I'll Be Late, I Have A Lawsuit

My in-laws are visiting us this weekend. That sentence makes me feel more adult than paying taxes and getting pap smears. They are staying at a hotel nearby because my MIL is allergic to cats and would slowly suffocate to death over the course of the weekend were she to sleep in our spare room, which, I may add, is perfectly comfortable and clean. In case anyone who gave birth to my husband was wondering.

Taking on a whole new group of people that can constantly remind you of what you're doing wrong is difficult, but I have it very very easy and not just because they live far away. I'm lucky in that my husband's parents are really nice to me, very generous and it's fairly easy to keep in touch between visits and I never have to guiltily pick up the phone, guzzle three shots of vodka, and dial their number. Like, I email them on purpose just to say hi sometimes.

There are a couple of barriers we have never really crossed, though. I've never cooked for them, or hosted on my own turf except for that one time a few years ago when they had to make rush travel plans for a holiday weekend because their son and I decided to get married. If only the Affordable Care Act had been in place in 2012, we might have been able to have a worry-free elopement in Bulgaria instead. . .

I'd better break out the fancy hotdogs this weekend.

In the beginning, I got really anxious any time we visited them or visited with them somewhere else (past tense, because clearly I don't anymore). For real, though, how bad could they be? They raised my favorite person and he's pretty ok and good at sports and Simpsons trivia. We used to always bring Truffles to their house with us when we visited, and she'd immediately take a crap on their floor or vomit on a rug somewhere. My husband's dad famously yelled "WHO DID THIS?" to a pile of feces once - like it was one of us or something. Truffles never really has accidents, and I bring her to people's houses all the time when I visit, but not to their house anymore. She just can't keep it together there.

She is going to daycare, not Grandma's

Not that they ever gave me any real signals, or maybe they are good at faking it and I'm not good at reading them - but I always worried they didn't like me. Realistically speaking, my husband could probably actually do a bit better. He has a fairly prestigious job, gets to meet interesting people who could some day get indicted in a juicy public scandal--and yet I still giggle if someone farts unexpectedly (especially if it's me).

So they will be here tomorrow and I'm cleaning and making some goodies while I try to squelch the fear that my goodies will give them diarrhea or e. coli.

One tough "elephant in the room" will be that I've gotten tangled up in my very first lawsuit, thus officially embracing my white trash heritage. I have so many relatives that think "I should sue" on a daily, if not hourly, basis and I'm finally one of them. I will be in court when they arrive to their nice hotel and settle in before coming to my house that I painstakingly (or my husband painstakingly) de-cat-haired and have a glass of peach sangria and eat dairy-free (Jews=lactose intolerant) strawberry chocolate creme pie that hopefully won't kill them or be full of animal dander. The cats like to play in the food processor. Something about the spinning. I should clean that out first. . .

Thanks for driving 14 hours, I'll be late, I have a lawsuit. . .

So yeah, I've got this lawsuit going and my husband's parents are coming and it's supposed to rain a lot, but they like me so it'll be fine that they're cooped up here in close quarters with me eating my cooking and not inhaling too deeply because I may have missed some tumbleweeds of animal hair. I'm not worried at all. They'd probably want to see that new Ted movie, right? I know one thing, this bitch better behave:

The Fine Art Of Being A Terrible Guest

Truffles and I met with a trainer recently to try to combat her bad behavior and stop her from being an all around chubby jerk. She often refuses to go on walks, preferring instead to watch the PBS newshour and lick her own butt while my husband occasionally tosses her tortilla chips. Well, it's a new day and we're not going to allow that anymore, as long as she's willing to stop doing it. . .

As part of getting her to take walks to lose weight, I have to drive her to new and interesting places filled with dog pee she hasn't smelled before. Really. So I've been setting aside a few hours a week to take her somewhere she hasn't been where she'll walk like a normal dog who likes to take walks and occasionally pee on stuff rather than a fat little weirdo who will hold her business for as long as possible because she doesn't feel like getting off the couch.

Sometimes I get lucky and I can take her on a little play date, or invite one of her pooch pals over, like little Jimmy Dean here who slept over, jumped off the bed in the middle of the night to take a crap on the floor, and then climbed back in for a nice cuddle:

She has this other friend, Dokie, with a giant yard that she can poop as much as she wants in. He also has a huge supply of interesting toys. Check out her sweet little pal:

He's a good boy, but his owners like to keep a shock collar (the orange band) on him just to let him know it's a possibility. He's been shocked about three times in three years at level 1, I am assured. We happen to disagree on this point and when I see the collar, I have to look away. I might even well up a bit and tearily eat some junior mints to forget about poor Dokie getting zapped by a torture device. Today he rolled around in wild animal poop and smeared it all over his collar. I get it, man.

I admit that Dokie is significantly better behaved than Truffles. As I sat outside with the dogs while a very important cheese plate was prepared in my honor, the little toddler that lives with Dokie grabbed a walkie-talkie from the table and tossed it into his water table to "wash" it. I giggled for a minute before remembering that electronics don't belong under water, so I pulled it out and wiped it off on my shirt. Kids!

I tried testing it out to see if it still worked, pressed a few buttons, talked into it, turned the dials and such. The dogs started whining for the cheese plate, which finally arrived. As I made my way about 3/4 of the way through a package of wasabe rice crackers and double fisted a few string cheeses, I delicately brought up the broken walkie talkie and how I may not have caught it in time.

"Eh, it's still supposed to work even if it gets wet, don't worry."
"Wow, that's pretty cool. I did try it out and couldn't get any sound out of it. Did you hear me?"
blank stare
"It's not a walkie talkie, it's the remote control for Dokie's shock collar."

Heh. Umm, kidding?

I definitely shocked the hell out of that dog.

This would never have happened if Truffles wasn't so fat and lazy. It's her fault Dokie almost got the death penalty.

I'm Thankful Not To Be A Slave In Egypt; Passover 2015

Freedom has successfully been honored in my house. I cooked for 12 and nobody reported diarrhea or seizures the following day. Ruth Bader Catsburg ran off with a lamb shank bone, but we were able to chase it down and recover it in time for dinner. It was important to me to make the holiday special for my family, which is why I had to buy this animated Haggadah (the guide to the seder meal that tells the story of Passover) told by Hobo Jew:

Oyyyy children!

Just look at those shoes. Look at them.

While I was prepping food, shopping and planning for the meal, my husband was cleaning the house from top to bottom. He vacuumed and dusted, mopped floors twice, scrubbed the bathroom, washed round after round of dishes - it was so hot. Is it just me, or is a man cleaning the house the sexiest thing ever?
It's just so . . . exotic and rare. . .

He's been spending his week working on that dreamboat status: he took Truffles to the vet for her annual check-up yesterday to give me a break, which was just full of bad news.

We're not sure how it happened, but she seems to have gained a little too much weight.

The appointment was a nightmare. Truffles broke out of the exam room and ran around the office like a wild maniac escaping from prison. She was eventually caught, but then she had to be muzzled to get her shots because she was crying so much for no reason. She's only been to the vet a handful of times, mostly for check-ups, and she used to be good. I'm not sure what shifted, but we've been fully shamed by our dog.

While a vet tech was holding her, she bucked and cried so much that she slammed her head up into the tech's chin, splitting the tech's lip. There was blood everywhere and other staffers thought she might need stitches.

I feel so terrible. Remember to appreciate the people who handle your pets - it's a risky job because some pets are dicks. She's not always a sweet, calm, loving little slug, like we thought.

So she is going to be forced into additional exercise, and won't be receiving anymore table scraps. We're also going to have to take her to the vet periodically just to get weighed and say hello, to try to improve that behavior. I guess I should also give her a beating, or something. I sent flowers to the tech. hehehehehe

It's a-dog-able. . .

Get it? GET IT? IT'S A FUCKING DOG MADE OF FLOWERS!

My husband was against sending this, preferring some regular bouqueted flowers instead, but obviously he doesn't know what he's talking about, so I sent these anyway. The internet is a force for good, why waste it?

There Is A Peeping Tom That Watches Me Dry Off After My Shower

Caught in the act!

Staying positive in the face of a crumbling civilization and deteriorating worldwide morals is tough. My goal is to remind you of all of the good and wonderful things around the world – like marshmallows! And baseball! I want to do my part to keep you out of your survival shack full of canned goods and guns. While the apocalypse might be imminent, I mean, Obama as president? There is still a lot of joy and good out there, like duck ponds!

And how Truffles Corgstein loves babies!

My friend told me recently that she felt trapped by her credit card company because her balance never seemed to go down and I'll offer up some sage advice from our forefathers. Ben Franklin said a penny saved is a penny earned. Why do pennies even still exist? That is dumb advice! He should have said a dollar! Unfortunately, this savings method is only a good idea if you are seven and saving up for a hamburger. What you should do is put all of your money into savings and then try not to use any of it. If you have to take a little bit out to buy food or medicine or shoes that are on sale, it’s ok, because that’s what savings is there for. Also, Thomas Jefferson saved money by being very DIY. He got tired of buying nails, so he had his slaves build a blacksmith shop on his plantation! Think of how many trips you could save to Home Depot buying all of those screws and nails if you just set up your own smithy. Look it up on youtube, it's probably there.

Truffles is a close talker. She likes for you to smell her breath when she has important things to say.

Yay! Everything is fine! Nothing going on to fret about, so don't even touch that newspaper with the Ebola headlines detailing how an entire country is on lockdown, because why worry about a pandemic when you can look at how much my little pooch loves car rides?

Just sit back and do something you enjoy, like savor a chocolate ice cream cone, or steal someone else's chocolate ice cream cone. . .

I wish climate change were fake, too. I'm out of pictures.

Truffles Is An Adult, Therefore Finally Strong Enough To Ruin Things

Her weak little puppy teeth barely damaged anything. All she ever wanted to do was run away with things, not destroy them. Pssht, puppy so weak! Recently, she ruined a friend's pair of shoes. And not just any shoes, but a pair of Tom's, which is the equivalent of Truffles eating a pair of shoes off the feet of a starving, grubby orphan. Over the weekend, she ate some fancy schmancy leather gloves my husband bought himself in Florence last February. Woops! I suffered the worst, though. She likes to get into the roll of poop bags we keep near the leash and unroll them on the floor. Well, she bit into the corner of one bag, a barely noticeable puncture, and when I tried to use it today, a turd slipped out, bounced off of my knit glove and onto my shoe with an ugly "plop" and splatter.

She's a year old! We celebrated in many ways, not least of which was a tasty batch of my favorite cookies from Annie's Custom (www.anniescustomcookies.com)

The cutest and tastiest dog in town!

No Truffles, you can't have any, that would be cannibalism so I have to eat them all.

Truffles and I have something in common - we both bought health insurance off of an affordable exchange. Veterinary medicine is expensive and most procedures are a la carte, payable at time of service, but I'd kill for those prices on an ultrasound or a blood test for myself. It's so true that women always pay more for everything. Totally sexist. I'm thrilled with the cost of my new plan - $287 less per month than what I was paying to be on my husband's plan. What will I do with all of that money? Probably pay off medical bills. Maybe get a Frosty.

Happy Holidays! Here's the baby Jeebus with his dad, who couldn't be there when he was born because he was busy delivering presents all over the world. Photo and commentary courtesy of my cousin Shannon:

2011 Wasn't The Best Year For FORD

Our 2011 "Patriot Blue" (I named the color that because 'Merica) Ford Escape is currently on its 3rd transmission service in six months. We picked the car up from the dealership on Saturday after having the transmission completely rebuilt. The cost to the warranty company was about $2,000. At first, we didn't know the warranty company was going to pay for it and the tech gave me the invoice and I almost crapped my pants on the waiting room floor. We were happy to have the car back, though, and happier to not have paid for it.

On Monday, the engine and transmission lights both came on while my husband was driving to a meeting three hours away. That transmission rebuild had lasted about 30 miles. I have an uncle that once wanted to get rid of his car so he set it on fire and rolled it down a hill and into a reservoir. I used to think that was crazy. Used to.

I dropped off the car again and I picked up our latest rental car today and there is a faint vagina-like odor inside. Clearly, the rental car company has tried to mask that odor with a sticky-sweet floral air freshener and so I feel like I'm driving a maxi-pad. The factory warranty on our car expired because we're over the mileage, but luckily, my husband bought the extended warranty when he first got the car brand new. I've been handling most aspects of this issue for two reasons: 1) my schedule is more flexible and each trip to the dealership is a three to four hour ordeal and 2) my husband freaks out on people when they give him bad news. He once threw a cable guy out of our apartment because he couldn't rewire the building to hook up our television. I wasn't home for the appointment and was so disappointed at the news because I was looking forward to getting my fix of cheesy sci-fi made for television garbage that inevitably stars Lou Diamond Phillips in some role. If there was a show about an F.B.I. agent that was actually a werewolf and that werewolf F.B.I. agent was always chasing serial killers that were mummys and frankensteins, I'd totally freaking watch that. Anyway, I handle stuff like this, but let me know if anybody makes that show.

The car is only two years old, but it does have about 80,000 miles on it. Still, I'm not sure a transmission should turn to sludge at 80,000 miles. We're now asking for a new transmission, instead of more repair work. They very well might say yes, which would be great, because then it would be easier to sell. As a bonus to whomever might buy the car, it comes with a two year build-up of fast food containers wedged under seats, stuffed into door side pockets or just plain stuck to floormats because the mystery sauce that dripped out of the container acted like a bonding agent after three months and will now take a chisel to remove. It's quite the collection. While most people might keep chips and crackers in their cabinets to snack on, I keep a steady supply of chicken legs in our fridge for my husband to gnaw on because his stomach is a bottomless pit. Every once in a great while, he tells me he's full and I get really worried that he has some terrible undiagnosed stomach disease and is going to die in his sleep (daymare). When he's home, I can turn to the kitchen at any given time and this is what I see:

Clearly, Truffles will be getting nothing. Aren't they cute, though?

Trauma: Truffles In The E.R.

Last night was rough. Truffles came down with some sort of acute condition that paralyzed her back end. She went from begging at the dinner table to unable to get up and walk three feet. The terror of watching my puppy struggle to move completely outweighed any desire I've ever had to google any malady. We got right in the car and went to the hospital. My husband took her inside while I parked the car under an overpass - maybe I even left it running with the keys in and the driver's side door open, who can keep track of something like that? By the time I got to the hospital lobby, she was already in the back getting an exam. We weren't allowed to be with her, but they recommended immediate x-rays.

Earlier that day, she'd been chewing on a rib bone we bought her a few days ago and it broke apart. It happens all the time, she loves smoked bones and I take them away when she breaks through or they splinter. She also had her monthly dose of Heartgard earlier. She threw up a tablespoon or so of bile on the sidewalk before dinner. Then she found some garbage lettuce before I did and ate some of it. What else? Oh, she chewed through another toy and flung the stuffing around. She may have snuck a cat treat away from one of the cats, she had a carrot and a piece of cheese. WHY THE HELL CAN'T MY PUPPY WALK?

We were sent to a room to wait for the doctor to come talk to us. While we were there, I let my husband know that I was almost positive we'd be told that Truffles had a neurological disorder that would kill her within a matter of months and that she'd spend those last few months in a wheelchair. He felt that was overkill. We continued to wait. When the doctor came in, she let us know that she'd narrowed the problem down to her stomach area. She was able to rule out a disc or back issue and wanted to proceed with two x-rays to see if there was an obstruction. We consented and were sent back to the waiting room until results were available. We sat in front of a flatscreen t.v. showcasing the features of the animal hospital and each and every doctor on staff. I couldn't find the doctor we spoke with and when she finally flashed on the screen, she was listed as a "clinician" instead of a doctor. I was concerned Truffles wasn't getting adequate care. When the "doctor" came out to speak with us, she let us know the x-rays didn't reveal anything obstructing her stomach or bowels, but that she could feel a lot of gas build-up in her colon. Then we remembered that Truffles had been letting some fairly lethal gas loose all night, which was a bit out of character. She gave us two options: we give her pain meds, fluids, gas meds with anti-diarrheal stuff and see how that goes or leave her there overnight to possibly (if they could squeeze her in) get an ultrasound. There was also a $1,000 price difference between the two options. At this point, my husband was convinced it was just gas and it would pass through her and she'd be ok while I was convinced we couldn't be with her in the back because they were slipping her poison so that she'd have to stay there longer and that she was going to be dead within three days anyway. He said I was being dramatic. It's funny that he's built a career out of damage control because he's so great at going to the worst place, but he can never beat me.

We opted to take her home and try pain relief, pepcid, and anti-diarrheal meds with a diet of chicken and rice for a few days knowing we could bring her back if she got worse or just didn't get better. When they brought her out, she was walking again. My husband was giddy at seeing her walk and squealed in the waiting room. We didn't sleep much last night because the lights were on until about two so I could periodically make sure Truffles was still breathing:

She was still off all morning, puking after my husband tried to get her to play, but after her Pepcid dose at 11, along with some yogurt, she started to whine for food. Did I try to make her an appointment with her vet in New Haven, planning to drive the three hours because nobody in Philly would be good enough since this city is clearly killing her? Maybe. It was an anxious day of monitoring everything she did, taking her out every hour or so because she was still leaking fluids from where they embedded them under her skin so she wouldn't dehydrate, and could get sick at any moment. In an effort to get healthier, my husband and I gave up booze for a few days, but I cracked today and had to buy a magnum of Pinot Grigio just to "settle my nerves" after the ordeal. Did I spend $450 because my dog had bad gas? It's possible.

Truffles Has A Coke Nail

Check it out:

We would trim it ourselves, but the one time my husband tried to do it on his own, he practically chopped her paw off and she bled all over the floor. It was early morning, I was asleep (all of his bad decisions happen when I'm not around to nag him away from making them) and he decided it was time to try it out. When she cried and blood spurted out of her foot, he woke me up for help. Groggy, I stumbled downstairs to blood splatter all over the floor and my mom, sitting at the kitchen table reading a grocery store circular as if she wasn't sitting in the middle of a trauma scene. Truffles was still bleeding a lot, and my poor husband was really starting to freak out. I think he envisioned her bleeding out on our kitchen floor and us holding her limp, lifeless body with asymmetrical toe nails. So I took the same first-aid steps I take with any injury/illness, human or otherwise: I googled it. This led to dipping her paw in a bowl of flour (or cornstarch, or tapioca starch, or gluten free baking mix - whatever powder you have on hand) because it acts as a natural styptic and it's ok if she licks it, which she did. She didn't really limp afterwards, either. Not so bad. My husband and I have a new joke about him falling down the stairs and breaking his leg so that the bone sticks out and while he passes out from the pain, I google treatment and he wakes up with vacuum cleaner parts strapped to his leg as a makeshift splint. "Sorry babe, co-pays at the hospital are ridiculous!"

As of this weekend, we're in our new apartment in Philly and in our neighborhood is a place called The Pampered Pooch. Now that the smoke has cleared, we can think about these things. The move was stressful. Packing sucked, my scooter didn't fit in the truck when it was all loaded, so I had to wait for a tow truck at the last minute to take it to a safe house (my dad's backyard - let me know if you need anything stored). The drive down to Philly was rough, with Truffles and a bunch of cats. We're fostering my mom's cat Olly, who is a big fat loudmouth, and he cried through half of the three and a half hour drive until my husband finally threatened to drown the two fattest cats in the sink. I guess Olly understood because he shut up. When the movers arrived with the truck, my husband was out buying pounds and pounds of kitty litter so he missed their struggle to squeeze the truck into murder alley, where our doorway is located. They turned into the perpendicular alley to try to get to our door and crashed into a table of diners at an outdoor cafe. The umbrella was wedged in between the truck and the wall, but nobody was hurt. The poor driver was shaking, but the restaurant manager was very kind and comforting. She didn't ask me to pick up anyone's tab, thank god. Most of our belongings have at least one chip, lots of scratches and dents or missing pieces. They worked really hard, though.

Today is day 1 of being alone in the apartment and everywhere I turn there's a cat. Truffles has diarrhea and I've been nauseous and cramping and I've narrowed it down to Philly water. According to the NRDC website, it's got high levels of contamination from sewage, industrial waste and there is lots of runoff. I had to go buy a few jugs of Poland Spring after Truffles hopped into a potted plant on the sidewalk and acted like a hot chocolate machine. She's also peed in the apartment twice, which is infuriating. I'd like to go off water entirely and just drink wine, but Pennsylvania has some insane and backwards drinking laws and it's practically impossible to buy a bottle. Thin ice, Philly. THIN ICE.

How Come Nobody Shoots Up The Department of Motor Vehicle?

Mandatory visits to the DMV are the closest that the average American will ever come to experiencing what a 1980s Communist Soviet bread line was like. Everyone is bedraggled and needs something urgently, the wait is ungodly and the people in charge are dumb and mean. My husband and I wasted an entire Saturday morning there this past weekend because he still uses his home-State driver's license and car registration. For various reasons, including legality, it's time to make the transfer. He went bright and early, on his own, for their Saturday 8am opening time. Unfortunately, he didn't have the proper documents and was home by 10:15 in a huff, rustling around for his passport and some pieces of mail to prove he existed. The employees were rude to him, so he asked me to go with on round 2 for moral support and company. He's a bit of a stress cadette. I should've brought snacks.

It was packed. First step was to stand in line to get a number - called the "information line." This is an experience in which one is really mixing with the masses. Some of the people in this line are ex-cons that have business at the same bureaucracy that you do. Maybe they have asked to borrow your cell phone to make a quick call to their mother. You have pretended the battery was dead. Wandering around the hordes of needy citizens clutching dirty file folders is a security guard whom we will call "Paul Blart Mall Cop" for purposes of this story. He wants to keep everyone in line and really wants people to sit in chairs and not stand idly in walkways. The thing is, nobody listens to Paul Blart Mall Cop because the DMV is like urban Mexico: if you cut me in line, I will shiv you with the pen that used to be chained to the back counter and Paul Blart Mall Cop doesn't have a gun, therefore I don't have to do what he says. In this place, everybody hates everybody - especially the people that had to bring their kids in. Every kid in that joint was eating a small bag of the greasiest potato chips fifty cents can buy and then running around like an untrained monkey grabbing onto things and then promptly losing their grip because their tiny palms were so greased up from the potato chips. It's like when my dog steps in a puddle and leaves little paw prints behind her except significantly less cute because potato chip grease leaves stains and none of those kids were as cute as Truffles. . .

So the kids were greasy, did a lot of screaming and running around, and everyone was miserable. I lost 4 hours of my life on Saturday at the DMV. We waited in three lines and were about five minutes from my husband getting his new Connecticut State driving license when they demanded a vision test. My husband lost his glasses, that he rarely ever wears, and blew the vision test in about 25 seconds. They handed him a form, to be filled out by an eye doctor certifying that he's safe to drive, and kept his $40 after denying his application. If, at any point during our marriage, I'd worried that my husband would buckle under stress and just have a stroke - that moment pales in comparison to what I saw on his face when we left the DMV. I would like to preface the next part of this story by saying that I married one of the kindest, gentlest men I've ever met. He loves to help people, solve problems and do nice things for others. He was the kind of date that would say, once seated at a restaurant, "it looks like the sun is in your eyes, we should move or switch seats." He cared for an aggressive dog with poor potty training for over two years because he knew that the only alternative was to put her down. He's loyal and dedicated and considerate and I thought he was going to burn down that building.

For two hours or so after our departure from the DMV, when he was so upset I couldn't even let him drive home, my driving was actually the safest option, he was demanding that we move out of state immediately. So beside himself with rage, he couldn't walk in a straight line, I ushered him home and into our apartment to feed him something heavy, or sleeping pills, or chloroform him. I really and truly wish I could describe this time to you, but he's called marriage secret, a term we learned from our "pastor" ordained on the internet, about the whole incident and I can't write about it. Ultimately, it took a margarita, a plate of steak quesadillas, 3/4 of my tamale and my chicken enchilada to bring him back to sanity, but that was no joke, son.