A Love/Hate Letter
Friday, April 2, 2010
This post has a lot do with puke, so if you're eating or perhaps just not in the mood today to hear about bodily fluids, you might want to look elsewhere. Just a warning. 

This week that rancid monster who goes by the alias of the stomach bug visited my house. It began with my littlest girl and then tapped me on the shoulder in the middle of the night. 

And as I lay there, my shivering body decimated from its wracking torture, my only comfort found in the coolness of my bathroom stone floor, this one thought went swirling around my brain: We can fool ourselves all we want to, the endless truth is always there, surrounding us, whispering in our ears and it goes like this—we are not in charge. It is in the moments when sickness takes up rent in our being, creating helpless creatures out of us all. It is in the power that sustains all women as they bring life into the world. It is there when no sobering thought can suppress bubbling laughter. It is there when love enters without our knowing. It is there when life ends. 

We are never in charge. 

These last few days were my little spot check reminder of that lesson and a prayer to the heavens above for the Grace of God's love on this Good Friday and His healing hands that swept over me, releasing me from the bonds of that curse. 

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. Hallelujah, thank you Lord for bringing me back to the light.

Now before that little episode of fun, this week one of my moronic twins brandished her wretchedness again, reminding me why I will always remember 09 as The Year Of Living Dangerously. Here's the letter I wrote to Sophie, my curly doofus of a puppy after another episode of, "I Didn't Think It Could Get Any Worse."

Dear Sophie, 

I'm really happy you've finally learned to jump up. I know you're still a baby at 4 months old, but the thing is you're a humongonoid 4-month-old baby. 

I know your daily car rides are the highlight of your doggie day. At least, I think it beats rolling around in poop. But, who am I to say. I, for one, find dog-poop-rolling vile, so maybe I'm not the person to judge what dogs like best. 

I do know you love it when I roll down the windows. I spy you and your sister's floppy heads, (heads with clearly very small brains) in the rearview mirror, sitting in the back, lifting your noses up to the breeze as if all the treasures of the universe can be found in that air. The wind ruffles those crazy mop-head hairs of yours and it makes me smile. 

The resemblance between you and Brenda Vaccaro is amazing. 

Perhaps, it's why you like chewed up tampons so much. There might just be a little bit of the Brenda in you. I mean since she was a spokeswoman for Playtex Tampons. I am not saying in any way that Brenda Vaccaro chews up used tampons. You know, for the record. 

I like having you in the car. It's a heck of a lot easier than dragging you and your lame-ass sister-twin up the back staircase, a journey that seems endless as you plant your paws and hold steadfast with all your might while I grunt and heave and drag your dumbass up the stairs. I know you realize what's waiting for you at the end of that long dragging battle. I know you don't like your crate and honestly, I don't like pushing you into your cage and locking that steel door as your whine starts out softly, turning into a plaintive howl by the time I turn to leave. And since hauling your enormous dead weight puppy body up the stairs is as vigorous as hopping on the elliptical for an hour or two, I get the same effect in sweat. By the time I make it to my car, heaving, clothes askew, my eyes stinging from the droplets of perspiration, my mascara, raccoon circles under my eyes—all of my work to look effortless has gone to hell. So yes, I like it better when you are able to come along. 

But since you are a baby, I know the leap up and down from my SUV seems very high indeed. Your sister is getting the hang of it, but you hang back and just look at me through your curly mop that threatens to drown out your face, with your trusting brown eyes just waiting for me to pick you up and put you safely in your place. But, the thing is, you're already 45 pounds and 45 pounds is a lot of baby to haul around and up and down day after day.

So, the other night when we were having a leisurely glass of wine with our friend, casually talking there in the kitchen, I was so happy to see you out of the corner of my eye, hop on the couch. Yayyy! I said to myself, Sophie is getting the hang of things. I went back to the conversation, content that perhaps we are a step closer to easy. You seemed so proud of yourself over there on my nice couch, that I left you to your pride and let you sit there on my nice couch, my very nice couch. 

Your daddy, Sophie, is not a man of drama. He leaves all the dramatic doings to me. He is calm, cool and a perfect contrast to my fiery temper and melodramatic fervor that runs both hot and cold. 

So, it made my blood run cold when he ambled over to the couch and I heard him exclaim, "OH, DEAR GOD!" And then make a sound akin to retching.

I hurried over, fearing the worst because I have been to Hell with puppies and I never want to go there again and when I looked, I realized there was nothing to fear . . . it was more like abject horror. 

Sophie, can you answer me this one question? 

Why? Why, after all these months of me picking you up and putting you down, straining my back as you grow bigger by the moment—your girth now, the size of a small pony, why did you choose to jump for the very first time on my very nice couch and then proceed to vomit everywhere? 

Do you hate me that much? Are you and your sister having a contest to see who can break me first?

And this was not vomit in any sense of the word. This was ungodly. This was voluminous, never-ending, torrential rivers of brown, vile-smelling stomach content. A puppy should not be able to hold that much grossness in their baby tummy. And of course, you didn't have to just throw up the usual chewed up pieces of flip-flop, cotton tampon threads and chunks of dog poo on my couch. You had to throw up a semi-masticated dead animal . . . with feathers, vomit. 

Your vomit spread across my couch in disgusting piles of chunk and bile. It ran down the sides of the couch, in between the cushions, under the cushions, absorbing its stank into the very upholstery where my family reclines and puts their heads on a nightly basis. I even had to dig vomit out of the stitching. The stitching, Sophie.

It took us hours to clean it up, using two rolls of paper towels and my turbo charged shop vac to get every bit of that vomit. The couch still smells funky as does the carpets, the floors, all the towels that my Dung Beetles leave in heaps and every piece of clothing that they throw on the floor. My house smells like Animal Kingdom, Sophie, because of you, you and your stupid, stupid sister. I spend my days sniffing and spraying and scrubbing. I smell dog urine in my sleep. 

Sophie, this madness has got to end. I don't want to turn my blog into a Marley and Me story. That's already been done. 

Although, if your imbecillic tendencies were apt to make me a bestselling author which then morphs into a blockbuster movie starring Jennifer Aniston, (Well maybe not Jennifer. She's too one dimensional. Let's say Zooey Deschanel. I love her!), I'd be all, tear my house to pieces Bitches! Here's the super-sized box of Playtex! Have at it, my friends!

But, really I don't need blog material that badly, not at the expense of my house which is beginning to smell like the men's restroom in Grand Central Station. 

It's gotten so bad, Sophie, that I'm praising you girls for the wrong things, I'm so desperate. 

Yesterday, your sister crapped on the brick patio. Crapped right in front of my eyes. I opened the door and out she went. She didn't even bother the hop down to the novelty concept of grass. No. She squatted right in front of me and did her business. 

But she was outside and that's what should matter, right? My hubby happened upon us as I was praising and shouting for joy and petting your small-brained sister. My hubby saw the steaming pile of crap on his brick and me bending over Delilah or as I'm about to rename her, Moronica, exalting her good- girlness and he thought you two stupidos had finally broken me. He did not appreciate praise for crap on bricks. 

So, what I'm trying to say Sophie is whatever else you and Moronica have in store for me, just give it to me all at once, both barrels of dog beastliness. Because, this day-in and day-out of dog hell is giving me more wrinkles and besides putting extra fat on my ass, that my dog friend, is the worst thing you could ever do to me. 

I have one option if this nonsense doesn't stop soon.

And no, HE'S not coming to our house. 

I know you'd love to see HIM up close and personal. Trust me, no one would wag their tail more than me if he showed up at our door. At this point, I'd promise just about anything to lure him in, but I have wrinkles and a tad too much ass and he has pit bulls with bigger problems, so Caesar is out of the question. 

I don't understand why you and Mornonica cannot, in the very least, figure out that potty and poop is for outside on the grass. I'll even take the bricks at this point, instead of everything in my house that sucks in urine and stains. Which is a whole other reason, why I think this is a subversive sabotage game you two have got going on against me. 

My house is full of bare floors. Wood and stone as far as the eye can see. An entrance mat here, a floor runner there, an Asian carpet in the dining room, a throw rug under the couch. But the vast majority of this house is FLOOR, FLOOR, FREAKIN' FLOOR! So, why do the two of you scurry to find a carpet to do your business? And if there's not a carpet, it's, "Hey, look, it's Mom's shoes! Ohhhh, I gotta feelin' a big crap is coming. Say hello to my stinky friend, you glossy heels." 

Anyway, you're close. I'm just warning you, teetering-on-the-edge close. 

Next step:


And I'm not talking about the beautiful people of Dogtown who took in Michael Vick's dogs and rehabilitated all those poor, scarred souls into real doggies. No. They're too nice there. 

I'm talking this Dogtown. 

That's right. From the looks of her dancing, she'll be out of a job very soon and I think she could break you two in a matter of minutes. 

Have you seen her potty training techniques?

Scary, indeed. 

Now, I don't watch Dancing With The Stars, but I do know this: A good majority of those dancing couples end up mamboing offscreen, too. Well, maybe with the exception of Cloris Leachman, but she's pretty crazy, so, one never knows. They practice dancing together for stretches of constant, intense days and the beauty and evocativeness of those dances seduces a good many of those couples. How could it not? When you are hip to hip, doing the Rumba for 8 hours a day. It does something to a person. 

But, not Kate's partner. 

Evidently, he is one of the nicest dancers on the show. Evidently, he is a kind and patient teacher and a good man. 

He quit on Kate. Took his microphone off and walked away from that shrew . . . until I'm sure the producers reminded him of his obligations and the family he has at home depending on his quick and nimble feet.

Even the Forbidden Dance couldn't keep a man from running from that ogress.  

I'm cutting out her picture and next time you poop on the rug, jump up on a couch and vomit or stick your nose in the trash looking for some tampon gum, I will flash this image in front of your face and hiss, "You wanna go there? Let's call up Jon and see what he has to say about how bad she can break a soul, hmm?"

Ball's in your court. Think about it. 


Your weary, almost broken mom.

Today's Definite Download: The resplendent, beautiful Bob Marley and his "No Woman, No Cry." The world lost big time, the day Bob's voice and continual cry for justice left this earth. 

When I hear this song, there are two other people in this world who understand and smile the same smile of memories with me. My Hubby, his other brother/partner and I were once upon a time, young and wild and we thought we owned the world. 

And sometimes we did.

There was a little reggae bar in college town and it was our kingdom. A Jamaican man named Rupert Blaze sang the songs of his homeland with sweet soul. And that hole in the wall was packed to the brim every night with young ones just like us, finding contentment in the easy sway of reggae. 

Oh, we had some times there. We were such established folk that it was quite common for Rupert to stop  the show to greet us by name over the mike as we walked through the door. We swayed to Rubert's dreamy beats and drank our vodka out of paper cups and man, some of the most insane, riotous times of our lives were there in that bar. I'll never forget my reggae days.

But, for today, Bob's anthem for political opression becomes my bolstering cry as I shoulder on in this Dog Hell. Help me through Bob. Hang on though, I've got to get the dog crap spray.

No woman, no cry
No woman, no cry
Oh my Little sister, don't she'd no tears
No woman, no cry

My feet is my only carriage
So I've got to push on through
But while I'm gone...

Everything's gonna be alright
Ev'rything's gonna be alright
Ev'rything's gonna be alright
Ev'rything's gonna be alright
Ev'rything's gonna be alright
Ev'rything's gonna be alright
Ev'rything's gonna be alright
Ev'rything's gonna be alright

No woman, no cry
No, no woman, no woman, no cry
Oh, little sister, don't she'd no tears
No woman, no cry


Dee said...

Wow. You pretty much summed up my life here with Woodrow. LOL I feel for you,. girl. Boy, do I~

Anonymous said...

Now there's a great threat. Stupie and Moronica! Hang in there Joann, one day they'll grow out of it? I don't know, I have cats. I expect them to vomit in my shoes.

LisaPie said...

I think the trouble is that those dogs were born into the lap of luxury and don't know that their lives could be oh so much worse!

Why isn't their mother teaching them these things? Aren't dogs supposed to learn from their betters about where to poop and where NOT to? Blame their mother.

I have two 13 year old dogs who have always been very well mannered and have decided in their dotage to start pissing any old place they want. They are quickly ruining two spots of hardwood floors in two different rooms. They are driving me around the bend very quickly.

Maybe I will run into you and other haggard dog mom's at the top of that bend?

Remember, this too shall pass. And pour yourself a glass of wine tonight. I will do the same and we can drink a toast to each other at sundown. : )

LisaPie said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Paula said...

You and your husband are saints! I love animals, and so does my husband, but I'm afraid he would've turned these two into matching table lamps by now!!

Unknown said...

Damn dogs and the vile contents of their stomachs. Tampons, poop, and feathered creatures? Definitely time to call in the Dog Whisperer. FO REALZ.

Time to pour yourself a drink. It's past 6 p.m. where I am....

Lula Lola said...

What is the poop rolling about? I never have that urge!
My lab takes the cushions off of our porch funiture and drags them into the yard EVERY SINGLE morning. Why?
The resemblence between Sophie and Brenda Vaccaro is staggering! Love it!

Christine Macdonald said...

Wow! You are so talented!

I love your humor and wit. Sorry you had a rough week and I hope you are feeling better. Love the letter and Brenda comparison!


Anonymous said...

Had to read this in two sittings! have been there but only with one Marley-like dog. Have developed affection for cats, actually. Love Bob Marley. Popular song around our house is 3 little birds. And yes, every little thing is gonna be alright. Right Moronica? I know you hear me. Don't pretend you can't. Kate is as close to phone call and probably soon looking for a new job.

Bossy Betty said...

Well, I think you are feeling better! At least I hope so! OH, that face on that dog!!! Oh come on. I think I am in love!

Kate G. scares me very much.

I loved this post!

Anonymous said...
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Gigi said...

Hilarious post :)

ProudSister said...

Glad you're feeling better. I'm so regretting not taking one of those puppies when I was offered one. To think I could have a vomit-scented couch myself, I'm so jealous. I just have regular toddler pee smell sometimes, dog pee would be a step up. I keep hoping its like potty-training a child, one day that light will just flick on & they'll get it. Good luck with all the fluids until then!

MrsBlogAlot said...

You are brilliant. I haven't had Brenda V in my head for about..oh..I dunno...thirty years or so? You kill me. Yeah, everything's gonna be alright. But it would be better if there were an over the counter Kate repellent spray.

Rae said...

I am amazed at your beautiful (but motherly stern) letter to your dog. I feel so inadequate now.
All I ever say to my dog is "Do you need to pee-pee poo-poo?" and "Fetch".
Lovin your ABC's!

Anonymous said...

Our dogs specifically run TO the carpet to vomit! God forbid they do it on the old kitchen floor!

I have a post coming out about Jack and his awesomeness. My badass german shepherd is afraid of wind and will not go outside this week! How lovely is that?!

furygirl3132 said...

What a great post, you are very talented! I am a new follower from FFF at the Mom Bloggers Club, I am so glad to have found your blog and definitely look forward to reading more! Have a wonderful Wednesday!


Show Me Mama said...

I enjoyed reading your post. I am your new follower as well from MBC.

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