How To Scotch Tape Your Dog To The Bed

I know I owe you a post about my unexpected in-town vacation. But listen, # 1, I have something else to blog about and # 2, I am so going to disappoint you my story about the ten man shower.

See... it was a shower that could fit ten men in it. At no time did it have ten men in it. Although at one point, me and this guy were in the shower together.

Only, he's gay and I was just showing him how awesome the view was from the bathroom.

Yeah, it's way sadder than you could ever image. I wish I had a better story. I wish I had slipped a Tylenol PM in some cute guy's drink down in the lobby bar and then used a wheel barrel to scoop him up and deposit him in my ten man shower - which by the way, had a built in bench in it because the things that are supposed to go on in the ten man shower - you need resting for...

Yes, I am aware of the orange level of pathetic-ness on this one. Hence, the not writing any more about it.

Here's the real drama.

My dog Cooper, who I have an admitted unnatural attachment bordering on a Maury Povich guest appearance, got really sick while I was gone.

Apparently, before he was dropped off at my friend's house (he could not come to the hotel with me because it's in the downtown area and he is so spoiled he does not poop on concrete), he ate one of my Thyroid pills.

I must have dropped one on the floor.

The signs of Cooper's trouble included, and I hope you are not eating your lunch, explosive diarrhea, throwing up, uncontrollable pooping on expensive couches, foaming at the mouth and hiding under a guest house.

I whisked him off to the vet and was mortified when the blood test came back the next day to say Cooper had eaten one of my pills. It was my fault. I was officially a bad mother. (Though I was so glad I had just given him a bath and cleaned his ears - to me that was the dog equivalent of wearing clean underwear to the hospital.)

There was a lot of guilt, crying, fretting, beating myself up. I was scared he was going to die. And I was so insanely grateful that he didn't. This dog means everything to me. In a way that could be used against me in a trial.

Now that he seems okay, of course, I am out of my mind with worry about what else might be lurking on the floor that I can't see that Cooper might eat.

That's when I came up with the idea of scotch taping him to the bed.

I think it's a good idea. Even better than dosing a cute guy with a Tylenol PM and kidnapping him via a wheel barrel into a ten man shower.

My pup's weak now, so scotch tape will work. As he regains his strength, I might need something more durable to tape him to the bed with. Like duct tape. Of course, that might hurt his fur so...

I'm thinking first, I put him in his sweater, then I duct tape him to the bed. Then I can just remove him in and out of the sweater so he can go to the bathroom when he needs to.

Then again, I could just... you know... vacuum my entire apartment.


This blog is dedicated to knowing it could have been worse. And having a little fun with something that scared the hell out of me. And mustard garlic pretzel bits.

How To Scotch Tape Your Dog To The Bed

Moms Are Funny

It's weird. The older I get, the more I feel like I am becoming a Mom to my Mom. I even had this urge to send her $25 in a Halloween card the other day.

On the phone last week, I was trying to encourage my Mom to um, actually tell the truth in therapy to her new therapist. I find it crazy that she would resist this as the whole point of going to therapy is to TELL THE TRUTH AND THEN GET BETTER.

I capitalize it because I am so dumb founded by my mother's desire to never be able to admit anything is wrong EVER.

So, there I am, talking to my Mom and saying how great it has been that I am now seeing a new therapist and how this is really helping inject some energy into figuring out certain things in my life.

(The manipulative subtext was, "And I hope you'll do the same." Which is out of love, people. My Mom has been carrying around 40 pounds of emotional baggage in a 10 pound bag.)

And this is what she says to me:

Mom: "I'm glad you're seeing a new therapist. I did not like your last one at all."
Me: "Well, why not?"
Mom: "Because she was teaching you about boundaries."

UH, YEAH!

She might as well have said, "I did not like her. She was doing the job she was paid to do and it was becoming really hard on me to push around my more emotionally stable daughter."

The noise I made when she said that was a 1/2 gasp and a 1/2 laugh that resulted in me kind of 1/2 choking and having to get off the phone.

I didn't know if I should have been pissed or find it amazingly hilarious.

I'm going with hilarious.


This blog is dedicated to half price Halloween candy. Bring it!

Moms Are Funny

It's Very Important to Me That The Cashier At 7-11 Thinks I'm Going Out Dancing Tonight

This week has been a whirlwind. I had two big projects due on Friday, one at 3:00pm and one at 4:30pm and once they were done all I could think was, "I'm gonna get crazy tonight!"

Only, I didn't get crazy because on my way to get crazy, I locked my steering wheel and my car wouldn't work and all I could think of was, "Now you can't go anywhere and you're really going to regret not going grocery shopping this week and at least picking up toilet paper!"

I came back in the house and I was sure that there had to be some kind of celebratory liquid (i.e. alcohol) that I could get my mitts on. I found a bottle of organic wine that literally, literally could have filled... I don't know, something frickin' small... so small, I didn't even bother wasting a glass on it.

I just uncorked the bottle and took the smallest, saddest chug out of it that I could.

I probably could have gotten a bigger buzz off gargling with some Listerine.

I'm classy.

So then, I'm all about, "Saturday night! Saturday night will be awesome! I'll dress up, I'll wear mascara. I'll drink a fifteen dollar glass of wine before switching to domestic beer to save money for cab fare! I'm gonna get ripped!"

So classy.

But then all last night I'm all super amped and can't sleep and it might have something to do with having, like, a sextriplet espresso at Starbucks so I could power through the day and make all my deadlines and I actually barely drift off at 3:00am but my dog needs to go out at 5:00am (and I think after my last post you know I'm not taking any chances with him...)

So my super deep REM doesn't even come until after 5:30am but I wanna get back on schedule so I get up at a decent hour this morning only to be in a semi-conscious state all day.

And that's when, tonight, after treating myself to four "30 Rocks" back to back on my computer, I see that it's 6pm and I start thinking, "Can I just please go to bed now? Please."

Who would know?

I WOULD KNOW! I need to go out, I need to socialize, celebrate, wear something with non-elastic pants! I need my hair to be down, my eyes to be swathed in sparkle, I need to hear good music and laugh 'til I semi-snort.

Oh, but I'm so tired. So you know what I do?

I'm wicked hungry and I'm madly craving going to McDonalds and getting a kid's meal. That's what I do. Four chicken McNuggets, small fry and a lemonade. That's my Saturday night.

I'm kidding. That would be pathetic if that were my Saturday night.

Okay, that was totally my Saturday night.

And as I'm digging into my meal and I realize that they forgot to put bar-b-que sauce in with my meal (which let's face it - it's all about the bar-b-que sauce. The nuggets are just a mechanism to get the bar-b-que sauce into my mouth.)

So then I'm like, "I'm totally writing a letter to McDonald's about how completely incompetent they are." But then it occurs to me that the only thing sadder than eating a Happy Meal on a Saturday night, is admitting that you ate a Happy Meal on a Saturday night.

"Let it go," I told myself. "You have so many YouTube videos to watch tonight."

Then THAT thought made me even sadder so I stopped at my 7-11 to pick up a bottle of wine and all of a sudden it became very important to me that the cashier think that this bottle of wine was a HUGE precursor to my night of dancing and debauchery.

"I'm just gonna have a few friends over tonight to have a little of this Shiraz and then we're gonna get CW-AZY!"

I didn't say that. Saying that is like admitting: "I'm really going home to drink this wine alone out of a coffee cup while I watch videos of cats play with rolls of toilet paper."

So instead, I did the thing where, as he's ringing up my wine, I'm scraping the price tag off the bottle, which we all know is code for: "I'm on my way to a party."

Do you think he bought it? I think he totally bought it.


This blog is dedicated to hamsters.

It's Very Important to Me That The Cashier At 7-11 Thinks I'm Going Out Dancing Tonight

The Super Disgusting Post That Will Come Down in 24 Hours

This post is for the ladies.

I'm doing my taxes.

If you’re like most people, you did your taxes in April. No, not me, not when you can get an extension 'til September.

So I got all the "tax stuff" spread across my bed. The receipts, the calculator, the Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen folders (one for personal and one for business... I think you can guess which sister goes with which.)

Got my ice coffee in a Big Gulp cup which got me chased out of my 7-11 this morning because apparently, you aren't supposed to put a hot beverage in a cold cup even if it is 90 million degrees out. There was no reasoning with Bhadraa, the cashier behind the counter, she just told me not to come back if I could not act right.

Anywhoo...

My dog is pawing at me in a way I think, annoyingly means, "Let's go to the dog park" but I now know means, "Lady, dial 9-1-1."

He starts to gag. But it's not bad gagging. He's bad gagged before like when I impulsively adopted him a BFF in a the form of a 8 pound devil dog who's favorite past times were taking a crap in my bed and never letting me sleep.

Devil dog gave my dog, Cooper, the "bad gagging" or as I found out, it's proper name from the vet after a $75 visit, "kennel cough."

Kennel cough was bad gagging. This, today, was not bad gagging.

Still, he seemed uncomfortable and before I could decide if I should scoop him up, hang him upside down and give him a wack on the back to get his air way clear....

He....

He...

He... threw up a tampon in my bed.

On my taxes! A tampon. One that had been... (I am so mortified) gently used.

He is a ten pound chihuahua mix with a throat that CANNOT be bigger than my Big Gulp straw. How did that go down there? And HELLO, how did that, get back up????

Luckily, the Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen folders were plastic, so whew, those were saved. I'm not even going to talk about the clean-up process because that would be too disgusting, though I will say that I have since looked up prices on Haz-mat suits for the home.

Because dogs can be gross.

And then...

And I am not kidding...

Though I wish I was...

But I swear on my family's life... that I'm not...

HE DID IT AGAIN. He gagged up, right there, on Ashley Olsen's 2007 Personal Tax Folder... a second tampon.

And now I have to burn my whole apartment down.


This blog is dedicated to fur kids.

Why keep all this glorious grossness to yourself?! If you have pet-lovin' friends who might enjoy this story, just use the little envelope icon below to email it to them. Of course, they'll thank you for it!

The Super Disgusting Post That Will Come Down in 24 Hours

Every Thing I Know About Love, I Learned From Reality TV

This blog is UPDATED for your viewing pleasure.

I once went out on a date with an aspiring TV writer. He asked me what TV shows I like and I guiltily admitted my secret love for reality TV. That's right. "Survivor," "The Bachelor" (not all cycles), "Real World," "Top Chef," etc. He scrunched up his face like I had just told him I like to eat baby Panda bears and then he said, "You're the reason I can't get a writing job." Ouch!

What he meant was, I represented all the people all over America who like reality TV and the more we like and watch reality TV, the more scripted TV goes away and it makes it harder for aspiring writers like him to get jobs. Then he got up in a huff and said he needed to have a smoke (aspiring writers are very stressed out).

He seriously kept me waiting for like twenty minutes, I guess so I could "THINK ABOUT WHAT I HAD DONE," so I had no other choice but to pay the bill and leave. That's when I found him, the stressed out aspiring writer who smokes, out in the parking lot. We said good-bye but not before he asked me to read his spec script.

The reason I love reality TV is it gives such awesome glimpses into the human (boy) mind that I really, really need.

Take "Flipping Out" on Bravo. Do you watch it? Because if you do, then you ended up LOSING your mind just like I did over this last episode. In the episode, Jeff the Boss, uses a nanny cam on his workers. It's then that he finds out that his house manager Chris has been goofing off all day on his computer and shuffling around in his personal stuff.

That would be no big deal to BUT...

After Jeff fires him, he has to explain to Chris' wife, Jenni, who is Jeff's assistant, what he caught her husband doing. When Jenni confronts her husband (who she has been DEFENDING all this time) Chris says he's not happy and NO LONGER WANTS TO BE MARRIED TO HER!!!

WHAT???

Here the lesson is clear: We as women cannot take hot guys (Chris) and knowing they have other dreams (he wants to act) try to domesticate them by putting them in a mind numbing office job where their main responsibility is to pick up dog poop and NOT think they aren't going to punish us by breaking up with us on national TV.

Then we have "The Real World." And oh, it's real! On this last season, in Hollywood, Will falls for Janelle until hottie Britney enters the house. Britney, knowing he has a GF, comes on to him anyway (I call her Bitch-ney 'cause I'm clever like that). This is what we call girl on girl crime, people. Don't do it ladies, it just makes you look desperate and ugly.

But that's not where the learnin' comes in.'

Will goes to Mexico with his room mates and hooks up with Britney. He calls Janelle to confess and she hangs up on him. Good girl! But then she calls him a few days later so they can "talk." Honey, you don't need to talk, he already told you everything you need to know!

But noooooo, Janelle needed to find out about his talent to fake cry to get out of trouble and his love of four-somes (yeah, I spelled it right) on national TV before she could kick him to the curb.

That's the next lesson, we all know it - actions speak louder than words. And when your man has his "actions" all over another woman, he's not serious about you. So move on before you are humiliated further.

Oh, if you are not watching "The Two Coreys," then you are literally giving up a half hour of free therapy every week! Those two have the best therapist and you can just take everything she says to them and apply it to your life. I know I do!

I especially love her "one on one" sessions to the extra fucked up Corey. "I'm not asking you why you want to be in love, I'm asking you why you DON'T want to be in love."

Precisely! You don't have to be a meth, crack or heroin addict with self-destructive issues and no chance in hell to ever work again to glean answers from questions like that. Just pull out your journal and get to it!


This blog is dedicated to getting to the real, that is you.

Every Thing I Know About Love, I Learned From Reality TV