Five years ago today, my husband and I were on a flight bound for Madrid, ready for our honeymoon to begin.
Five years ago, I had no idea that two weeks in Spain only marked the beginning of five years of crazy adventures, crazy fun, and crazy love.
Five years later, I still feel the same joy I did at the moment that picture was taken.
Everyone should be so lucky.
About an hour ago, I called my husband to see where I should meet him so we could go pick up my car. Ellie the Element has recovered from her injuries, and I’ve been very excited all day at the prospect of my return to satellite radio , 64 seating configurations, and returning the piece of shit Mazda SUV I’ve been driving for two weeks.
We’ve been looking forward to this upcoming break from work and car accidents and back injuries and parents in the hospital and illnesses and ridiculous holiday stress. Standing between us and some Christmas cheer was picking up my car and returning the rental. Then it was off to a cocktail party with friends.
HA, said the universe.
My husband answered my call not with his usually cheerful hello. Instead there his voice, shouting this sentence: “You aren’t going to believe this, but some person just HIT MY CAR while I was sitting here at the traffic light. I’ll talk to you later.” And by answered, I mean shouted. and by person, he actually said a nasty expletive.
To top it off, I realized I was locked out of the house when I got home.
I’m just…I don’t know whether to cry, drink, or beat the crap out of my sofa. Even though things have been somewhat resolved, my husband’s car is still going to have to go into the shop at some point, insurance companies really no longer enjoy your business when you have two accidents in three weeks, and we still don’t have my car back.
And my dog just threw up in the kitchen. Literally. Just this moment, as I was trying to think of a way to end this post, and sum up the awful way our day ended, I heard a giant”BLAARFFFF” come from the kitchen.
There’s your ending – dog vomit. Thanks, Gus. You’re Hemingway in a small, furry, puking package, and I had no idea.
C-bear loves celebrations of any kind – she’ll actually bark along to Happy Birthday if you sing it badly and loudly enough. Celebrations usually mean lots of people, and lots of people means more hands to pet her, admire her, and generally confirm her belief that she is the sun everything revolves around.
Christmas is her favorite event of the year. Mainly due to presents and the very good chance that my father-in-law will surreptitiously feed her half a ham even though he’s been told that people food makes her ill. Then in what can only be called a sick Christmas miracle, she’ll throw up on his presents. This is a true, but non-festive story, and explains why FIL might just be her favorite person in the world.
We taught her how to unwrap gifts as a young puppy, and when she sees wrapping paper emerge from the closet, she cannot contain her wagging joy. She knows that this can mean only one thing – she’s soon going to be allowed to tear things to pieces, and then at the end of the killing, she gets some rawhide. The only small problem occurs when she either thinks all presents being unwrapped are for her, and she offers her assistance without being asked for it. Or, someone puts gifts under the tree too early and leaves her alone in the same room, not realizing that she lacks the self control not to tear all the wrapping paper off of them and then take a nap in the mess she’s made.
I bring you photographic evidence that C-bear is really a Soft-Coated reindeer. Happy Holidays!
Two weeks ago, I was in a car accident, and I hurt my back and my car. One week ago, I woke up with a a raging sore throat and haven’t been able to speak without pain since. Yesterday, I got diagnosed with viral bronchitis. Today, my nose started running incessantly. This evening, my husband and I spent a good hour and a half being total assholes to each other for no apparent reason. This weekend, we leave for a solid week of constant traveling and intense time with our families, with little chance for relaxation.
And then, I remembered the following, and I felt a lot better:
I hope you’re ok, Dickie V. I am just glad we won’t have to replace our mute button from overuse this year.
I have plenty to say about Spears, Jr. I’m just trying to determine if I’m part of the problem.
Instead, I say to you, my dear reader, read Time’s recent article on Vladimir Putin, and then tell me he doesn’t make you poop your pants in fear.
What did we buy?
Cheese.
You realize we just spent over 50 dollars on cheese?
No, we spent 30 dollars on cheese, ten on imported salami-ish products, and eleven on a six pack of beer.
Wow.
Yeah, I know. It’s the greatest trip to Fresh Market ever.
Today, I discovered that my husband didn’t realize that Wham had a Christmas song. Just in case you lived in a Wham-free cave during the 80s, I bring you the following masterpiece:
I dare you to top this. Unless you can line up six bulldog puppies wearing costumes in a red wagon in the fresh snow, I think C and Gusbuster take the cake.
Sometimes, in between plotting world domination, prancing around like a supermodel, balancing her checkbook, hogging all the furniture, and praying for cheese to rain from the sky, C-bear turns into a dog again. If you’re lucky, she’ll shove over and let you share the sofa with her. If you’re really lucky, she’ll crawl up and tuck her cold nose into the crook of your chin and fall asleep.
It’s lovely moments like these that remind us that no matter how fearless and independent she may be, no matter how often she drives us insane with her annoying ability to understand everything spoken in this house, we are the center of C-bear’s entire world. We are her people, and she loves us.
And then the lovely moment is shattered by her insanely loud snoring and sleep-farting.
We love you C! Happy 6th birthday – we can only hope we have at least 6 more years of the joy you’ve brought us this far.
(But really, enough with the farting.)
