Wednesday, March 30, 2016

When You're In Over Your Head: Whatever Happened to Flea? Part II

Hide yo couches and hide yo electrical cords, because I'm eating everything up in here.

Morning Readers,

It was two in the morning when I got kicked in the face.

"What? What the hell is going on?"

Confused, I looked around and realized I was blind. No, not blind, but something was sitting on my head that was fat and wiggling around. It attempted to bite my nose off.

"Ouch! What? Why? Why are you doing that?" I hit the person next to me. "Wake up. He's eating my face. Wake up, right now. This was your doing, so I'm going to need you to intervene. And there goes my hair. He's going to drag me off this bed by my hair. Help me. Help. Me."

Groggily, Husband sat up and grabbed the chocolate Lab puppy off my face and plopped him down between us. "But he's really cute, right?"

I rubbed the spot where he'd bitten off half my ear. "Oh, he's cute all right. Cute enough to drive me frickin' nuts." Gingerly, I massaged the scratch marks on my left cheekbone. "Do you think this'll heal or should I buy one of those half masks like the Phantom of the Opera?"

With a grunt, the little, brown dog burrowed into the blankets and looked up at us, completely nonplussed. Husband patted him on the head then rolled back over. "He'll learn. And thank you, it means a lot to me. Really."

I punched the side of the pillow. "That's nice. But remember, I only do one favor a year requiring I be mauled in my sleep." Sighing, I rolled back over and tried to salvage some rest. Well, until I was woken up again at 3am, 4am, and 5am. Oh, and let's just throw in 6am too.

You may have guessed already, but I'm not an animal person. On a scale of animal cruelty to PETA, I fall at about an Owen Wilson in Marley and Me. I put up with them. They grow on me. Eventually I'm fairly attached and start asking them questions like, "How do I look in this dress?" Or, "If you were doing taxes, would this be a deduction?" So, no, I don't go search them out. Husband finds them and lovingly leaves them with me 24/7. Which is why, a week before Easter, he found me completely unamused in the kitchen, after work.

"You mean you're getting me a dog."

Husband shook his head. "Listen, it's a great idea. Me, you, the kids, he'll be for everyone. We can pick him up Saturday."

My hand spasmed and I dropped the ladle I was holding into the soup pot. "This Saturday? As in, the day before Easter?"

"Uh. Yes."

"That's the worst idea ever."

"It'll be fine."

"If by fine you mean celebrating the resurrection of the good Lord Jesus by potty training a puppy while I handle every other detail of getting ready for a family holiday, then, yes, it'll be fine."

"So, that's a yes?"

I tried again. "Hey, remember when we just had a baby four months ago?"


"That was fun. I think my c-section incision finally healed."

"Soooo... what do you think?"

And that's how Ned Yost came home. If the name sounds familiar, it's because Ned Yost is the manager of our beloved KC Royals. Unfortunately, all our Ned has manged, so far, is to keep us up at night and poop on everything we own. Right now, he's biting my wrist and making me reevaluate whether Husband I truly communicate or just mime suggestions at each other to see what sticks.


Oh, and if you're wondering, Easter was pretty much what you'd expect. The dog didn't sleep, the Easter Bunny showed up, and I wore giant sunglasses to hide both under-eye circles and my many misgivings about life up to this point. Any spare time was spent eating chocolate and crying quietly.

But holla for Reeses egg season, amiright?

Lord help us all.

Until Next Time, Readers!

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