Do you ever get up in the morning and just find yourself thankful for making it through the weekend full of children and dogs?
But then you realize it's actually Friday, the week is almost over, and, really, you're about to charge into it all over again?
We have that in common then. Which, when you think about it, is better than having things in common with me, like the way I can take half a pound of Doritos and turn it into thirty pounds of fat, or the way I snort when I laugh.
Actually, I was informed, recently, I make a lot of sounds I'm not aware of. Frankly, it's probably been this way for years, but it's not until you get married and have someone committed to taking note of the horrible sounds you're emitting, you can really start to sketch out how disturbing the whole thing is.
It's a little disappointing. If I'd never gotten married, a perfect picture of myself would still sit securely in my head, a stunning Sleeping Beauty, never drooling or reaching out to slap at things in the dark that aren't there.
"I can't tell the difference between you and the dog."
Stunned and regretting asking why Husband was so tired, the only thing I could reply with was, "What?"
He yawned before he said, "Nothing personal, but when I'm listening for the dog at night, I fall asleep, wake up to him whining to go out, and then realize it's actually you making this weird noise through your nose."
"Nothing personal. But it's exhausting."
"I'm really sorry," I said. And I was sorry. Sorry I was not only ruining Husband's sleep, but that, apparently, I sounded like tea kettle at 2am. There were several explanations for this:
b.) I wasn't perfect
c.) Exhaustion from keeping the dog out of the trashcan
It was obviously "c". The Kellerman children's one, saving grace is their ability to stay out of the family trashcan. Possibly set things on fire?
But my kids have an excellent record of not dumpster diving. No one eats things out of the trash pile or gleans things from the recycle bin. Every week, I burst with pride as I wheel our oversized bins full of undisturbed crap down to the corner for the trash man.
"Don't worry," I yell at the neighbors. "They didn't try to eat anything out of here even once. See you a the barbecue on Saturday."
When I'm at a social gathering, it's also a relief to be able to lead with this shining attribute. "Oh, well, it's great little Timmy joined student council, but do realize that none of my kids ate a sandwich out of the trashcan this week? There are winners, and then there are winners. Am I right?"
But Ned Yost is a different story.
The dog is a dumpster diver extraordinaire. Pizza, juice boxes, old diapers, it doesn't matter. I've spent the last week walking down to the kitchen and surveying a trail of trash from the island to the backyard, over and over again. Ever seen a dog eat a used diaper? You don't want to.
I thought that sort of thing was supposed to stay in my nightmares. Hyper-aware is more of an understatement at this point in my life. Where there was once a shining ray of sunshine that looked like Mrs. Jones being able to sit for a second on her own, there now sits a dog who's chewing half a discarded, over-cooked steak and washing it down with melted yogurt.
Does a blog count as an SOS? Or should I start spelling out HELP in milk jugs on the ground in the backyard?
You guys would come save me.
Right? The trashcan is hidden now, but it's only so long until he finds it.
So this is me signing off....
Until Next Time, Readers!
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