- I do not actually own a sofa. Oh, I may THINK I own a sofa, but that is NOT—in fact—my sofa at all. It is Dudley’s sofa, and I would do well to remember it.
- No, ma’am, a 70-lb dog is NOT too big to sit on your lap. Not ever. Or your feet. Or your laptop. Or your head. Or well, pretty much just wherever the hell he wants, because he is a big goddamn baby, and he’ll sit where he’ll sit, thank you very much.
- Sad does not mean you can’t go for a walk. Depression means nothing to a pitbull. “Get your ass up off that couch, get my leash, and let’s go for a walk. And by God, you’ll be happy about it before I’m done with you, lady!” And I usually am.
- My bacon is also not my bacon. Nor is my apple my apple. Etc., etc., you get the point. They are big yours-is-mine dogs. And that’s ok, because they are also great cuddlers.
- If you don’t share your bacon, you will get slobbered on. Profusely.
- If Dudley flops right in the middle of the bed—which he is wont to do—one of my ass cheeks will likely be cold, because yeah, um try telling a 70-lb. pittie you would like your blankie back. Once that dude is settled, he’s settled. It’s sort of like moving a Mack truck.
- Things are gonna get weird. And by that, I mean, “Dammit, Mom, if I wanna lick your feet, I’m gonna lick your feet…ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me.” Slurp, slurp, drooooool.
- Play time is ANY time. Yep, ANY ol’ time at all. “Hear that grasshopper outside? Let’s go GET IT NOW!! Where’s the ball? Get the ball! Get the ball! Now! Look, I can jump. Yeah, I know it’s a great episode of Criminal Minds, but do you see me LEAPING THROUGH THE AIR LIKE A BEAUTIFUL BALLERINA???!!”
- No space is sacred. Don’t think you are going to go in the bathroom and leave the door just almost-closed ever again. They will use that giant wrecking-ball head of theirs to push their way into whatever room you may be hanging out in. “Oh yeah, hey, Dudley…c’mon in…Momma was just taking care of a little business in here.”
- Beware the tail. I don’t know what they put in this thing, but it’s a furry sword of destruction, and NOTHING hurts it. They can whack that thing up against anything, and it’s indestructible. One minute you are playing, and the next minute you are getting a hook for a hand because your leftie has been lobbed off in a friendly game of fetch.
- Yeah, and watch the head, too. That thing is like a giant boulder coming at you, and it seems to pick up momentum. Picture yourself playing with a giant toddler that’s thrown off balance by the disproportionate size of his huge noggin-to-body ratio. Um yeah, that.
- And the biggest warning yet—you will have a best friend for life. He might even be borderline stalker-ish, but in the warm, cuddly, can’t live without him way. The way that makes you smile every day when you get home from work. The way that makes even the crappy days seem pretty damn good. Everybody should have a pittie. But only if you are good to them…because if you aren’t, I might have to kick your ass.
- I read and write a lot. I feel as if I should be able to see in order to do those things.
- My children will go to school wearing their underwear on the outside of their pants without the aid of my excellent fashion sense…and VISION. (Oh, they have done that before my eye was bad? Well, it will be WORSE now.)
- I am better able bake a delicious Totino’s dinner when I can see.
- Cars driving beside me on the road feel much safer when my vision is clear. Currently, I careen from side to side like a drunken teenager attempting to make it home from a downtown rave. It ain’t lookin’ so pretty.
- And when I get pulled over for my sobriety test, I’m not going to be able to get my finger to touch my nose either, because I can’t SEE shit. Also, pretty sure I won’t be able to walk a straight line, what with that whole only-seeing-out-of-one-eye thing.
- Can we talk about the oozing goop now? I feel that donkey balls are also more attractive than my eyeball, and that is unacceptable.
- My glasses make me grumpy sometimes (ok, a lot), especially when they slide down my face like I have greased my nose with a stick of margarine. Usually this occurs when I sweat—like if I clean the house or do laundry or if someone expects me to walk to the television to change the volume rather that use the remote. Anyway, when my glasses slide down my face, evil demons take over my body—and also my Tourette’s becomes unmanageable.
I may not know a whole lot in this life, but THIS I DO know.
My husband hates me and is trying to either a) kill me, b) make me miserable, or c) make me miserable right before he kills me.
Why, you ask?
I sent him to the store with a simple list last weekend. It contained edible items I could take to work for lunch.
He bought me this:
Which is apparently filled with monkey shit and motor oil. I was hungry so I ate it. And now I will probably die.
But luckily, since it’s filled with TWICE THE FIBER! (YAY!) of normal pasta, I will likely shit my pants before anyone finds my cold, dead carcass.
I will purchase my own lunch items next week.
Also, I do NOT recommend the pasta florentine, thank you very much.