He loves to eat, eat, eat……

Dear Gus,

I didn’t realize puppies like you existed within your breed – puppies like you that want to be held and hugged and petted. From the time she was two months to about the time she ate dinner this evening, C’s response to being held or cuddled was/is usually to thrash around like the Tasmainan devil after a hit of speed. Because at that very moment, while we are wasting her time hugging, a cat or a terrorist could be lurking about outside the window, and she would be not saving us from it. If we didn’t stop with the hugging, the terrorists would win.

But not you. You don’t charge through the door with the air of a general. You look at us as if to say, “I’ll go, but only if you will, too.” C-bear makes the entire world her bitch. You’re scared of shadows, going down the stairs, the hairdryer. She always has places to go, people to see, worlds to conquer, and she’s pretty sure one day, she’s going to find Osama Bin Laden hiding in the bush outside our front window. You would rather sit by our feet and sleep. You do not greet visitors with “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD YOU ARE HERE LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME I’M GOING TO SIT ON YOUR LAP DO YOU WANT A TOUR OF MY HOUSE DO YOU SEE MY TAIL OH MY GOD.” You instead say “S’up?” and then go back to trying to figure out where your balls went.

You even let me brush the fur on your head into a Donald Trumpian comb-over. And then, when DVH tries to fire me with your paw, you just let him do it without complaint.

You are the perfect calm yin to C-bear’s intense commando yang. We’re so glad you are here.

But we have to talk about your eating disorder. You’re obsessed with food. You smack your lips in your sleep. You hear a bag rustle in the kitchen and you have a panic attack. You have to take the time to actually chew things rather than swallow them whole. You need to realize that you are now in a place where you will never EVER have to compete for dinner. That magical closet of kibble that you can’t quite figure out? It always has kibble in it, and it always will – that’s why it’s magical. No one is going to take your food, and you will always, always get fed. We pay an exorbitant amount of money to buy you quality dog food made of angel wings, platinum chips, and shreds of 100 bills, so it would be nice for you to actually taste it. SLOW DOWN.

Because, little Gusbuster, the eating disorder is causing a pooping disorder. Everything is going a little too quickly, if you catch my drift, and if you don’t, ask C-bear to explain, as I’m pretty sure she gets nuance a bit better than you. She understands nuance a little better than most Republicans, so don’t feel bad.

Gus, I am really, really tired of poop and the cleaning of poop, the washing of you to remove the poop. You have to stop getting distracted in mid-squat and subsequently trying to finish your business standing up. It does not work.

I know you are a little guy and you are just figuring life out. We’ll be patient. But really, the pooping.

Love,
Me

P.S. C-bear, there was NO need to celebrate your first successful sharing of the backseat by puking on the rug. None at all. Stop trying to one-up your brother. Everyone knows you can and will beat him in all things at all times.

I put only one person on notice today.

Dear lady in front of me in line at the car wash,

Yes, you. You who looked to be the only a few years older than me, with the Vera Bradley bag, 24 fake David Yurman bracelets on the same arm, puffy white vest, questionable blonde highlights, and leopard print Dansko clogs. You with too much black eyeliner and a giant SUV with pretentious stickers indicating that you spend too much money on private school for your child:

Don’t you know that NO ONE pays with checks anymore?

You clearly are of the debit card generation. You even said you had a credit card with you. So it is beyond me why you tried to pay your giant carwashing bill with a STARTER CHECK. And when they told you that they didn’t think they could take a starter check, why did you insist that they call the accounting office to find out for sure? The answer was still no after ten minutes of standing there on hold. Why did you continue to argue?

Why did you then bitch and moan and then PULL OUT ANOTHER CHECKBOOK WITH OTHER CHECKS and use that to pay? Why did you then insist on opening and then smelling each type of air freshener before you could decide on which one you wanted? Why did you go outside to supervise the nice carwashing men as they dried your car off, and why did you feel the need to point out spots they missed?

And when I asked you if I could possibly jump in front of you in line and pay with my pre-purchased car wash card while you waited on the phone to see if your starter check was acceptable, why did you say, “No, I’m not moving just because these idiots won’t take my check.”

And finally, one more question, why did you look at me like you smelled a big pile of shit when I responded with, “Thanks. You’re holding up the afternoons of me and the ten people behind me.”

Why did you do all these things? The guy who handed me the keys to my now-shiny Element answered my question and thus ensured that this carwash will have my business forever. After I asked him if he enjoyed being “supervised” by you, he said, “You didn’t hear it from me, but what a pain in the ass.”

I hope you pull the stick out of your Seven-jeans-clad behind. If only to make room for the starter checks I wanted to shove up there.

Way to be awesome.

Love,
Kristin

In absentia

Where have I been?

Mostly working and alsochasing after/cleaning up after/taking out the Gusbuster. I’ve also been trying to explain to him that five a.m. and eight a.m. are NOT THE SAME THING. Do they make watches for puppies? Because I will devote my life to teaching him to tell time if it will get him to stick to the carefully developed schedule he refuses to follow.

He’s really cute, and other than his unfortunate tendency to be an early riser, he’s a sweet, docile, huggable little puppy. But really, Gus, IF THE SUN IS NOT YET OUT, GO BACK TO SLEEP. I know you come from Missouri where I am sure everyone arises at dawn to the crowing of a picturesque rooster, but you’re going to have to get over this fast. Cbear especially would like to get her beauty sleep.

Also, last week was my 28th birthday. I must to give it up to my husband, who rocked it out with a suprise party at Bottega, a pretty blue box from a certain famous jeweler, and a brand new cell phone that is sturdy enough to dish out the damage I will most certainly inflict upon it. He managed to get all of my closest friends and my mom, dad, and sister in the same room at the same time. You rock, dude.

And for some reason, all the middle schoolers were dressed for the rodeo

If you ever want to see my husband’s head explode, do the following things:

1. Wait til nine p.m. to eat dinner on a day when he did not have time for lunch.
2. Choose a dining establishment in Short Pump.
3. Watch as approximately 1.3 million screaming middle schoolers walk into said establishment right before us, even though my sister and I ran to the door to beat them.
4. Seethe as they cut in front of us in line and continue to scream and also fail to order or move forward in any way.
5. Try to convince husband to wait.

If I had behaved the way those middle schoolers did last night, my parents would have sent me to a convent.

This Week’s On Notice

McEnough?

I am giving Grey’s Anatomy through the end of February sweeps to become more enjoyable, or it will be Dead to Me. A show that used to be entertaining, poignant, and well-written has turned into a soap-operay, melodramatic, death-filled, poor-judgement-makeout McFest. If I opened the door and found someone there who then punched me dead on in the face, well, that would actually be more enjoyable than watching this show at the moment.

And yes, I have NOTHING better to do than talk about the fictional television universe. Nothing.

Explosion of cute

IMG_2005
Originally uploaded by KristinWJ.

Seriously, it’s too much to handle.

Evidence that someday, they might actually enjoy each other

Cbear and Gusbuster, now with twice the swampbeard.

We get stacks and stacks of letters..

Dear Brangelina,

Haven’t we suffered enough in the last two years?

Love,
New Orleans

Dear Sacha Baron Cohen/Dane Cook/Larry the Cable Guy,

You are not funny.

Love,
The World

You ain’t got no alibi, go potty…

I have not been blogging for the last few days.

This is mainly due to my current brain fog, which is mainly due to the fact that every day at both three and at six a.m., I stand in the back yard and jump up and down while cheering as the Gusbuster relieves himself in the yard.

At both three and at six a.m., it is dark and cold and my brain is not functional. I do not do well if I do not get enough sleep, nor if I am forced to get out of bed before I am ready to do so. I am also terrible at falling back to sleep once I am awake. Bad things happen when any of these conditions are present.

For example, this morning at three a.m, I forgot my pants. Once I was downstairs and realized this, I wrapped a blanket around myself sarong style, but please consider the fact that I was in my backyard at three a.m. wearing a blanket skirt, jumping and cheering as a small animal went to the bathroom.

You see, the more excited you get when your dog poops outside, the less likely he is to do it inside. All I need are pom-poms and a varsity letter, because I am the Poo Cheerleader. I am in fact, the captain of the Poo Cheerleading Squad. And yes, it has been broughten.

ETA: To the person (same hater who always hates) who emailed me to say “your husband should really help out with the dog, it’s good you don’t have kids or you would be doing all the work” – shut up. When DVH has to function at work, he really has to function, otherwise people go to jail and then their relatives might get mad and come to his office and shoot him, and then I could not afford to feed Cbear and Gus their food made of cocaine and gold flakes. He does his share and then some. For example, HE DROVE GUS HOME FROM MISSOURI. I repeat, my husband flew to Missouri, rented a car, picked up Gus from Wheaten Rescue, and drove across the country with a five month old puppy from Missouri to Virginia. IN A CHEVY MALIBU. Plus, I look much hotter in the Poo Cheerleader uniform. So go away and hate someone else.