The Accidental Tourist: A Boy and His Dog (Revised)

If you're a regular here, you've heard of my recent trials with our new puppy, Peanut: the smelly accidents, the bloody mess, the constant tripping over her as she attaches herself to my thigh...you've been patient, supportive, delivered the appropriate amount of sympathy, so I'll reward your good natures with a story that will make you chuckle.

My son, J, you know, the-one-I-haven't-put-up-for-adoption-despite-his-anger-management-issues-
because-when-he's-not-being-a-royal-pain-in-the-ass-he's-so-damn-cute-and-
sweet-that-when-I-don't-want-to-smack-him-I-just-want-to-eat-him...

Well, the other reason I haven't kicked him to the curb is because he makes me laugh. The kid's got talent. Anyway, the other day, he was running around naked before showering and he decided to see what Peanut would do when introduced to a penis. He shimmied and shook his little cocktail weiner to get the dog's attention. I warned him against it but he's stubborn that way. What does Mom know, right? Like chum to a fish, Peanut came runnin'. I watched with one eye open and the rest of my face scrunched. Immediately, Peanut did what all dogs do when encountered with something new.

She sniffed it.
J giggled.
She licked it.
J laughed.
She licked it again.
J stopped laughing.
She licked it again.
J closed his eyes.
J started moaning

"Okay, enough," I said separating the two from their momentary bliss.

For a moment, my son toured a region of the world I was hoping he wouldn't visit AT LEAST until high school (and when he did I was hoping he'd see it with a nice girl named Madison, Hannah, or Lily) .

I guess this is the first of many maternal fantasies crushed by independent-thinking children.

Bon Voyage.


*Thank you to Nanny Goats In Panties (she is every bit as funny as her name) who honored me with my first blogging award, although it's in Spanish and I have to say, despite being an A student in the language, I have no idea what the heck this award is about because the blog is in, yep, you guessed it, Spanish. But I'll take an award anywhere I can get it, so here it is.
Ta Da!

The Arte Y Pico Award

Hmmm, any clues? Anyhow, here are the rules for this prestigious kudo:

1) You must choose 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for creativity, design, interesting material, and contribution to the blogging community, regardless of language.

2) You must publish the name of each award-winning author as well as a link to his or her blog.

3) Each award-winner must post a picture of the award and link back to the blog that has given the award.

4) Both the giver and the recipient of the award must link to the “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.

5) You must post these rules.

Okay, so I hereby bestow this glorious piece of blog bling to the following, most deserving of blogs:

A Mom Two Boys
Manic Mommy
June Cleaver Nirvana
Candid Carrie
MidLifeBloggers

Enjoy!

Tag I'm It - I'll Take It

I was tagged by Manic Mommy for a one word meme. These days, one word, is just about all I can handle. Here goes:


1. Where is your cell phone? Fannypack

2. Your significant other? J

3. Your hair? Curlywavy

4. Your mother? Neurotic

5. Your father? Relaxing

6. Your favorite thing? Chocolate

7. Your dream last night? Curious?

8 Your favorite drink? Wine

9. Your dream/goal? Published

10. The room you’re in? Hallway

11. Your hobby? Blogging

12. Your fear? Accidents

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Published

14. What you’re not? Disciplined

15. Muffins? Cake

16. One of your wish list items? Laptop

17. Where you grew up? LonG-Island, NY

18. The last thing you did? Eat

19. What are you wearing? Capris

20. Favorite Gadget? Iphone

21. Your pets? Ahhhhh!

22. Your computer? Annoying

23. Your mood? Improved

24. Missing someone? Me

25. Your car? Noisy

26. Something you’re not wearing? Jewelry

27. Favorite store? Fred Segal

28. Like someone? Shouldn't

29. Your favorite color? Green

30. When was the last time you laughed? Sunday

31. Last time you cried? Yesterday


Thanks to Manic Mommy for enabling me a mindless post. I'm still knee-deep in puppy angst so creativity is difficult to come by. After a very looong, non-productive walk this morning, she produced a nice, big gift for me on my family room rug. Oh yes she did. But she's so cute...she's so cute, she's so cute...

And thanks to Manic Mommy for introducing me to AMomTwoBoys, I am now a member of Meghan's not quite illustrious AllMediocre blogroll. Looking forward to meeting other fans of mediocrity - that didn't come out right...

I'm going to tag Nanny Goats in Panties 'cause I need a good laugh and Jan's Sushi Bar 'cause she's on vacation, doing work, and could probably use a good cookie-cutter post.

Puppy Peril - The Honeymoon is O-V-E-R

I think Peanut was an interior designer in her former life because during her short time here, she has already rearranged my house to showcase all of her favorite toys: bones, shoes, balls and stuffed animals. Dirt-smeared "outside" toys have made their way inside and ended up as accessories to my good furniture. Either that, or Peanut makes herself the accessory. Now that's a statement.

We take Peanut for long, exhausting walks teaching her to use other people's yards as her bathroom only to have her mock us by returning home and heading straight outside to pee, pockmarking our once beautiful, green yard with yellow F.U.'s.

We can't swim anymore in our pool because Peanut doesn't think it's safe and she won't stop barking or poking at your head until you agree with her.

We, particularly me, can't walk anywhere in the house alone; can't take a pee, do laundry, walk from the refrigerator to the stove, anything, without the tumor that is Peanut attaching itself to our legs.

We cannot sit in peace for more than a few seconds without having a slobbery ball tossed in our laps, over and over, until we give in or get up to take a shower, whichever comes first.

But the real kicker, the one that made me think, "why did I agree to get a puppy?" was the incident this morning. The one where my kids were late for camp, my husband was somewhere else, and I was on my knees, scrubbing a carpet covered in blood.

Minutes before, I was feeling good. It was 8am and I had returned from a long, vigorous walk with the dogs. Entering the house, Peanut, was her usual chocolate whirling dervish, running from room to room, picking up items and dropping them upon seeing another she fancied. I checked on the kids and as I retraced my steps into the hallway, I saw a flash of red. Then another. And another. A helter skelter of red. Up the stairs, in the bedrooms, in the bathrooms, on the beds, down the stairs, on the floor. My house looked like an opening scene of CSI.

Investigating the source, I found Peanut's toenail scraped down to the blood vessel and as I held it blood gushed out with every pump of her frantic, little, puppy heart. I cleaned and wrapped her paw and surveyed the damage, I was overwhelmed by the state of my I-just-had-it-professionally-cleaned carpet. I cannot treat you to a picture because I-was-too-busy-screaming-and-waking-the-neighbors-and-waiting-for-the-cops-to-come-and-for-them-to- torture-me-until-I-confessed-and-led-them-to-the-location-of-the-dead-body to get my camera.

Once calm, I couldn't figure out where to begin cleaning the mess. Something Anne Lamott once wrote came to mind. In her first book, she recounted her father telling her brother how to distill a huge school project he'd left until the last minute into manageable chunks. He told his son to take it "bird by bird." (As I recall, the project was researching various bird species). So with my rags and carpet cleaner, I got down on my knees and took it bird by bird, stain by stain, until one hour later I'd made it through a few hundred crimson birds.

After an emergency trip to the vet (playing never-ending fetch in the driveway sanded Peanut's nails down to the quick) and the pet store to buy doggie shoe boots, I returned home to resume normalcy and try to salvage what was left of my day before picking up the kids. Peanut resumed following me, dropping balls at my feet, trying to entice me into a slobbery game of fetch. I looked down to tell her no and noticed wherever Peanut went, a staccato trail of blood followed.

Another hour later, hungry, knees aching, my "me" time had vanished behind a damp, veil of bloody rags.

I now sit at my desk, precious Peanut under foot, hoping to have a peaceful remainder of my day night. All thoughts of writing, errands, and long-awaited manicures firmly shoe-booted from my head.

There's always tomorrow... I mean, who can resist this face...

Belated July 4th Greetings and Gratitude

It's been a crazy week between the new puppy, the commercial, and now my SIL and her significant other are in town. So I just wanted to post to say thanks to those of you who commented and gave advice regarding the dreaded sex talk. I will take all opinions under advisement.

She told me today she wants to shave her legs, maybe I'll use that as leverage. (Kidding).

Enjoy the rest of your holiday!

Hollywood In My Own Backyard - Literally

This is merlotmom's living room
(see how neat and tidy)

This is merlotmom's kitchen/family room
( also, neat and tidy and note the open floor plan)

This is merlotmom's backyard
(you guessed it, neat and tidy)


Merlotmom keeps her house orderly because it keeps her from writing she takes pride in a presentable home


That is, until Hollywood comes a knockin'
Then merlotmom throws her pride to the wind for a few shekels
(and it only improves her procrastination skillz)


This is merlotmom's living room on crack after Hollywood entered the picture
(pun intended)


This is merlotmom's family room
Notice anything different?
That's right, no open floor plan
Where's the kitchen?
Behind the wall, silly
What wall?
The wall that wasn't there yesterday
The wall that is already gone
Poor wall
It's life was all too brief
Already disposed of in some Hollywood junkyard with other over-the-hill facades


This is merlotmom's backyard
Hollywood style

and her deck


Merlotmom is very glad to have her house back
because now she can get down to some serious writing...
...but first she has some straightening up to do

*See (an unrecognizable rendering) of merlotmom's house in the next series of Best Buy commercials due out this summer

Let's Talk About Sex

When the time came to talk to my daughter about sex, I envisioned a pleasant conversation. One in which I would assume my role as the wise, mature elder, put aside my uneasiness, and offer up valuable information that would help her navigate adulthood by making intelligent, educated choices. One that would start with a small lecture and be followed by a lively Q&A. I've been trying to have this talk with my daughter since she was 8.

She's now almost 12.

We had "the talk" last night.

Sort of.

In a crowded burger joint with her father and brother distracted by sports, we began a discussion... well, not quite a discussion, and not quite we, me. It was more an interrogation... or so you'd think from the look of her non-blinking eyes, clenched jaw and rigid body. It was as if a bare light bulb hung above her head and I was speaking in foreign tongue.

I blame my friend. Earlier that day she visited with her daughter who is also 11. The sex conversation came up and the other girl knew all about how babies are made, the physical logistics of S-E-X, the consequences, distinguishing truth from fiction. If that didn't put me to shame, their younger boy, 8, the same age as my son, knew it all as well.

It's not like I haven't tried to educate my daughter. Ohhh, I've tried. At ages 8, 9, 10, 11 and umpteen fractions of a year in between, I've attempted to do my parental duty. But my daughter is stubborn (don't ask me where she gets that from) and no matter my plan of attack approach, be it conversation or books, she shut me out. Immediately. Swiftly. Ears plugged singing lalalalala, books tossed at my chest, door slammed in my face - shut out.

So, over the years, as her body developed, I'd pitch snippets of information about breasts, body hair, or menstruation whenever I could; as she ate a cookie, brushed her hair, or tucked into bed for the night. I had a maximum of 30 seconds before the gates of cooperation snapped shut but I always managed to stick my foot in the opening for an extra second to offer an invitation to talk to me about anything, anytime.

Last night, feeling like I'd failed my daughter, I seized her the opportunity to give the big spiel. The whole super-size happy meal. Well, not quite. Maybe it was the kids meal. While she sat trapped in her chair, frozen in fear, I came at her full speed with the what, the how, the when. Only, in my nervous exhalation of facts about the penis, the vagina, the sperm and the egg, I forgot to mention dating, romance, relationships, love, and birth control. I was a game show contestant trying to beat the buzzer. My attempt to teach her about self-respect and waiting for the right guy came out, "...and if a guy ever asks you to have sex you say no...no one touches your body unless you want them to...and even if you want them to, well, you need to think...because sometimes it's okay and sometimes it's not...you need to know the difference and sometimes it's hard to know...you should talk to me first...because it's a big decision with big consequences... look what happened to Jamie Lynn Spears..."

Yes, that was me during a huge milestone in our lives, a moment I'd mentally prepared for since before she was born, vomiting it all over in undigested, incoherent chunks.

I blame my mom. She never had the sex talk with me. Had I not read Judy Blume I would have thought I was dying when the red streak showed up in my underwear. When I confessed to my mom she handed me sanitary napkins, said "mazel tov," and mortified me by telling my father. Years later, during dinner at a crowded restaurant (this time it was Chinese - what is it with me and restaurants?) I revealed that I was no longer a virgin. My sisters had been teasing me about being prudish. I'd been having sex since I was 17, for two years already, but no one had ever asked. I'd been waiting for a moment to show everyone I wasn't the young, innocent they thought I was. I thought my mother would be surprised, maybe even hurt that I'd kept it such a secret, but instead it was me who was taken aback when she casually remarked, "Well, I certainly hoped you would have had sex by now," and moved onto another subject.

So, you see, though I love my mother, she wasn't exactly an ideal role model for this sort of thing.

It doesn't matter who I blame, my friend, my mother, the checker at the supermarket, I need to get this right. So in a few days, with some time to think and perhaps a glass of wine to calm my nerves, I hope to sit my daughter down and fill in the blanks. I'd like to share my values and beliefs, teach her about making smart choices, the importance of trusting your instinct, and how to say no (without having to call her mommy).

But before I do, I call out to you, my fellow idiots moms:

What worked for you?

Advice welcome.

Unrequited Love

Candid Carrie gave me link love on Friday with her Friday Foto Finish and I thought I returned the favor in my post, but alas, linky love was not in the mood, so please visit CandidCarrie, her blog is always cool, especially on Friday's.

My apologies, Miss Carrie.