Family


Interesting things can happen when your dog dies.

You all know about Champ. We miss him terribly.  But I don’t think the humans in the family miss him as much as Lucky, our black lab, does.  She’s miserable.  And she needs a buddy.  We weren’t ready to invest the time (and certainly the emotion) into getting another dog already, but we’re worried about Lucky.  So, it’s been tentative.  We look, we stop, we grieve a little. We look some more.

Friday, Mr. Nerd decided to stop at a home near where we live.  There had been a hand-lettered sign advertising AKC registered German Shepherd puppies.  So he figured he’d take a look.

And here, folks, is where the story gets interesting.

Mr. Nerd pulled into the driveway, where he was motioned where to park by a woman at the front door.  He approached the house.  The woman apparently (ha!) knew what he was there for.  She told him to come in.  He followed her in.  As soon as they got inside the house, she locked and deadbolted the door.  At that point, Mr. Nerd just wrote that off as her being alone at home and being cautious.  (Yeah.  With a strange man.  What-EVER.)  She proceeded down the hall.  Mr. Nerd hesitated, but given that the puppies were new, he assumed they were in a box in a bedroom.  Mmm hmmmm.

They entered the bedroom.  Mr. Nerd stood in the doorway, looking around for the puppies.  PuppyMama turned and sat on the bed.

Smiled.

Reached over and closed the blinds.

Did you catch that?  REACHED OVER AND CLOSED THE BLINDS.

Mr. Nerd retreated.  PuppyMama said, “You’re not nervous, are you?”

Mr. Nerd steeled himself, looked her dead in the eye, and said, “I am here. To. Look. At. The. Puppies.”

PuppyMama answers, “Oh.  They’re outside.”  She left the room, followed by a shaken Mr. Nerd.

“We have three females and one male left.  What’s your name, by the way?”

Mr. Nerd gave her a fake name and proceeded toward his truck.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Yeah. Right.

I am one hot mess.  I’ve got so much you-know-what coming from God-knows-where it’s a wonder I can even function these days.  Which brings me to my point:  I’m not functioning.  Not very well, anyway.

In a nutshell, I have a sick doggie – our sweet, 10-year-old German Shepherd – who is going pretty fast.  Not good.

Then there was the too-horrible-to-bear news of the sudden loss of two children in my blogworld as well as the punch-me-in-the-guttedness of a suicide of a student – an incredible kid – at my son’s high school.  The latter took its toll on the entire family in a way I’ve never seen.

Add to the mix an opportunity – heck, a likelihood – of leaving the comfort of the position I’ve held for 21 years (and which I love) to take an administrative position.  A position which holds more “title,” if you will, more money, and the opportunity to do something completely different.   Completely.

And it’s making me miserable.

Why, you ask*?

Because I didn’t seek it out.  Because I was happy doing what I was doing.  Because I love my office and my coworkers and the niche I’ve created for myself.

So why go, you ask?

Because I have the opportunity to move into an administrative position and make the salary that is not, and would not, be available to me in my current position.  Because my husband’s job hinges on a grant, year after year, that may or may not get approved from one year to the next.

So what’s best for me, personally, is not what’s best for my family.

Also, I have a suddenly grown 14-year-old who is suddenly graduating from middle school and who is suddenly going to be a high schooler.  And I’m in charge of the awards dinner.  You know, with all the free time I have.  Then, I have a 17-year-old that is about to be a senior and who has no. Earthly. Idea. What.To.Do.With.His.Life. (I’ve suggested, rather politely, that he needs to figure out what to do about his English grade before he figures out what to do about his life.)

Emotional much?

Oh, I got stuff.

(*Assuming, arguendo, that you do ask.  Or would.  Ya know.)

goredTomorrow,  February 6, is National Wear Red Day.  This is a nationwide effort to bring attention to heart disease in women.  Many of you know that I lost my mom six years ago.  One of the contributing factors to her death was heart disease, which she suffered through for over twenty years.  And a few  years ago, I had a scare of my own, when my blood pressure went out of control (after a lifetime of low blood pressure).

No one is immune to heart disease, and statistics show that women are more likely than men to die of  a heart attack.  And don’t ever think you’re too young for heart disease.  The Go Red for Women website has a whole section of stories – true ones – from women 35 and under that have been affected by, or afflicted with, heart disease.

So, tomorrow, when you get ready for your day, wear red.  And if you haven’t already, get your blood pressure, cholesterol, and triglycerides checked.  And do what you have to do to keep them in check.

For me, for my mom, and, especially, for you.

My nine-day vacation.

The gluttony of Thanksgiving.

The ability to sleep in.

Homework-free evenings for the kids.

The balmy temps we experienced all last week.  It’s cold!

And one other thing.

NaBloPoMo.

I did it, bitches.

P.S.  Go vote, if you haven’t already.

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. . . when they are getting up to stand in line on Black Friday for a must-have laptop for Miss Priss, that is…

  • Why did I have children?
  • Can’t she just put the desktop computer in her lap?
  • No matter how much makeup you put on, at 3 a.m. your face looks like a potato.
  • God it’s dark.  The only people on the roads are drunks and idiots.
  • And I haven’t been drinking.
  • Heck. I thought I looked bad, but that woman must have thought she wasn’t going to see anyone.
  • What was I thinking?
  • I wonder if the Waffle House employee that ambled over here to see what all the fuss was about (and decided to stay in line for the remainder of his shift) actually clocked out.
  • Of course he didn’t.
  • Think he’ll go get me a coffee and hash browns scattered, smothered, chunked, and covered?
  • Nah.  He just went to sleep on the sidewalk.
  • Little b*tch better remember this when I’m in diapers.

All is said and done now, and the new laptop – oooooooo, shiny – is safely at home.  As am I.  With leftover turtle cheesecake.

Ahhhh.

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Okay.  Before you read this, go to yesterday’s post and vote in my poll.  America needs your vote.   Do it now.

Done?  You may now proceed to today’s post.  Thank you.

Day one of extended stay-cation.  Menu is planned, turkey is ordered, trip to store is in order.

Wait.  Turkey is ORDERED?  [Insert SCREECHING HALT here.]

Yes.  That’s what I said.  Ordered.

I finally broke down and did what I’ve wanted to do for a long time.  I ordered a Cajun deep-fried turkey for this year.

I have roasted the bird every year since I got married.  I have inhaled the heady aroma all morning, basted it hourly, inserted the thermometer (because I don’t trust the pop-out timer) and consulted it carefully.

But not this year.

Because have you EVER tasted fried turkey?

Before you go screaming and yelling about fat grams and calories, stop and listen to me.  There’s a two-gram difference in the fat content between the same portion of fried turkey and roast turkey.  Cooked correctly – at a very high temperature – the fat is not allowed to permeate the meat to that great of an extent.  (Besides, really, when you are slathering everything else with gravy and whipped cream, what’s a couple of extra fat grams?)

More importantly, cooked correctly, you’ve really never tasted anything like it.  The meat is juicy, because the high temperature seals the juices in.  Cajun seasoning is injected throughout the meat, and the result is pure heaven.  The skin is crispy, not rubbery, and the taste is, well, divine.  And no worries about undercooked meat here.  (If you’re really interested, read here for details.)

So I did it.  And now there will be plenty of room in the oven for the other fixin’s. And I won’t be stressing about whether the turkey is thawed in time.  And that’s what it’s all about.  Me being able to relax.  A bit, anyway.

So that’s that.  And I’m relieved.

Now if I can just stop thinking about the fact that there is a turtle cheesecake in my freezer.

Well, guys, tonight it’s either keep up my obligations to NaBloPoMo OR help Mr. Cool study for a four-chapter world geography test.

Scoring update:

Mr. Cool and the continent of North America  1

NaBloPoMo   0


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