Guess Who's Not Coming to Dinner?

I would like to know why my husband, who simply could NOT wake up to the sound of crying babies, or a fire alarm (when I almost burned the house down boiling LICE combs), shoots out of bed at the earliest "glug glug" of a dog about to vomit. Then he engages in the quick and fruitless boxer-clad, skinny-legged dance of trying to shove a towel under the dog's mouth in the hopes of catching projectile vomit. Priorities, people, priorities.

I got to ponder this a lot this week because I failed on my job of keeping tabs on the dog this week. It's bitter cold out. We don't have a fenced in yard, which no one else in the family considers a problem. I put her out hoping she'd pee quickly while I sipped tea in the kitchen. Unfortunately, I forgot about her, and when she dragged her bloated-bellied self back into the house 45 minutes later she had found a vat of grease to consume. Because apparently some of our neighbors are running an Arby's out of their carport or something.

You may wonder how I know about the grease, but it became abundantly clear the first 8 times she threw up in the next 3 hours. As I cleaned and cursed, I marveled at how a dog could sense that our beloved but long-neglected cleaning lady had come back, for the first time in two months, that very morning. I had planned on basking in the joy of new-found cleanliness for another month or two, or at least until I could scrape up enough money for her to come back. By the time the first night of vomiting was over, Miss Carmen's clean house was no longer. I took daytime vomit duty, and Tom took the night shift.

Not to be outdone by Shadow the Retching Dog, a member of the local rodent population, driven indoors by the chilling breeze, decide to traipse through our kitchen junk drawer that very night. I'm not sure if he was too happy to find the rulers, lip gloss, safety pins, birthday party prizes and cell phone chargers, but hopefully the Juicy Fruit gum fortified him somewhat. Constant crapping must use up a lot of calories.

Two days later, the dog got into OUR trash, which was also my fault, although the neighbor boy who let her out by leaving our door open (in January!) seems somewhat culpable. This latest round of vomit yielded a 3 1/2 inch plastic needle. We are somewhat grateful she survived.

So while I'd like to say I've been crafting and decorating and generally making the world a more aesthetically pleasing place, I've been cleaning up mouse poop and vomit and watching a lot of late night tv.

And I'm guessing you won't be knocking on the door of Chez See anytime soon for a dinner invite.

Fashion Photo Shoot, Take 563

So I was thinking about starting to post photos of some thrift store outfits and get feedback from readers.

I'd be all: "brown boots-- $7.50, sweater-- $4.00, Ann Taylor Loft jeans-- 6.00, Bracelet-- 50 cents" and you'd be all: "Looks great! Don't feel bad that you spend $28.00 on jeans for your nine year old daughter but buy used clothes for yourself. You're looking f-i-n-e."

But I couldn't quite master the whole "taking a picture into a mirror thing," so I asked my 11 year old if he could pry himself from the computer for 5 seconds to take a picture. Whine. Complain. Huff. Puff.

He took this pretty much from Siberia, so if you want to get out a magnifying glass you can see my outfit. Fortunately the distance also shrinks the laundry piled up on the couch.


Then I decided to try what every woman aged 7 and up is doing these days-- and tuck my boots into my jeans.

My jeans aren't "skinny jeans" and the boots have an unconventional zipper situation, so this was harder than it might seem. To gain leverage, I had the audacity to sit on the couch.

THIS did not sit well with Shadow the Dog. Notice the glowing red eyes of the Devil's Spawn:

You see it was 4:18 and she eats dinner at 5. If I dare sit down between the hours of 4 and 5, she torments me by climbing on me and barking until I feed her. Yes, this is the dog we got instead of having a 3rd child. Waah.

So as I tried to shove my boot-cut jeans INSIDE the boot, I had a stinky fish-breath dog all up in my business.

My son, The Reluctant Photographer, suddenly got the undeniable urge to document:

While she may look semi-innocent standing on the floor in the rest of these photos, please KNOW that when my son pressed the button on the camera for each picture, the dog was on my lap. By the time the pictures took, I had shoved her ungently to the floor. BTW, who put my mother's hands in these pictures? Tail wagging. Happy to torment:

Looks can be deceiving:
Going in for the next lunge:

Get out of my crotch! How long does it take to put on a stinking boot?
This smile is fake. I am not amused.
Losing my will to go on. Does the dog look guilty?

I have an idea. Maybe if I just drink my tea she'll go away.
Fat chance. OUT! I AM SO SICK OF THIS DOG!

GO!

FINE! I give up. I will never sit down again. You win. Why don't you just eat yourself into a vomitous stupor?!

Here's the final pic, with one boot on and blurry.

Not that you can see the boot anyway. Sheesh.


Oh what we endure for the sake of fashion.

Well, Gag Me With a Candy Cane

In the event that typical dog barf has lost its allure for you, I have a solution.

Leave 125 plastic-wrapped candy canes (intended for the homeless shelter) on the kitchen counter when you go to work. Come home to a naughty dog and 8 piles of barf spread thoughtfully throughout your home.

I can assure you that peppermint-scented dog barf is more tolerable than standard grade.