The Allergic Hypo-Allergenic Dog

So it seems Maggie is a hypo-allergenic dog that is allergic.  That is, she had an allergic reaction to a vaccine the vet gave her.  Of course, at the time she was having the reaction, Hubby and I erroneously thought the puppy was choking.  Which set off a chain of events that included panic stricken exclamations of “DO SOMETHING!  WHAT SHOULD WE DO?!  IS THERE SUCH A THING AS PUPPY-HEIMLICH?!  WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS DOG?!”   Of course there were multiple episodes of sticking our fingers down her throat to see if there was a foreign object lodged down there that we thought we could get out.  Something like a string, a penny (although where would she get a penny? It’s not like we’re throwing random amounts of change all over the floor and expecting her to suck it up like a vacuum cleaner) a piece of foam from her bed that she is determined to maul into chunks, a piece of my coach pillows which she has vehemently attacked, I’m sure out of sheer spite for me not allowing her to chew the baseboards…the list is quite endless so my death scenarios about my dog choking to her early demise were alive and well.

I was then imagining having to tell the neighbourhood how we killed our dog through a choking episode gone horribly awry. I would have to explain how it all went down with the Mags playing with me one minute, then choking wildly on some accidental piece of (insert object here).  I would be branded the WORST pet mommy on the planet and banned from ever owning any kind of animal ever again. I would be ostracized by my friends and community, forced to move and never able to show my face in public again.  It was all so traumatizing.   And how did I manage to raise three children virtually unscathed, so far?  Beats the fuck out of me.  They have more sense than to eat baseboards or suck up an arbitrary cache of loose change, I guess.

I was quickly on the phone to the Animal hospital who patched me through to the vet, who coincidentally, I had just met for the first time that morning, and she said she would meet us at the Animal hospital in half an hour.  In my mind I was screaming, ‘HALF AN HOUR?!!  SHE’LL BE DEAD BY THEN, BITCH!” , but in real everyday voice I said “okay” and hung up.

We were there in twenty minutes and waited for the doctor to show.  Maggie continually pawed at her face and made that “I’m-fucking-choking-and-you-evil-humans-are-sitting-in-a-random-parking-lot-doing-nothing-important” face, along with that open-mouthed gagging crap.  It was all so dramatic.

 At precisely 8pm, the technician arrived and let me in.  She took Maggie to the back to where I was sure she was to be x-rayed and examined with laden tweezers shoved down her throat all in attempts to remove the multiple layers of change I was sure she had inexplicably sucked up off the floor like a Hoover.  The vet came out a few minutes later to tell me Maggie had an allergic reaction to the vaccine she had that morning and after her antihistamine shot, and her anti-inflammatory shot, she would be fine.  I sighed with relief.  I was given directions in administering liquid Benedryl to my doggie prior to future vaccines in order to avoid all of the dramatic allergic reactions and panic-stricken shouts of “HELP ME, MA PUPPY IS DYING, DAMMIT!!!!”.  They patted my head and sent me and my puppy on our way.

So it turns out, I’m not a bad doggie mommy after all…as long as I keep tabs on all that loose change littering the floors….

Maggie's not dead.  Just sleeping.  I know.  Drama Queen!

Maggie’s not dead. Just sleeping. I know. Drama Queen!

The Print Behind The Basement Door

I have a print that I bought when I lived in Toronto during my college days. It’s black and white with guys in a band playing their instruments on water.  When I bought it, my friend was with me and said “it’s you”.  So it became mine.  It adorned my walls from then (late 1980’s) until I got married.  It took up wall space in the first house, however, was relocated to spare rooms and basement dwellings since.  It has survived three kids, six moves, three provinces and random garbage purges where Hubby has threatened to throw it out never to be seen by anyone we know again.  I would always retrieve it and place it back in the confines of a secret hideout where I would hope Hubby would not notice it or try to remove it for a garage sale down the street.

  Hubby has, on numerous occasions, proclaimed it ‘inappropriate’ for visitors to see.  I thought it was awesome then, and I still think its awesome now.  I always take his lamenting over my 80’s print as verbal manifestations of a childhood lacking in fine art instruction and I immediately pooh-pooh his suggestions for trashing it.

It is currently sitting idly beside our refrigerator in the basement behind a door; hidden from view and any visitors coming in and giving him that perplexed “WTF?” look.  At least, that’s the look he thinks people will give him.  I, on the other hand, would expect expressions of  “Gee, that’s the best black and white print of guys playing instruments on water while jumping excitedly, that I have ever seen!” and “Where did you get such one of a kind art?” and the BEST comment EVER:  “That’s fucking awesome”.  Yeah, that’s what I expect.  I think the general public should be given the opportunity to comment on the complete awesomeness of my taste in musical art.  I have taken a picture of my print for your perusal.  Comment below.


As for the visitors being hurt by viewing such a wonderful piece, I think it’s worth the risk.  My print should come out of the shadows and take a place prominently above my desk, you know for inspiration…and to piss off Hubby.  Yeah.  Great plan.  Make it so, number one!

When the print has taken its rightful place above my creative writing space, I shall take a picture and post it.  I can’t wait!!  It’ll be awesome.

Of course, there will be a fight about how I didn’t measure before I put holes in the wall and how it’s crooked/too high/too low/ugly as fuck…

Wow, the weekend is really shaping up!

My print sandwiched between the basement door and our old fridge. Nobody puts baby in the corner.

My print sandwiched between the basement door and our old fridge. Nobody puts baby in the corner.

“Be funny. You’re not being funny. We were expecting more. You suck”

I was writing a blog post in my head this morning as I was making lunch and breakfast and smiling wanly at the dog who was looking up at me with expectant eyes like “You WILL drop something on the floor for me to eat, right?  ‘Cause that’s the only damn reason for me to be seated at your feet.  That and I feel the inexplicable need to bite your ankles every time you step away from me.”   Yeah.  The post was pretty good.  The only problem is I can’t remember it.  I didn’t have a pen and paper nor the inclination to run for one at that moment, so the post is long gone into the chasm of my memory…there must be so much shit in there that the filing system is completely fucked up.  Seriously, files marked “Shit I Need” are obviously misplaced and gone into the dark abyss of never- never land. The cabinet marked “Garbage That No Other Human on The Face of the Earth Needs or Wants to Know” seems to be correlated by date, time and the place they last washed their feet. Those files are easily accessible and ready at a moment’s notice.  Especially after several glasses of wine and someone proclaiming a trivia game would be awesome right about now.  Fucked. Up.

 So this morning’s blog post is lying somewhere between “Shit I Should Know But Don’t” and “The Most Awesome Facts About Boats”.

This weekend had me spinning wildly between a fun filled DH night with the ladies where it was demanded that I “be funny.  You’re not being funny.  Get her more wine” and D2’s grad.    I’m assuming by the previous DH statements, I wasn’t living up to my “you’re the fucking entertainment” part of my contract.  Maybe I should stop sending out my witty emails in my feeble attempts at humor and pithy attention.  It’s a well-known fact I suffer from Raj-syndrome.  I speak very little but hand me alcohol and I become a sarcastic wino who slings comebacks and insults with mega sardonic phrasing.  I hadn’t realized there were expectations around my verbal nonsense.  That’s a lot of pressure.  I need a drink…and some new material.

Speaking of drunkards, while at D2’s meet and greet portion of her graduation, Hubby and I were entertained by a sufficiently inebriated man who insisted on detailing a story about golfing in the United States.  The story involved an over- ended golf cart and wayward golfers. There was a few racial slurs and sexist innuendos all making that much more awesome for the eavesdroppers surrounding us.  He was going on and on about how only Baymen were the best workers and “I wouldn’t hire a townie to save me life”.   Onlookers were appalled.  Especially a lady who was all decked out in diamonds and an evening gown.  She was particularly insulted.  I was thrilled by her horrified expression and feeble attempts to move out of the way.  There was nowhere to go.  So Larry, tell me more!  We were happily obliging Larry for the next story.  Where the fuck were you last night when I was coming up short for stories for the ladies?  Hire Larry.  He’s available and we could pay him in Lamb’s.  I’ll be sure to invite the evening- gown lady…we probably aren’t going to be invited to any more meet and greets, anyways.  She’s probably on the Regatta Committee…and is disgusted by food fights…and doesn’t think possessing something as awesome as this is ‘appropriate’ for a mother of my stature.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!  A dog that sticks it’s tongue out at you on demand is unworthy of attention??!!    If that’s the way you feel, I don’t want to go to your meet and greets.  I don’t want to have dinner with you and your fancy dress.  I don’t want to be in on the secret club meetings at the boat house…okay, yeah I do, but I can let that go if you can’t see how adorable that doggie is!!  Or her tongue!  It’s like she’s giving you the finger only she doesn’t have any fingers so she’s just using her tongue instead.  It’s all incredibly remarkable and awe-inspiring.

It's like she's saying "Fuck You" but in a cute puppy way...

It’s like she’s saying “Fuck You” but in a cute puppy way…

This post actually took me two days to write since I was looking for the perfect pic to go with it.  This may be a sad statement to make, but I have over 100 pictures of my dog on my phone.  100!!! I wonder how my kids feel about that…hmmm…I should be getting my Mother of the Year Award in the mail any day now!  My kids have come to the joyful realization that the dog takes precedence.

 Kid That Lives In My House: “Oh, mom did you remember to pick up my dress?”

  Me: “No, but I got the cutest little hair bows for the dog!”

KTLIMH:  “You forgot to pick me up after my practice…again.”

Me: “Sorry, I was out back playing with the dog.  You wouldn’t want me to neglect her would you?”


Me:  “Sorry…I had to give the dog a bath and mini-spa day. She needed to look pretty…she was getting all tangley and mangy looking. AND, you wouldn’t want her to be rejected by the other doggies in the ‘hood, would you?!  She’s got a rep to uphold”

KTLIMH:  *sigh*

Me:  Yeah.  Get used to it kid….

My Ode To Shamie and Why Is That Lady In A Cage?

There’s a lady at Costco who works from a cage.  I shit you not.  It’s true and a little disturbing.  I was there last night getting propane for our barbeque that we probably won’t use until mid-July, and we had to pay her through cage in the Tire department.  I was going to snap a picture of her for you with my cell phone, but Hubby wouldn’t let me.  Something about it being too embarrassing or ‘inappropriate’…wait, what?  I want to take a picture of a lady in a cage and I’M the inappropriate one?!  THERE’S A LADY IN A CAGE.  I was going to make the statement that she was like Danny Devito on Taxi, but I think Hubby was a little put out by all the staring and pointing going on.  “She’s in a cage!  A fucking cage!  Do they feed you in there?”  I actually only said it in my head, because that’s where it belongs…apparently.

Yesterday, there was an email going around from my DH ladies regarding the impending festivities changing from Sunday night to Friday night.  I think my response was a little over-the-top with all the capital letters and exclamation points.  And the rambling on about nothing remotely to do with DH.  It’s funny, everybody’s reaction was the same.  Ignore her and move on.  Hilarious…I was expecting somebody to say something about my unusual response, but they all just accept my over-exuberance as part of my personality.  “Oh yeah that’s Rogue.  Let’s all be the mature ones…someone has to”   They’re great, aren’t they?  I’m planning to inundate their email boxes with more of my effervescent personality.  They’ll love it, I know.  I’m like the little sister who annoys everybody but they tolerate it because it’s kinda funny and a bit weird but really, they would all miss me if I suddenly died  or got run over by a truck or something.   At least I think so.

Bestie’s cat died yesterday.  It was very sad and she was terribly upset.  I felt awful for her and her girlies.  As sad as that event was, I was so close to saying inappropriate odes and writing cat eulogies.  How inappropriate is that?  I know, right?  Ugh…Here is my ode to Shamie (that’s the cat’s name, duh)


Ode To Shamie

I saw you very little

But your presence was always known

By D’s daughter’s frightened expression

And your penchant for being alone.

Your fur was very fluffy

Your eyes remained bright and wide

You never appeared huffy

And you were always by Bestie’s side

Now you’ve gone to cat heaven

To play and frolic all through the night

Be happy dearest Shamie

You’re never far from their sight.

You were a badass in cat terms

That made the other cats jealous

You possessed cat charms

That made you appear a tad ‘over zealous’ *

Eventhough you suffered from depression

That made you seem ‘put-out’

You never let that stop you

From getting out and about.

That’s the best I could do…okay, not the BEST but I think it’s adequate. I hope you liked it.

RIP Shamie

*Let me see you rhyme a word with ‘jealous’.

Big Things…I Bring Cups!!

 coffe girls

I’ve noticed recently that if I ever get the least bit annoyed with someone, I instantly refer to that person as an asshole.   Incidentally, there are A LOT of assholes around.   Due to the current economic climate in this province, we are constantly being inundated with emails about lobbying the government.  After each email, I refer to the writer as an asshole and delete it.  I’ve deleted so many emails and labeled each author according to his asshole seniority number.  So far, the seniority ends at number twenty five.  Asshole number twenty five sounds like he needs therapy and strong intervention techniques to quell his over-riding anger management issues.  Asshole twelve is immature and requires some English translation lessons.  Of course, this whole thing could be attributed to my over-active sensitivity issues due to the lack of grains in my diet and my heightened need for sugar.  Just sayin’….

I was on Twitter when I noticed that the winner of the Pulitzer Prize in Literature was a book about North Korea and carries the reader “into the most intimate spaces of the human heart” Sounds totally depressing to me. If I ever win a Pulitzer for my awesome book, I won’t be carrying readers to any totalitarian countries that are ready to aim missiles at your head just so the reader could experience it or visit intimate spaces in people’s hearts.  That’s too weird, even for me.  My book would probably cover the wild and wacky world of taxidermy…or the controversial world of flatulence smell reduction underwear inventors…true story.

I’ve realized that I’m totally addicted to caffeine and sugar.  Since limiting my carbohydrate intake to a few spare pieces of fruit and accidental bread crumbs that happen to land on the floor that I invariably fight the dog for, I have noticed my dependency on coffee has risen substantially.  I’ve also become distinctly aware that if I don’t drink said coffee in a timely manner, I become a snarling bitch ready to stab you in the face should you decide to get in my way.  Case in point.  This morning’s conversation with Hubby:

Me:  Can you get in the shower soon please?  I have to get ready too.

Him:  Relax it’s only 6:20!

Me: *grumble, fuck off, grumble, bitch*

Ten minutes later:

Me:  Can you puhlease get in the shower?  Ugh, I KNEW I should have got in there before you!  God, I was going to, blah, blah blah, blah

Him: For Pete’s sake (Author’s note:  That would be me: I don’t know who Pete is, but for his sake, I should have shut up already)


Him:  It’s 6:30! You don’t need to be at work until 8:00!!

Me: *irritated silence*

Ten minutes later

Him:  I’m getting in the shower now

Me:  It’s about time!  I’ve been waiting…I so should have gone first.  I don’t know why I was….blah, blah, blah…*stocks off to the kitchen whilst the dog is biting my pant leg which leads to dragging said snarling dog along the kitchen floor while I attempt to pour more coffee and continually complain about Hubby’s slowness and lack of consideration for others who have to get to work, dammit*

Fifteen minutes later

Him:  Didn’t you hear me?  I yelled I was out of the shower so you could get in since you’re in such a hurry this morning


Him:  Okay, you don’t have to get all snippy about it.

Me: Was I snippy?  Hmpft.  You would be too if you had to wait for you to get out of the shower.

Him:  *rolls eyes and leaves*

Good idea….

A Word To Your Mother

Me: I’m awesome.

Daughter:  *silence*

Me: Obviously, you didn’t hear me…or you’re not listening.

Daugher:  I heard you

Me:  You should say it

Daugher:  What?

Me:  You should tell me I’m awesome.

Daughter:  Why?

Me: Because if I prematurely die at the hands of a violent psycho killer, I want you to be able to say that to all your friends.

Daughter:  Okay.


Daugher:  Ugh….You’re awesome mom

Me:  Thanks, but I don’t know if I can believe you now

Daughter:  And this is why I never invite my friends over….

I met someone recently that I haven’t seen in around 25years.  Upon first seeing him, I didn’t readily recognize who he was, but once I got closer (my eyes are totally fucked, yo) it dawned on me who he was.  And then I made the fatal mistake of attempting a greeting.  Here it is:

Me: Hey, what up dawg?

My mind just freaked at me from the inside.

My mind: What the fuck was that?!!!!  Did you grow up in the projects and not tell me about it?  Who SAYS that?!!  Are you Snoop Dogg or Snoop Lion or whatever the hell he is calling himself these days, are you his mother?  Sister from another mother?  What the hell?  You haven’t seen this person for YEARS and you come up with that??!!  What shit are you smoking?   Seriously.

As my mind internally gives me a beat down for my ghetto greeting, I attempt a strained smile that says “I’m really not a white Nicki Minaj…just go with it here, pal”.

I’m living in Newfoundland.  This is apparently how Newfoundlanders greet other fellow Canadians now.  We have developed an affinity to our brothers and sisters of color.  We are attempting to relate to each other with verbal greetings that resemble meager attempts at becoming members of hip-hop bands.  Next I’ll be donning a wide brimmed hat and saying ‘yo’ a lot.  Tourism NL should so consider me for their next advertising campaign.  Instead of showing the red-headed children frolicking precariously close to the Atlantic ocean as if not a care in the world upon those cliffs that appear dangerously high and jagged, but really aren’t that scary since the film crew is there to catch them if they step the wrong way, they should so show me and my whoop-ass deadly wide brimmed hat and chains with my “What up Dawg?  Come on down to ma ‘hood.  We show you how to paaarrrtttaaaayyy”.   My phone should be ringing off the hook.  It’s dope, yo.  Word to your mother.   I think dude will return to Ontario with a much broader appreciation for the cultural diversity of this province…or he’s saying to himself “glad I dodged that bullet.”

 Yeah, probs the latter….

rapper hat

Not The Turkey-Carving Stabbing Story You Were Expecting

I have come to the realization that my friends accept my blogging as a means for me to express my inner self.  They’ve also come to expect a wiseass sarcastic bitch who likes to rant on about the terminally painful experience of filling up the gas tank every week or cleaning out the bathroom drawer.  (Incidentally, I found ten boxes of dental floss in there.  Ten!  Who the fuck has ten boxes of dental floss?  We should use that to string up the dog when she pees on the floor…No, I’m not really considering that, put the phone down.  PETA doesn’t give a shit about me and my dog anyway…they’re more worried about the seal hunt….oh, yeah…don’t look over there.  Move along peeps…nothing to see there…did I ever tell you the story about how I stabbed myself in the arm while carving a turkey?  True story.)  The sealers are now forming a posse to down my blog.  What…my distraction story about the turkey-carving incident wasn’t sufficient?  Crap.

dental floss

Anywho, my friends think my idle rambling is probably good for my mental health…and their eardrums.  I know for a fact that I was a bit inebriated on Friday night and I started droning on about shit I can’t even remember.  Shit.  Dammit…what was it?  It doesn’t matter…what does matter is that they are not bored to tears listening to me ramble on about how my brand new kitchen table has little itty bitty stab marks all over it from D1 doing her ‘building-a-leg-bone-out-of-Styrofoam-project’.  Yep.  Stab marks.  Hubby is still having a coronary…

They (ma peeps) are so supportive…and non-judgmental.  It’s really quite unusual, I think.  They just think my blog is like that scar from the turkey- carving incident.  A part of me that’s not going away so they might as well read my shit and move on, or ignore my shit and move on.   Either way, it’s all good.  And I can usually tell who’s read my blog posts.If I refer to the cart I took to the grocery store as my ‘special needs’ one, and I get a snigger from one of the peeps, I know that she’s read a post I did about shopping.  Same as if I refer to something else I wrote in a previous post that I can’t remember right now because it’s Monday and I’m lucky if I remember my fucking name, and I get a similar reaction and not a look that says “OMG she’s fucking insane and gone and drank the funny kool-aid again’, then I know that she has read what I wrote.  So I can tell.

God, that so sounded like a threat.  I meant it in a totally accepting and non-threatening kind of way.  Just like when I told a co-worker to ‘man-up’.  Totally non-threatening and acquiescent.  See?  Not only are you reading an idle rambling of somebody who needs to find inner peace through bead work, your vocabulary is improving.  I should be listed under the ‘educational’ blogs.  You’re learning shit, yo.

So, in closing,  my peeps are supportive and awesome, sealers are hunting seals, I stabbed myself while carving a turkey and have the scar to prove it and we are in the possession of way too much dental floss.

The End