Potty Humor

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.


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:


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:


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


Untitled-1 copy

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

Our Christmas Miracle

Besides a healthy baby on the way and Mack and Pete’s ever growing tolerance for each other, our family had even more to be thankful for this past Christmas season.

A few weeks ago, Hubs and I decided Mack was ripe enough to toss his ass in the tub and give an old, pissed off bulldog something more to complain about. Mackie got a double shampooing, full-on brush treatment in the bathtub and a detailed wash between his toes, which he absolutely despises. He was good and pissed off by the time the bath was over.

Hubs and I split the bathing of the bulldogs in half, Hubs half being bigger than mine, of course. While Hubs lifts the dogs in and out of the tub, wrestles the bulldogs in the tub and washes them, I chase them around the bathroom and towel dry them the best I can.

Towel drying the bulldogs is a wrestling match all on its own. Mack usually takes a few laps around the bathroom to walk off the aggravation the bath causes. I’m toweling him off the whole way but it’s all I can do not to jump on his back and ride him like a bull.

I went to dry off Mack’s head, neck and ears. Knowing that I had just a few seconds of Mack holding still for me, I quickly and aggressively toweled off his head and ears, Mack fighting back by thrashing his head all around inside the towel. After a few minutes, I finally got Mack dried off enough to set him free, Mack making a bee line for our fuzzy area rug in front of the fire.

After a half an hour or so, we noticed Mack’s right side ear was puffed up. Like, REALLY swollen. His ear flap is normally about an eighth of an inch thick. Now it was an inch thick.

My knee jerk diagnoses was allergies, but Hubs was already on his iPhone Googling away. His diagnoses was spot on: Aural Hematoma.

Mack’s ear flap was bleeding internally, all from my asshole toweling methods. Even worse, every website and thread from dog owners said that aural hematomas were only corrected by surgery, since the bleeding only continues to the point where the ear basically explodes. A visual of Mack shaking his head off in pain, spraying blood in every crevice of our house played out in my head.

I felt awful. Not only did I injure my poor, fat ol’ puppy Mack, now it’s looking like I will have to hand over my Christmas bonus to a vet for the 2nd year in a row (see https://houseoffarts.wordpress.com/2014/01/10/why-i-havent-posted-in-a-few-weeks/  )

Even worse, a 13-year old geriatric bulldog will now have to go under for surgery, which is quite risky.

Distraught, we took Mack to the vet, where they confirmed that he would probably end up on the operating table but the doctor wanted to give it the good college try before doing so, given Mack’s dinosaur age status.

Mack’s ear was drained, then flipped over to flatten it against his head. A bandage was tightly wrapped around his head to keep the ear compressed, hoping the ear would start to heal on its own. The doctor again warned us that this would be a long shot and promised to get a quote for the surgery over to us right away.

Babushka Mack mourns for your soul.

Babushka Mack mourns for your soul.

We were told to remove the bandage in 5 days. After Day 4, Mack decided he’d had enough and removed it himself. One moment Mack was just sitting there, sporting his head wrap, not giving a fuck.

Mack, not givin' a fuck

Mack, not givin’ a fuck

The next, Mack was wearing nothing but a flesh-colored infinity scarf and a shit-eating grin:

This isn't the actual picture, but that shit-eating grin is pretty much the same.

This isn’t the actual picture, but that shit-eating grin is pretty much the same.

And his ear, was back to its inflammed state. Shit.

The next day, we brought Mack back to the vet. The doctor wanted to try draining his ear again, but this time taping it down to prevent a certain, crafty old bulldog from removing it. They also put him on a regimen of Prednisone to hopefully speed up the healing process. Which, by the way they had to run up bloodwork for. And which we found out, that Mack’s heart and kidney function are FUCKING OUTSTANDING for his advanced age. So that was our shred of good news.

5 more days went by of Mack, trying his damnedest to take his bandage off. Hubs and I started calling him Babushka Mack, made Yakov Smirnoff jokes and sarcastically asked Mack what he missed about the old country. Mack was not enthused.

Do not ill speak of Mother Russia.

Do not ill speak of Mother Russia.

Hell, Peterbilt even felt sympathy for his dickhead dad and even gave Mackie a lick on the face. It was awkward for all parties involved.

After 5 days, we brought Mack to the vet where they took him in back to remove the tape.

After 20 minutes or so, Mack came running full speed at us, away from the vet techinician……his ear back to normal appearance.

The doctor warned us to keep Mack from flapping his ears around, possibly undoing the healing, for the next 2-3 days.

And I am pleased to tell you that that was 2 weeks ago and Mackie is 100% healed! Hooray! No surgery!

We managed to skirt a risky and most likely painful dog surgery for our Christmas present and that gift beats the PANTS off of anything else we could have asked for. Including those As-Seen-On-TV Glow Candles I got. Thanks, Mom.

Because one minute you may want a red candle and the next, you may really want it to be blue.

Because one minute you may want a red candle and the next, you may really want it to be blue.

Categories: Being Married, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Pets, Potty Humor | 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.


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.


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…”


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.


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



-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:


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

Categories: Babies, Being Married, Bulldogs, Farts, Funny, Pets, Potty Humor, Pregnancy | 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.


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”


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.


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.


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.


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)


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.


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

Nursing Home Humor

Life has taught me to roll with the punches and I’ve gotten really good at it lately. I’ve also always had a knack for making humor out of just about any situation. Combine those with my appreciation for dark humor and you’ve got one sick, twisted puppy.

Case in point:

So the other day after work, I decided I would visit my dad at the nursing home. The home is just two exits up from my job and figured I’d be in and out before they started serving dinner. I admit, going there isn’t my favorite thing to do; I’ve been super busy lately, the place smells, there’s this one guy who follows me around and they keep that place heated up hotter than a sauna. Plus, it’s getting harder and harder to converse with my dad.

That day, however, it must have been a full moon because that place was more alive than I’d ever seen it.

I arrived to the second floor and was immediately greeted by that same old, stale urine smell that has been impermeated into the walls and floors. I smiled and nodded to the nurses and looked around for my dad.

The residents were abuzz and wandering around like the undead, which was unusual since most spend their hours moaning and eating brains in their respective rooms. The staff was putting on a late snack in the lunch room for the residents and they were blaring some preschoolish, nursery rhyme-type songs from a boom box. I found my dad in his room. His face lit up when he saw me and asked to go for a walk. He then repeated his ritual of introducing me to every nurse on the 2nd floor. “This is my daughter, Sarah! This is my daughter! She is a…uh…(and then he asks what my job title is again and I tell him)…She’s Director of Sales & Marketing! She’s the apple of my eye!”. It’s sweet. The nurses and I play along every time and pretend like we are meeting each other for the first time.

Dad decided he wanted to sit in two chairs that faced the nurses station. I ran through my usual list of easy to answer questions that i ask him that would be unlikely to send him into an emotional bad place:

1.) “How have you been”

2.) “Anything good on TV?”

3.) “Have you been doing any of the activities at all?”

4.) “What did you eat for lunch today?”

Straining to converse, the music in the background changed tracks to “BINGO” and one of the older, female residents in a wheelchair started yelling “Halp! Halp! My legs don’t work!” This piqued the interest of my dad and he shuffled over to the lady in distress. I followed.

He stood in front of her and stared at her with a confused expression on his face. “Halp!” she screeched. “There’s something wrong with my legs! I can’t feel my legs!!”

Her atrophied legs gave away that she had been unable to walk for some time. The nearby nurses looked at me with a tired expression which told me that this must be her catchphrase. Many of the residents there say the same thing over and over. One lady’s catchphrase is “Abba bah! Abba bah!”. I call her Abby.

“Halp me!” the lady repeated. In flight or fight, my dad has always chosen the former in precarious situations. This hasn’t changed. He looked to his left and then his right and quietly tiptoed away in front of the the woman, and the entire lunchroom of people. That seemed like a good idea to me so I followed.

We walked back up to the two chairs, but now there was a commotion at the nurses station. My dad’s “nemisis”, a 90-year old man named John, had snuck behind the station to call his dad (!!!!) sporting nothing but his diapers. The nurses were trying to get him to put the phone down, but he insisted that his father was trying to reach him and proceeded to ask me if I knew his dad’s phone number. My dad saw what was happening and mumbled something hateful under breath. Pretty sure he called John a “low-life scum bag”. This is getting interesting!

The next track on the boom box changed from BINGO to “She’ll Be Coming Around The Mountain”. Halp Lady, realizing she’s being ignorned, increases the frequencies of her distress calls. The funny part was though, and I don’t think she meant to, is that her “Halps!” are now in time with the music. So now it sounds like this:

“She’ll be coming around the mountain, when she comes!” HALP!

“She’ll be coming around the mountain, when she comes!” HALP!

“She’ll be coming around the HALP, she’ll be coming around the mountain, she’ll be coming around the mountain, when she comes!” HALP!

I faked coughed and covered my mouth to hide my obvious grin. It was all I could do not to laugh at that point and I didn’t want the nurses thinking I’m some sadistic bitch. One male nurse caught my eye and for a second, we shared the same humor. I saw a glimmer of a smile, which with great effort, he quashed.

Back to my dad, who was now glaring at John while the nurses escorted him back to his room. Another gentlemen in a wheelchair paddled up to my dad, obviously concealing something in his shirt.

“I-I have a plan,” he said to my dad. i-I know how to escape from here. I-I know a place to go to.” Holy Shawshank. This is getting REALLY interesting!

However, my dad thinks this guy is talking about John.

“Oh you mean John?” said my dad. “He’s a low life son of a bitch. I told that woman to get the hell away from him.”

The wheelchair man continued. “Don’t tell anybody about this, but I stole this map” and he pulled the concealed brochure out from under his shirt. It was the same nursing home brochure that they gave me when I registered dad there, only his was all rolled up and dog eared.

Dad took the brochure, looked at it briefly, and then continued to tell his imagined tale of 90-year old John, trying to sweet talk one of the female nurses into running away with him, but my dad knew better and told that nurse to stay away from him. Because he’s a low life son of a bitch.

Oh my. Where’s my popcorn? This is too rich.

The wheelchair man, frustrated at my Dad’s lack of hearing, paddled away and tried his escape plan pitch on another man around the corner.

At this point, my dad is getting really worried about dinner so I gave him a hug, told him I loved him and that I had a good time visiting with him today. And I did! What a story that was painted! We had a damsel in distress, a sweet-talking womanizer who still loves his dad and our very own, in house Andy Dufresne.

I walked out to my car with an amused grin and very glad to be back in cold, fresh air.



Categories: Funny, Old People, parkinson's disease, Potty Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Celebrating Birthdays After You’re Married

Special occasions can take on a different tone after you’ve known your partner for very long time.

When you first meet somebody, you spend a lot of time and energy making sure that their birthdays are well celebrated and the Christmas presents are well thought out. Then the novelty wears off and you become more comfortable in your relationship. You’re no longer trying to impress each other because each of you knows who the other is. Gifts go from extravagant to practical, or sometimes non existent. Slippers for Christmas? I can say I’m genuinely happy that I got slippers for Christmas. “Thanks, Hun. I could really use a pair of slippers. No, really. Peterbilt ate my last pair.” Ironically, Peterbilt gets better birthday celebrations than we do:


Case in point: my husband’s birthday was Thursday. Our health insurance policy recently changed from affordable and reasonable to “Kinda Not Really” coverage (by Medica). We had just learned we were on the ball for the entire bill from last month’s ER visit for Hubs. A miniscule piece of metal got stuck his eye after welding and he had to go in and have it removed, which in the ER, takes like eight doctors to do.

So with the surprise bill absorbing a great deal of our spending cash, it was up to me to make my husband’s birthday enjoyable while still being affordable. So, I took stock of all the food items that we had our house and I sent him an email the morning of his birthday:

Re: Best birthday $3 dollars can buy!

I have developed a few options to help celebrate your birthday tonight with a $3 spending cap. Your Berfday packages are as follows:

Package #1: Little Flitaly

A taste of Florida and Italy, wrapped up into one delicious yet oddly paired meal!

Dinner: Spaghetti (ground beef and hot Italian sausage) with Garlic Bread.
Desert: Key Lime Pie with whipped cream.
Entertainment: Mack will serenade over dinner us with his shrieking from the other room.
Red Box Movie: Old Boy

Package #2: The Denali

An Exquisite dining experience.

Dinner: Those buffalo wings that have been in the chest freezer like FOREVER , with fries. Or Mac n Cheese. Or both. Hell, it is your birthday.
Desert: Klondike bar with a candle in it.
Entertainment: Peter will will perform a skit where he ferociously humps his dog bed because he hasn’t had a walk today.
Red Box Movie: Runner Runner

Package #3: Windy City

Pack some heat because this dinner’s so good, you might be murdered for it.

Dinner: Brats and/or hot dogs. We have all of the fixin’s to make a killer Chi-town dawg! Mac-n-cheese for a side.
Desert: I’ll make brownies. Not sure what that has to do with Chicago, I just haven’t had a brownie in a while.
Entertainment: I’ll play happy birthday for you with my armpit.
Red Box Movie: Dallas Buyers Club


And do you know what option he picked?

Number 1. And he loved the dinner & dessert. Even more so than the brand-new coffee thermos I gave him for his birthday (again with the practicality). I forgot to pick up the Redbox movie, but he didn’t care. To make up for it, I tried to play Happy Birthday for him on my armpit but Mack upstaged me by farting loudly. As we ran for cover to the bedroom, laughing and then hiding as we heard Mack coming for us, Hubs whispered that he could not think of a better way to turn 36. Sarcastic? Probably. But I know there was some truth to it.

Welcome to Mundane.

Welcome to Mundane.

Categories: Being Married, Dogs, Farts, Potty Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

-18 and Life, You Got It

Hmm, that title probably gives away my age.

Welcome to Minnesota! Winter hellhole of the US! This is our 3rd “Polar Vortex” this winter, as ‘they’ call it, and the thermometer reads -18 degrees this morning. Polar Vortex. Don’t you just love media coined terminology? I’m so happy there’s a medium out there that can break hard and scary things down like winter cold into palatable little bits that the layman can digest.

Hubs finds an icicle

Hubs finds an icicle

You’re probably thinking, “Jesus, Sarah. Take a vacation already”. And I’m trying. It’s just been an especially hard winter with having to put a very angry dad in a nursing home and having to deal with a mother that is unable and unwilling to run a household on her own. That, combined with the bitter cold, has made Mama bulldog plow through her Christmas wine in a record 10 days.

OK, OK. I promise not to make this post about me teetering on the dark edge of self control. I can talk still talk about funny and gross things and I’ll save my parent’s drama for another post. So here it goes:

Peterbilt’s knee surgery was on 1/10/14 and it just so happened that God decided to bless us with 20 degree weather that day. Peterbilt did just fine in surgery as we expected. However, soon after, we found out we dodged a bullet we didn’t even know about.

I called the doctor the day of surgery to check in on Peterbilt. She said he was doing fine and was still groggy, but vomited as a side effect of the morphine. Not that the vomiting was unusual, it was just what he threw up that was. She said Peterbilt upchucked what appeared to be part of a red, rubber ball.

Red ball…….red ball. We didn’t have any red balls around our house. Just two blue ones-BADUMCHING! Sorry, Hubs. On many levels…….

I told the doctor that I could not explain how such an entity ended up in Peter’s stomach but that he has always been prone to eating some pretty weird shit. But either way, the doctor said we should be so glad he threw it up, or otherwise we would have had to pay for a stomach extraction surgery as well. Okay then!

“But that’s not all”, said the Doc. “We also noticed a hot spot underneath his neck that we didn’t see on him yesterday in his pre-op appointment.”

“A Hot Spot? I didn’t notice a hot spot”, I said.

“Well sometimes a new food or treat and cause a sudden breakout.”


That was my bad. In my own guilt about subjecting Peterbilt to yet another surgery, I bought him a fancy bully stick and let him eat it the night before surgery. Way to meddle, Mom.

The doctor gave us some topical spray to take care of that. Which sounds easier than pills, but is not. Which, to fast forward to today, resulted in us having to repeatedly chase down an injured bulldog to spray his shaved neck with a cold fluid, as he tried to hobble away.

“That’s still not all”, said Dr. Emptyyourwallet.

She began to tell us of her report on our “special” request. That morning when we dropped Peterbilt off, we had informed the doctor of Peterbilt’s “mass ass-juicing”(see 12/12/13 post G.T.E https://houseoffarts.wordpress.com/2013/12/12/g-t-e/ ) and to have her check his bum out while he was under. Basically, his anal glands were perpetually dripping with butt soup, all over the place, for reasons unknown. It was getting so bad that everywhere he sat he left a big, sloppy smooch………with his ass.

It’s things like these that prepare us to be parents, I suppose.

The doctor told me that she pretty much got a money shot in the face after just poking at one. She proceeded with the rest of the expressing (god bless, her) but was still unsure as of why there was so much fluid being produced. She Googled. She determined that Peterbilt’s diet of commercial raw meat was not giving his body enough fiber, which was in turn causing his ass to do some strange things. She recommended that we put him on a specialty diet. She informed me that because of his large size, the diet would be “astronomical” for us. $180 a month.


I thanked her for her research and offered to “revisit” that once we hit the lottery.

So, since then, Peterbilt has been doing just fine. The first few days he was pretty subdued, coming off of the sedatives. Then he was back to his old tricks again. He’s managed to jump up on our bed (a big no-no) a dozen times or so because we forgot to shut the bedroom door.



Last Sunday, he also scared the shit out of my husband on Sunday when he bulldozed past me to run outside and jumped in the back of truck. Thank God this dog is all out of ACL’s to tear.

We probably let him roam the house a lot than he should, but due to the cold, we can’t exactly take him for walks outside. His range of motion with his leg is pretty good considering surgery was less than 2 weeks ago. Mack has shown signs of jealously with all of the attention on Peterbilt, but shove a treat in his face and all is forgotten. We are trying to figure out other diets for Peterbilt to try that won’t cost $180 a month and we may have some possibilities. The ass-juicing has ceased for the moment. There are even talks of buying a new area rug for the living room. Things are looking up.

By the way, we found out what that red ball was.

My husband took Peterbilt to a friends house sometime in November. His friend has a Cavalier King Charles dog and Peter did his usual “raid of the other dog’s toys”. Peter ate the top off of a red, little dog Kong and that top tier had been simmering around in Pete’s tummy for upwards of 2 months. No signs of anything lodged in his digestive track from Pete. No vomiting, no lethargy. This dog never ceases to amaze us. And this is why mommy drinks.

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

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