door. He’s already on to bigger and better things.

I like to think that to Mack, going to his grandparents house is a lot like a taking a weekend trip to a beach or some other relaxing place. I like to think that if there were ever a travel a brochure about staying at my in-laws that would be intended for a target audience of old, crotchety bulldogs, it would like a little like this. Enjoy:

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After a few days, I decided that the in-laws were probably tired of being endlessly berated by a 4-legged creature.

Even though Mack loves his grandma and grandpa, Mack was sure happy to see me yesterday when I came to pick him up.

I’ve never received such a welcome. From the dog who’s typical first reaction to when I come home for the day is to shoot me a look and walk off in the opposite direction, I got the full 5-star treatment. Full-on nub-wagging, twirling, marching of the paws. Ears pinned and everything.The grandparents had to restrain him every time I went out to the Jeep to load up his stuff. By the time I was ready to load Mack up, he was running at full speed towards me, which is something that Mack reserves for only special occasions.

“Get me out of here!! These people never sleep! They’re always home!!!”, Mack seemed to say.

Oh, did I forget to mention that my in-laws have more energy, more plans and have bigger social circles that we do?

I suspect Mack had his fill of constant company, bright, sun-filled rooms and not being allowed on any couches, whatsoever. Because what kind of shit is that?!?!

Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you got, til it’s gone?

Mack may shriek when left by himself in his downstairs apartment, but that room also comes with his very own, scrubby-ass couch that he gets to lounge around on.

He may be left alone all day long while we’re at work, but our finished basement is ideal for sleeping: always dark, cool, quiet and comfortable.

Our ice cubes may be inferior, but we are fully stocked with dog treats.

Peterbilt may be totally annoying, but Peterbilt is totally annoying. I got nothing on that one.

Mack, feeling very happy about being at home and very sleep deprived, didn’t hesitate climb onto his ratty old couch and fall asleep when he got home.

sleepy

“Oh, couch. How i’ve missed you”

Categories: Bulldogs, Dogs, Funny, Pets | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

God Made a Peterbilt

God Made A Peterbilt

And one day God was bored and in need of entertainment. As he looked down on his wide eyed children, he spotted a couple named Justin and Sarah. God said to his angels “You guys wanna see something funny?” So God made a Peterbilt.

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God said: “Things are going too well for these two. They haven’t enough hardship in their lives. I need a creature willing to wake up them up at 3 AM because his Kong stuck under a couch, 20140502-140841.jpgpee on their hardwood floors, sleep all day and wake up and bark at the neighbors having a nice quiet dinner in their own house across the street. Then stay up until midnight chewing on the loudest, most annoying squeak toy he can find.” So God made a Peterbilt.

God said:

“I need a being willing to eat Justin and Sarah’s shoes, shit the remnants out days later, then eat said remnants, then vomit those double-digested remnants up on the only patch of carpet in the house. I need a dog who can break wind without a first care or a second thought, right into the faces of his owners as they scratch his rump.

A dog sturdy enough to bulldoze a kitchen table and walk away without a scratch, but flimsy enough to tear his ACL slipping off of an icy curb. Who can make his owners look like dicks when he picks a fight with the loveable Labrador at the dog park, but who runs away frightened from the 10 lb pug. A creature so foul, that no matter how well you shampoo him, or what brand of shampoo you use, or how many dead birds you stop him from rolling in, will still smell like low tide at a south Jersey beach”

So God made a Peterbilt.

God said:

“I need a creature with the strength and ability to pull sleds and find bombs,

yet instead chooses to to hump babies and dig holes in the backyard.

An animal who would give his right testicle to spend all day on his owners’ bed, dragging his filth, vermin and chew toys into the blankets, rolling around, and fall asleep smack dab in the middle of the bed come nightfall”

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So God made a Peterbilt.

Now, God knew that he would have to make this Peterbilt very cute in order for this to continue on.

A dog who could look so sorry and submissive that it would pluck at the heartstrings of this owners. A dog who would use this face to his advantage, time and time again.

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A dog who would occasionally be snuggly, come when he was called, make up funny faces and dances on a whim and who’s hypervigiliant watchdog mindset would pay off from time to time.

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A dog who despite getting his ass beat just about everyday, would wag his nub-tail at the first sign of his owners pulling in the driveway…..and the nub-wag turning into squealing and leaps of joy

when Justin and Sarah say — “let’s go for a ride in the car”.

So God made a Peterbilt.

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Based on the poem “God Made a Dog”, which was based off of the poem, “God Made a Farmer” by Paul Harvey

 

 

 

 

Categories: Bulldogs, Dogs, Funny, Pets, Potty Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Movie Night with Mack

Trying to watch a movie with Mack in our finished basement, aka Mack’s Bachelor Pad, is trying and is usually peppered with unnecessary interruptions in forms of certain smells and noises. The older he has gotten, the longer the list of unreasonable demands that pop up as we are watching a movie. Last night, I hid my empty cup of hot cocoa in a spot I thought would be safe from a nosy Mack Truck, but within 15 seconds, he had found the mug and was lapping up the remnants off the rim. Pausing the movie for the 3rd time was annoying, but it was only Grudge Match so it’s not like we were on the edge of our seats. Actually, having a visual break from watching a very saggy and shirtless Sylvester Stallone and an even saggier Robert Deniro box was a blessing in disguise.

Movie night has become an experience and although we better at dealing with it, sometimes company is not. I like to think that if there were ever an orientation video/audio to “Movie Night with Mack” and if Mack could talk, it would sound a little like this:

——————————————————————————————–

Welcome to movie night with your host, Mack Truck the bulldog! Make yourself at home in his downstairs apartment and help yourself to any of his toys in his toy box. Wait, no, you can’t have that one. Or that one. Or his Wubba. No, definitely not the Wubba. In fact, you know what? Scratch the whole toy box thing. Better yet, as far away from the toy box as you possibly can.

To maximize your Movie Night experience, Mack has come up with a few, simple guidelines. These easy to follow guidelines will be read by your overweight and ornery host, Mack. (Mack’s voice is similar to Billy Bob Thornton’s character in Sling Blade, only more angry than handicapped and with a heavy Texas drawl. The producer’s part will be italicized. Warning: Mack has a potty mouth.)

(tapping of the lavier microphone with a paw)

“Hello? HELLO? Are we live? Yes, Mack. It’s on now. What am I supposed to be doing again? Reading your rules about movie night. C-can I have a treat first? Only after you’re done. Fine, dick. ‘The rules of Movie Night by Mack Truck.'”

“Hello! Welcome to Movie night! I’m Mack Truck the Bulldog and I have prepared a few rules so that Movie Night can be an enjoyable experience for all involved. I’d be happy to answer any questions once I’m done but in the mean time, please shut the fuck up. Mack, remember. If you want people to follow your rules, you have to be nice. I AM being nice! I said “please”!

“Number 1: You can sit an any couch in my apartment except mine. How does that saying go? ‘I don’t swim in your toilet so don’t pee in my pool?’ Yeah. Always wanted to use that phrase. Heh! Mack, I don’t believe that’s the correct way to use that phrase. Oh. Ok….uhhh… how about ‘I don’t shit in your yard so don’t sit on my couch?’ Heh! Oh wait, I do shit in their yards, don’t I?….Let’s move onto number two…….

Heh! Number 2….Oh! You mean the 2nd rule! Ok, Number 2: Any movie that you bring will have to be inspected by me first. Expect random sniffdowns of the DVD case and/or your hands for possible treats. Movies with barking dog sounds are highly encouraged. 

Number 3: Unless you plan to feed me, stay the fuck away from my food bowl. Uhhh….Mack? Let’s keep it polite, remember?

Number 4: During the movie, I will most likely grab a toy and ask for you to play a game of keep away or tug-of-war. YOU MUST ACCEPTANCE MY INVITATION!!!!! Mack, forced play during a movie is not being an accommodating host. SHUT UP! *burp*. Scuse me.

Number 5: The odds of you being crop dusted are high. Accept this and have an evacuation route planned beforehand. I…don’t see that one on my script. Mack, are you making these rules up as you go?

Number 6: You can hide your snacks, but I will always find them. Be prepared to have all foodstuffs confiscated by Officer Mack. Officer Mack? Yeah! Officer Mack looks a lot like me, but he’s not like me, or anything. Officer Mack has a mustache and a badge and confiscates snacks n stuff. Mack, do you don a costume to steal snacks? Uhh.. no? Where did you get a fake mustache and badge anyways?

…………….uhhhhhh….the dumpster behind Party City?

Number 7! You are allowed to watch your movie at a reasonable volume from the hours of 8:00 PM to 9:00 PM and after which you must shut all of the lights and noises so I can go to sleep on my couch. And then get the fuck out. Mack? Most movies are at least 90 minutes long. An hour isn’t a lot of time to watch a movie. Maybe we should adjust that time window? Hell no! My bedtime is approximately 9 PM! It’s my apartment and I can do what I want! Actually, it’s funny you brought that up because it appears you are two months behind on your rent.

Moving on now! If the details of Rule Number 7 are not adhered to, the following will result:

7A: I will sit on my couch and commence mournful whining at 9:00 PM. The whining will increase in volume and pathetic tone for 15 minutes and if the room isn’t completely dark and quiet, Stage 2 will commence. Uhh, Mack?

7B: Stage 2: I will get off of my couch and sit in front of you and whine. This may or may not include barks and nudges with my face. Mack! Stick to the script!

7C: Stage 3: I will glare at you in silence. Stink Eye City! MACK! Are you ignoring me?

7D: Stage 4: Crop dust time! Mack! Ma- (sound of Mack eating microphone)

*burp*

Where was I? Ah, yes. Subsection 1 of 7D! If the distant crop dusting is ignored, I will climb up on the couch and fire toots off at close range!

Number 8: Well, at this point, I’m on the couch and probably on your lap. Yeah. That’s 80 lbs of hot farty blubber parked right on  your balls. Try breathing now, fucker. That’s right. Give up and shut her down. Turn off ALL of the lights please…..Ah…..sleep time.

Well, that about wraps it up here. Questions? Comments? Be sure to call 1-800-Mack-Don’t-Care. Heh heh! I’m so funny and awesome, I’m going to lick my paws.

(mlam mlam mlam, slurp, slurp)

Copyright 2014

 

 

Categories: Bulldogs, Dogs, Farts, Funny, Pets, Potty Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Hangovers and Bulldogs.

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Nowadays, there are two ways that I remember times in my life: before bulldogs and after bulldogs.

Before I had bulldogs, I could go out with friends and get rip roaring drunk, come home, fall into to bed and go to sleep without any issue. I could sleep in as long as I wanted the following the morning and be completely worthless the rest of the day without it impacting anyone else. Granted, before I had bulldogs, I was also a single woman so I also didn’t have a husband to feed and nurse morning after because his hangover was worse than mine.

Now that I have a husband, and two very clingy bulldogs, going out and drinking to excess has consequences I could have never imagined six years ago. The following post chronicles the costs of getting drunk and being hungover “After Bulldogs”:

Saturday night, Da Hubs and I attended a friend’s 30th birthday party in downtown Minneapolis at a piano bar. We consciously made the decision that we were both going to get blitzed and take a cab home because you know what? Let’s pretend we’re turning 30 all over again, too. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Six hours and $200 later, we stumbled into our driveway and tipped the cab driver. Laughing to ourselves in our stupid, drunken pride because we were totally “those drunk people” tonight, we opened the front door to be greeted by a very nervous Peterbilt.

The unfamiliar cab that had pulled up in our driveway had scared the crap out of him. Once he realized it was us, his nub was crazily wagging with an “I’m so glad it’s just you guys” expression on his face. His excitable movements and forced sniffing of our feet and legs (I call this Sniff Rape) made it all the more difficult to take off our shoes and coats without stumbling. It seemed he was telling us about every scary moment of our absence. Peter still can’t say his R’s:

“Oh, you guys it was so scawee while you were gones! At first der was dis noise, wight? And I was all like woofwoofwoof and I did dats at every window! Den der was dis squirrel..”

“OKOKOK!”, I said to Peterbilt. “Take it down a notch and why don’t go outside?”

We let Peterbilt out and checked on Mackie who was sleeping downstairs on his favorite couch. We shut the light off and closed the door.

We let Peterbilt in and we prepared to get ready for bed. I moved Peterbilt and his dog bed into the den and shut the doors. It was about that time that Max started shrieking downstairs.

“Great! Fatass is up”, I said to my husband, who when I turned around wasn’t there. He was already in bed fast asleep. Fucker.

Guess my drunkass will just DO EVERYTHING FROM NOW UNTIL THE END OF TIME!!!!!!

So I let Mack outside, me standing at the back door face palming while he took his sweetass time. I marched Mr. Mack downstairs to put him in the bed, but he just wasn’t having it.

Side note about Mack: you can physically put him in the dog bed, but in the end, Mack is going to tell YOU when HE goes to sleep. If you leave him downstairs before he decided he’s tired enough to go to sleep, the shrieking ensues. Mack tells you he’s tired by jumping up on his couch and by giving you one long and exaggerated yawn.

So Mack taking this opportunity to take out every single toy out of his box and chew on each of them, just to piss me off because I was gone for so long. “Go the fuck to sleep, dog”, I said to Mack.

After about 10 minutes of him stalling and me cradling my dizzy head in my hands, he heaved his hefty body up on his old, ratty couch, gave his trademark yawn and decided it was time.

I walked back upstairs, changed into my pajamas and was sinking into a nice bed-spinny slumber when Peterbilt started whining. And whining. And crying. After 10 minutes I finally said screw it and let him on our bed to go to sleep. Desperate times, desperate measures.

Again, I’m falling asleep and all of a sudden I feel a big thump on the bed and hear the sound of a bulldog chewing on a bone. “Oh HELL no!” I said and took the bone away and set it on my night stand. That was the last thing I remembered before going to sleep.

I woke up Sunday morning with my head pounding and a huge weight on my stomach. I groggily opened my eyes to find Peterbilt staring right back at me, his nub wagging so hard the bed is shaking. His head is on my stomach and his feet are on my husband, to create a sort of fucked up looking letter H. Which probably stands for Hell or Hangover or Holy Shit I Drank Too Much.

I sat up, head pounding more so and looked around which was just enough confirmation for Peterbilt the breakfast was near. He lept off the bed and tore ass across the house to his food bowl. I looked at our bed and somehow during the night, another bone and Peter’s stuffed rabbit had made it onto our bed.

I hadn’t even made it out of bed yet when my husband asked me, “Do you have any coffee made yet?”

“……..You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

And then Mack started shrieking.

Peterbilt is singing for his breakfast in the kitchen.

Husband is groaning and asking for Advil.

Did I mention that MY FUCKING HEAD IS POUNDING?!????

15 minutes later, everyone was taken care of. I sat down at the kitchen table and tried to settle my stomach with coffee. This is about the time that Peterbilt took it upon himself to voice his displeasure at our stagnation. Mack added to the effect by finding Peterbilt ‘s stuffed rabbit squeaky toy and proceeding to chew on it. Every squeak like a hammer in our heads.

I looked over at Hubs and asked, “Anything you want to add while we ‘re at it ?” He farted.

Indeed, times have changed. I guess from now on I should watch my alcohol consumption on Saturday because I’m going to have to go right back to being a bulldog mom and wife on Sunday morning. Funny how not too long ago, I wasn’t even a part of this bulldog family. Now, it would literally fall apart without me. But at least I would’ve been well rested.

Categories: Being Married, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Farts, Funny, Pets, Potty Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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